by E. C. Bell
“I’d hoped that would be the last time the police would be here,” she said. “They do have a habit of upsetting everyone.”
As I followed her back to my room, I wondered if she was the one who was upset by the cops showing up. Maybe she had something to hide.
Looked like I was investigating already.
Jasper:
Visiting Marie
I KNEW MARIE would be busy for most of the morning and decided to drop by her room after lunch. I figured she’d probably want to discuss everything. And everyone. Sometimes the inhabitants of this institution could be a little hard to take. I could help her understand what she was seeing, and that would be good for her.
And good for me. The more she came to rely on me, the closer we’d become. Even if I couldn’t teach her sign language like I’d promised.
“She’ll be happy about it, eventually,” I said to the catatonic lying in my old bed as I waited for the morning hours to finally be over. “She will.”
MARIE WAS ASLEEP when I came into her room, so I was able to watch her for a while. She almost looked angelic. I could imagine her with wings and a harp, all in white, floating around and saving people’s souls, but then her eyes jerked open even though she was still asleep and she started screaming, so I backed away from her just in case she actually woke up. Didn’t need to frighten her even more by hovering over her.
The nurse come in and shook her awake. She was rough, but then, Nurse Willoughby was always rough. I’d come to covered in bruises when I was on her watch, more than once. She’d managed to convince me I’d done the damage to myself, but since I died, I’d seen her with other patients. She was mean, no doubt about it.
“That’s enough of that noise,” she said, and gave Marie another shake, finally rousing her. “Stop it. Now.”
“I can’t find the peanuts,” Marie mumbled, obviously still more in her nightmare than out.
“That is quite enough of that,” Nurse Willoughby said, and raised her hand to slap Marie’s face. Her usual modus operandi, but she stopped before hand struck flesh. Looked around as though she suspected someone was watching her, then lowered her hand and shifted her position so that I couldn’t see what she was doing.
Was it me she felt, looking over her shoulder? I sniggered laughter, because I could not believe that this nurse would ever be aware enough to feel a ghost in the same room with her. Her arm moved, and I knew she was pinching Marie. Probably on the arm. Another of her favourite moves. “Wake up, now.”
“Ow,” Marie mumbled. Her eyes blinked, and I could tell that she was finally, truly out of the nightmare. “Ow.”
“Are you awake?” Willoughby asked.
“Yes,” Marie said. She pulled herself to sitting, and then put her hand to her arm. “It hurts,” she said. “What happened?”
“You must’ve hit your arm on the head of the bed,” Willoughby said, pointing to the low metal headboard next to Marie’s face. “You have to be careful.”
“I—it was a nightmare,” Marie said. She shook her head, as though she hoped that would clear it.
“A nightmare?” Willoughby asked. Her lips pursed. “I’ll have to make note of that in your file. Dr. Parkerson will want to know.”
“Why?” Marie asked. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, flinching when she touched her bare feet to the cold linoleum on the floor.
“Because you shouldn’t be having any dreams,” I said.
“Because you shouldn’t be dreaming,” Willoughby echoed.
Marie blinked, and looked past Willoughby to me, but just for a second. Then she returned her focus to the nurse. “Why shouldn’t I be dreaming?” she asked.
“If they were just dreams—part of the normal sleep cycle—that would be fine. Expected, in fact. But you aren’t just dreaming, are you? You are having nightmares, and they are disrupting your sleep. And right now, you need sleep. But don’t worry, Dr. Parkerson will adjust your meds, and the nightmares will stop.”
“Good,” Marie said, but I couldn’t tell if she meant it or not. She looked at her wrist, then shook her head and frowned. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Twenty minutes to dinner,” Willoughby replied. “Almost time for you to pull yourself together. Fix your hair, and maybe brush your teeth. If you don’t care about your appearance, you can’t expect others to care.”
“Yeah, all right,” Marie replied, but I could see that Willoughby was getting to her.
“Don’t take the bait,” I said. “She’s just trying to get you to act out, so she can put you in your place.”
Marie’s eyes flicked to me, and then back to Willoughby.
“I will,” she said, and had managed to tone down most of the anger in her voice. “I’ll get right on it. Any chance I can get a hair tie?”
“Not until you’re off suicide watch,” Willoughby said. Marie looked shocked.
“Suicide watch? I’m not suicidal.”
“Just part of the entry assessment,” Willoughby said, nonchalantly. “Perhaps you’d consider getting your hair cut. You know, it would be much easier for you to keep looking decent.”
Marie shook her head. “I like it long,” she said. Then she glanced past the nurse and at me. “But thanks for the offer.”
“You think about it,” Willoughby said. “It’s much easier in here with short hair.”
“I won’t be here long enough for my hair to become an issue,” Marie said archly. Willoughby turned away from her, and I could see her anger floating off of her in dangerous red ribbons.
“Let it go, Marie,” I said. “Just let it go.”
Marie blinked, and then sighed. “All right,” she said to the nurse’s back. “I’ll think about getting my hair cut.”
“Good girl,” Willoughby said. I watched the red of her anger wind around the room and wrap itself around Marie, and it frightened me so that I could not speak. “I’ll be back for you in fifteen—” She checked her watch and tut-tutted. “I’ll be back for you in thirteen minutes,” she said. “Be ready.”
“I will be,” Marie said, and then the nurse was gone, and we were finally alone.
“What the hell was all that about my hair?” Marie snapped.
I shook my head and put my finger to my lips for silence. I walked to the door and glanced through it. “She’s gone. You can say what you like, and she won’t hear a word.”
“What is her damage, do you figure?” Marie asked. She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head. “I’m not cutting my hair just to make her life easier. She can just get that thought right out of her head, now.”
“Good,” I said. “I like your hair.” I looked away from her before she started yelling at me for treating her like an object or whatever. “So, how was your morning?”
“It was weird,” she said. “They got me in a group therapy session—”
“Morning or afternoon?” I asked.
“Morning,” she replied.
“Cool,” I said. “That was my group. Before I died, I mean. What do you think of Dr. Erickson? I never worked with him, he came after I died, but he looks pretty good.”
“He’s a bit of a control freak,” she said. “Sent somebody to ‘quiet time,’ whatever that is.” She stared at me. “What is that, anyhow?”
“Kind of a cooling off place,” I said. “Just relax and you won’t end up there.”
“What, are they the rubber rooms I’ve heard so much about?” she asked, and laughed. Her laughter stopped when she saw me nod. “Seriously?” she squeaked. “Rubber rooms?”
“They don’t want us to hurt ourselves,” I said. “It’s for our own protection more than anything else. But like I said, just keep calm, and you’ll never end up in there.”
“All right,” she said. “Good tip. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and felt a thrill of warmth course through me when her eyes—her beautiful eyes—locked on mine for a second before she looked away. She paced, looking lik
e she had something more to tell me, but she remained silent. Just pacing in that little room, like a lion or something.
Finally, she turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to get ready. You heard the old crank. She’ll be back in thirteen minutes to take me to dinner.”
She mimicked Nurse Willoughby amazingly well and I laughed. An actual laugh that made me feel like I was almost alive for a second. “That was pretty good,” I said, and she dipped in an awkward half curtsy.
“I’ll be here all week,” she quipped, but then her face fell. “God, I probably will be here all week,” she muttered. “I don’t think I can stand it.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” I said, hoping my words would bring back her smile. They did not.
“Not a chance,” she said, and picked up her hair brush. “What did you want to talk about?”
She pulled the brush through her thick tangled locks. She flinched as it caught on knots, but kept working the bristles through her hair until she managed to get it into something resembling arranged.
I watched the brush work its way through her hair, and realized that it was mesmerizing me. She’d asked me a question. “What do you mean, what do I want to talk about?”
“The rest of them have a reason for dropping by,” she said. “I figured you were the same.”
“The rest of what?” I asked, then shook my head. Don’t be an idiot. She’s talking about other ghosts. “Who else has visited you?” I asked.
“Well, there was a guy—his name was Richard, but he said he wanted me to call him Dick—and he had a rather strange request.”
Not Richard.
“Don’t call him Dick,” I said. “He’s just being dirty. What did he want?”
“Oh, so you know him,” Marie said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “He’s in my group, unfortunately. What did he want?”
“He wants me to get hold of his wife,” Marie said. “He wants—”
“To have sex with her, one last time,” I said. “Right?”
“That’s about it,” Marie said. “He’s a bit of a pig, isn’t he?”
“He is that,” I replied.
“Did you say you were in group with him?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, wishing I hadn’t said that. She didn’t need to know about group. “But that was before we died. Not now, of course.”
“Yeah,” she said, and laughed. “That would just be silly, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would it be silly?” I asked. Her tone was starting to irk me, and I thought that maybe it was time for me to leave. But I realized I hadn’t spoken to her about her investigation, and that was the real reason I was here, as far as she knew.
“Well, because you guys are all dead,” she said. “Time’s up for trying to figure things out on this plane, know what I mean? Group won’t help. It won’t ever help. What did you call it the first time we talked about this? A circle jerk?”
“Yeah, I did,” I muttered, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut about group, and maybe everything else. “But I was kidding.”
“No, actually, for you guys, that’s pretty much what it would be,” she said. “Just getting your rocks off, doing things you used to do when you were alive. You know?”
“I guess,” I said. I really didn’t want to talk to her about this any longer. We needed group. It helped us. It helped.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look—funny.”
“What do you mean I look funny?” I asked. “Funny ha ha or funny odd?” Then I looked down at my hands. They had gone from their usual pearly white to a nasty shade of grey. “What the hell,” I gasped. “What’s going on?”
“Are you upset?” She pointed at my hands, and then at the rest of me. “I’ve seen it happen to others. Usually, they’re upset.” She frowned. “Was it me talking about group? About saying you didn’t need group therapy anymore?”
“No.” I gasped as my hands darkened further, looking more like wet ash than anything that used to be human. “What are you doing to me?”
“Nothing,” she replied, but she looked concerned. “At least I don’t think I’m doing anything.”
“Well, you must be doing something,” I said. Actually, I gasped the words out because it felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore, even though I hadn’t drawn in a breath in more than seven years. “Stop it, please.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said again. “Just try to calm down.”
“I am calm,” I whispered, and then, for the first time in a very long time—five years, one month, six days, to be exact—I went to the nightmare place.
OH GOD. NOT there.
IT’S A HOUSE. I used to live there with my mom and dad until my dad ran away with the spoon and all the money and Mom said we had to leave because we couldn’t afford it anymore. I recognize the kitchen with its green and white linoleum and the little chickens and roosters that prowled around on the wallpaper looking for food. Those chickens are always hungry.
“I can take Jimmy with me, can’t I?” I said in a little boy voice I hadn’t used in a long time. Sixteen years, six months and fourteen days, to be exact.
“I don’t think so,” my mom says. When I try to catch her eyes, she won’t look at me. Her colours change to yellow and black, which usually means she’s lying, but why would she lie about not being able to take Jimmy with us? He might just be a dog, but he’s my best friend. My only friend . . .
And then he’s gone in the back of someone’s car, and all I can see as it drives away is his face, and his eyes, pleading with me to save him. Please save him before he gets so far away he won’t be able to find his way back to me. The car turns out of the driveway, and he’s gone. And then we were gone, and the house is alone.
For some reason, though, I’m back, and I watch it fall apart before my very eyes. The green and white lino cracks and darkens until I can’t see the colour anymore, and the chickens scratch desperately for food all over the walls, getting scrawnier and scrawnier until they’re all dead piles of feathers and bones and the wallpaper is curling off the walls.
I start to cry, and I can tell that now I’m the age I was when I died, and I start looking for my mom because finding her is the only reason I would ever come back to this house with the dead chickens and the gone dog, but she isn’t anywhere. She should be. After all, she told me that she hoped she’d get back to this house before she died, and she always gets her hopes and wishes.
But I can’t find her, even though my crying turns to screaming, and I tear the wallpaper off the walls in yellowing tendrils of chicken bones and feathers.
“Where are you, you bitch!” I scream, my throat hurting so bad I can’t believe I can scream anymore, but I can. I can. “I want my dog! I want my dog!”
Marie:
Food and my Shrink. Oh Joy
JASPER DISAPPEARING IN front of me like that was disconcerting, no doubt about it. I hadn’t realized I was getting used to seeing him around and chatting with him, as he not-so-secretly checked me out.
“Jasper!” I called. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
I heard the lock click open, and jumped to attention, hastily running my fingers through my stupid hair one more time to make sure it looked good enough for Nurse Willoughby. Then I mentally kicked myself. She was getting in my head, and I had to stop that. I was leaving this place, and soon. And then I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone, especially not a cranky nurse.
It wasn’t Nurse Willoughby who walked through the door, but Nurse Melodie. She smiled at me. “You look nice,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied. “Is it time for dinner?”
“Yes, it is,” she said. She looked at me closely. “Are you sure you’re up to a meal in the dining room? I could bring something in here for you, if you like.”
I frowned, confused. “I thought I had to eat out there with everyone else,” I said
. “That’s what Nurse Willoughby said, anyhow.”
“Ah, I can bend the rules just a bit if you’re not feeling up to it.” She smiled again, warmly and in spite of myself, I smiled back. “I heard you yelling just now,” she said. “You sounded upset.”
Oh.
“No,” I said. “I had another nightmare.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” she said, and her face instantly showed concern. “You might be reacting to one of your meds. We’ll have to do something about that. But don’t you worry, we’ll get everything all sorted out, and then you’ll have nice restful sleeps. All right?”
“All right,” I said, though I didn’t know if it was all right or not. Even with her smiles and looks of concern, I figured Nurse Melodie was just hung up on getting my meds right so I wouldn’t be a bother anymore.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to going to the dining room?” she asked again.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Looking forward to it.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said, and led me out.
THE DINING ROOM was crowded and smelled like cooked cabbage, just like it had been for lunch. Nurse Melodie led me to the same table I’d sat at the meal before, but she didn’t leave the way Nurse Willoughby had. She stuck around and small-talked the rest of the occupants while I got into my chair. She didn’t get much reaction from anybody, but at least she tried.
“Well, ladies, you enjoy your meals,” she said when I was finally settled, and then briskly walked away.
Our food was already sitting on the table before us. Everyone else had a grey gluey mass in a bowl. I had another salad, but at least it wasn’t wilted. Much.
Natalie was in her seat, but she hadn’t looked up when I came to the table. She stared at the bowl full of goo in front of her like she couldn’t quite remember how to use the big spoon sitting by her left hand.
I couldn’t decide whether to try to talk to her or not, because I was pretty hungry and that salad looked pretty small. But it bothered me how quiet she was—like a stone statue staring at her bowl as though she was trying to read her future in the grey mass within.