Leaving the World

by Douglas Kennedy

  And at that precise moment, out of nowhere, a taxi came barreling around the corner.

  Again I screamed my daughter’s name. Again I lunged for her.

  But I was too late.

  Part Four

  One

  THEY FOUND ME in a snowdrift. It was around two in the morning – so they told me later. Had they arrived an hour later I would have been dead.

  But that was the idea of driving into that snowdrift – and turning the engine off and taking the two dozen Zopiclones that I had in my pocket, and waiting for the moment when I could finally summon up the necessary . . .

  Courage? No, that wasn’t the right word, because there was nothing courageous about what I was going to do. Rather, the actual word here was ‘finality’. After all those weeks of an agony that was so unendurable, I was finally going to yield to the only bearable solution. And so, when I turned the corner of that backwoods road and saw the snow banked up on the edge of a dark wood, I suddenly braked. Digging the pills out of my pocket and flipping open the top of the bottle, I emptied all the Zopiclones into my mouth. I nearly choked as I chased them with water, the clustered tablets scraping my esophagus as they went down. Then I turned off the car’s heater, unbuckled my seat-belt, disengaged the airbag and hit the accelerator.

  All this was accomplished in under thirty seconds. It was a fast, instinctual decision, done without pause for thought. Maybe that’s how many suicides work. Weeks, months, years of consideration and hesitation. Then, one morning, you’re on a subway platform, you hear the approach of an express train rattling through the station and . . .

  Heater off. Seat-belt off. Twenty-four heavy-duty sleeping tablets still burning my throat. Without further thought I slammed my foot down on the accelerator. The car shot forward, plunging deep into the snow before crashing into something solid. I was thrown forward. The world went dark. And . . .

  That should have been it. The end – with either the crash, the pills, the cold (or a combination of all three) killing me.

  But that wasn’t the end. Because . . .

  I woke up. And found myself on a narrow gurney-like bed. As the room came into focus I could see that the walls were painted some institutional color and the ceiling tiles were chipped and crusted with mold. I tried to raise my arms but couldn’t. They were being held in place by straps. I blinked and realized that one eye was covered by a bandage. I touched my lips with my tongue. A mistake. There was a railroad track of stitches on both lips. My mouth was parched. When I squinted to my left I could see tubes attached to my immobile arms and assorted monitoring devices next to the gurney. I could also feel something sharp and unpleasant coming out of me. Even in this fogged-in, back-from-the-dead state I knew immediately that a catheter has been inserted into my bladder.

  Oh God, I’m alive.

  ‘Well, hello there. You’re back.’

  The voice was flat. Prairie flat. Plain, unadorned, dry. I tried to sit up. I failed. I blinked with my one good eye – and could make out the outline of a woman standing in front of me. Another blink and she came into better focus. She was rail thin with a lined face and sharply delineated features. But it was her eyes that unnerved me. They were eyes that tolerated no artifice, no self-pity. They were eyes that looked out on the world with a ruthless clarity. They were eyes that – even in my semi-conscious state – told me immediately: She knows everything.

  ‘Guess you weren’t expecting this, now were you?’

  ‘Where am I?’ I asked.

  ‘Mountain Falls Regional Hospital.’

  ‘Mountain Falls?’

  ‘That’s right. Mountain Falls, Montana. You had your “accident” just outside Mountain Falls, on Route 202, around two days ago. Do you remember that?’

  ‘Uh . . . sort of. I lost control . . .’

  I let the sentence die.

  ‘You lost control of your car after ingesting a near-fatal amount of sleeping pills and driving right into a snowbank without a seat-belt. And I suppose the fact that the airbag was disengaged and you didn’t have any heat on in the car was also an “accident”, even though it was minus five the other night.’

  ‘I lost control . . .’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, the tough tone slightly softening. ‘We all know that. And we also know why . . .’

  ‘How can you . . . ?’

  Again I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Know why? You had a wallet on you. The wallet told the cops who found you who you were. They did a little investigating, being cops and all that. They found out what they needed to find out – and let us know about your situation. That’s why you’re strapped down right now. A precaution – in case you feel like doing yourself some serious harm again.’

  I shut my eye, taking this all in. They know. They know everything.

  ‘Name’s Nurse Rainier, by the way. Rainier like the mountain in Washington State. Janet Rainier. I’m the matron on the ward here. Do you know what ward this is?’

  ‘The psych ward . . .’

  ‘Got it in one. You are in the psych ward – on suicide watch. My guess is that you kind of made a last-minute decision to end it all. Like you could have checked into a motel with all those Zopiclone pills and a bottle of whiskey and done it in a bit of comfort. But you chose something kind of instantaneous, didn’t you?’

  I closed my eye and turned away.

  ‘I’m being just a little gruff, right? That’s kind of how I run things around here. Now I can completely understand why you might think I’ve got all the sensitivity of a car crash – and yeah, I know that is probably not the most opportune thing to say right now – but there you go. As long as you’re on my ward you’re gonna have to get used to my no-crap approach to things. ’Cause the goal is to send you out of here not wanting to drive into another snowbank again. You hear me?’

  I stayed turned away.

  ‘You hear me?’

  She hadn’t raised her voice a decibel, but she still unnerved me.

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. Now let me ask you another question: If I remove the restraining straps from your arms, are you going to play ball with me and not do anything rash, stupid and/or self-harming?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘I’d love to hear you express that thought.’

  It took me a moment to summon up the ability to talk again. When I did speak, the mere movement of my lips was agony.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘We are on the same page – and I am very pleased, Professor, to hear your voice.’

  Professor.

  ‘Now, the next question I have for you is: Would you like to try to drink something with a straw? That tube sticking out of your right arm is keeping you alive but IV feeding is no substitute for the real thing, now, is it? You’ve got the entire ward to yourself – things are surprisingly slow, considering how everyone in Montana loses a screw or two every winter – so I could easily whip you up something nice and bland like a vanilla milkshake. That sound good?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Words, please.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Three more words. I am impressed.’

  ‘Can you take out the catheter?’ I asked.

  ‘Six more words. You are earning Brownie points by the minute. And yes, I can get that catheter removed – but only when we’re certain you can walk again.’

  ‘What?’ I said, suddenly terrified.

  ‘You fractured the tibia in your left leg. That’s why it’s in plaster. The resident orthopedist thinks you should be out of the cast in about four weeks tops. But we can’t have you trying to make it to the ladies until we’re sure you can stay upright. ’Course, we could put a bedpan under you . . .’

  I became aware again of my left leg. The heaviness I had first felt in it turned out to be the cast.

  ‘I can cope with a bedpan.’

  ‘Then we can relieve you of the catheter.’

  She came over to the bed and unbu
ckled each of the restraints. Though I had been out of it for two days I must have been struggling against the straps while unconscious, as there were deep red welts on both arms. Nurse Rainier caught me staring at these markings.

  ‘They’ll disappear in a day or two . . . unless you go postal on me and force me to chain you back down. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s my girl. Now I want you to very gently roll over on your right side – and, for obvious reasons, take it very slow.’

  I did as ordered, but was unable to put my plastered leg on top of my good one.

  ‘Now all you’ve got to do is take a deep breath and hold it until I tell you to let go.’

  I could feel her lifting up the back of the green hospital gown into which I had been placed.

  ‘Ready now?’ she asked. ‘One, two, three, deep breath – and don’t you dare move.’

  Again I did as ordered. I felt immense relief as the catheter was pulled free of me – followed by a cascade of urine.

  ‘Shit,’ I muttered through stitched lips.

  ‘Don’t sweat it. It’s what always happens when the catheter is finally retracted. Anyway, it’s about time we got you off that gurney before bedsores set in. Hey, nurse . . .’

  A large shaven-headed man – with tree trunks for biceps, all adorned with tattoos – came through the swing doors.

  ‘This here is Ray,’ Nurse Rainier said. ‘And he tends to be real pleasant unless one of our guests tries to engage in self-harm or leaves before they’re given their walking papers. But you’re not going to do that, are you, Professor?’

  ‘No,’ I whispered.

  ‘I think we’ve got a real nice customer here, Ray. What do you think?’

  Ray looked at his sneakers.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he finally said.

  ‘Well, how about getting the Professor out of bed and wheeling her down to the bathroom. I’ll get Nurse Pepper to give her a bit of a sponge bath and get that disgusting nightdress off her. You up for that, Professor?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Language, language. I have got to hear you speak.’

  ‘Yes, I would like to be cleaned up.’

  ‘An entire sentence! This is progress! OK, Ray, she’s all yours. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘My eye . . .’ I said.

  ‘What about it?’ Nurse Rainier asked.

  ‘How bad . . . ?’

  ‘You mean, will you lose it?’

  I nodded, but just as Nurse Rainier was about to reprimand me for that, I managed to ask: ‘Yes, will I lose it?’

  ‘Not according to our ace ophthalmological surgeon who spent around five hours pulling shards of windshield out of your cornea and everywhere else. But you won’t be able to use it for a while.’

  ‘What else did I do to myself?’

  ‘What did you do to yourself? Nurse Rainier said. ‘I like it, I like it. The woman takes responsibility for her actions. You like that, Ray?’

  ‘Can I move her now?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure thing. But be real careful of all those tubes and cables and everything else. We’ve got to keep her monitored.’

  Ray may have looked like the sort of biker who had once possibly eaten a raw steer but he was a deft hand at disconnecting me from all my monitors, and hooking up my feed bag to a stand on wheels. Then – without asking if I was ready – he shoved his tree-trunk arms under me and hoisted me down into the wheelchair with surprising finesse and gentleness. As he was engaged in all this, Nurse Rainier kept talking.

  ‘So besides fracturing your tibia, and doing a real number on your eye, you were severely concussed, and you’ve also got one big welt across your forehead. Then there was all the glass in your lips – but I’ve seen you running your tongue across the stitches, so I’m sure you’re aware of that by now. What else? The concussion caused your brain to swell for around twenty-four hours – but the neurologist stabilized that one. You also had severe bruising around the chest and pelvis. Neat trick, unstrapping the seat-beat and disengaging the airbag. Oh, you hit a tree, by the way. And when this Native American – name of Mr Big John Lightfoot – came down the road and saw your tail lights sticking out of the snowbank, not only did he stop to see what was going on, but he called the cops on his cellphone and even used a rope to attach his back bumper up to his rig and pulled you right out.

  ‘I tell you, you’ve really got to thank Mr Big John Lightfoot for saving your life. The guy was right on the ball. As soon as he’d yanked you out of the woods, he opened the one car door that wasn’t crushed and saw that you were suffering from hypothermia – the cops figured you’d been there around ninety minutes before Big John found you – and the guy sees that the car heater’s off so he cranks it right up and starts warming you up. Then he finds the empty bottle of pills on the car floor, puts two and two together and – now this qualifies as heroic in my book – sticks his fingers right down your throat and makes you upchuck everything. Mind you, we had to pump your stomach all out when we got you here. You took that many Zopiclone, you’re lucky you didn’t wake up with major brain damage. But Big John’s quick thinking probably saved you from that fate.

  ‘So if I was you I’d write Mr Big John Lightfoot one major thank-you letter . . . if, that is, you feel like thanking him for your life.

  ‘Anyway, that’s all the news that’s fit to print on the physical stuff you did to yourself. You’re going to be in here for a spell – because though physically you could probably hobble out of here on crutches in around a week, well, it’s the head stuff that’s gonna want us to keep you hanging around. You’ll hear more about that from our resident shrink, Dr Ireland, but only when she gets here in two days’ time. We are the only psych ward in this corner of Montana, but with such slow business we don’t merit a full-time shrink. Still, you’ll like Dr Ireland. Woman about your age, from somewhere back East. Came out here to change her life and all that. Never met a patient who didn’t rate her – except those whose cognitive faculties couldn’t stretch to rating a candy bar. But I guess you’re tired of listening to me. So let’s get Nurse Pepper to clean you up . . . and we’ll talk later.’

  Nurse Ray wheeled me out of the empty ward and down a short corridor. I tried to take in my surroundings, but found that all visual perspective proved difficult. I could see everything and everyone who came close to me. Beyond that, nothing. Though Nurse Rainier had forced me to speak, I still found it difficult to articulate anything but the responses she demanded. I put my hands to my face. I want to be dead. Because being dead means the absence of thought. And the absence of thought means . . .

  I was wheeled into a bathroom that had been specially equipped to handle the infirm. A young, stout woman in her mid-twenties was awaiting me. She introduced herself as Nurse Pepper. From her accent she sounded like she was from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. She immediately thanked Ray for ‘delivering’ me, then offered me a large, soft smile.

  ‘I am so glad that you are back with us,’ she said, all enthusiasm.

  ‘And I hope you don’t mind me telling you this, but I really was praying so hard that you’d make it. You’re not offended by that now, I hope?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, I am a great believer in the power of modern medicine – but I also know that Jesus can heal as well. But I bet you don’t want to hear about that now.’

  I started to sob. Within moments the crying was out of control – the same sense of drowning that overcame me in the hours, days, weeks after the . . .

  It was just a desperate accident, they all kept telling me. Terrible, random – like all accidents. And there was nothing you could have done about it.

  I wouldn’t accept a syllable of their consoling words. It was my fault . . . all my fault . . .

  But the sobs now so intensified that I found myself no longer able to think one simple irrational thought. The grief had, as before, submerged me. Nurse Pepper kept trying to co
mfort me, putting her arms around me and saying she ‘understood’. But when I veered into out-of-control territory, she suddenly let go of me and charged off. Moments later she was back with Nurse Rainier.

  ‘What the hell did you say to her?’ Nurse Rainier hissed. ‘You pull that Jesus shit with her?’

  Nurse Pepper started to whimper.

  ‘Look at you, all pious and helpless,’ Nurse Rainier said. ‘You run right now and get me a syringe with five mgs of Sodium Pentothal. You get back here in less than one minute – or I will have your Christian ass suspended indefinitely. Now move.’

  As Nurse Pepper raced off, Rainier crouched down beside me and locked her hands around both my arms.

  ‘Professor . . . Jane . . . this is not the way to go. You hear me? I know how bad it is, how desperate and unlivable it all seems. But this is not going to do you any good. I’ll say it again – you have got to cut this out now. Because you are going to—’

  That’s when I lashed out and caught her on the side of the head with my open hand. As soon as the blow was struck, she came right back at me, slapping me across the face. The smack was very precise – missing my damaged lips and landing on the cheek opposite my bandaged eye. But it still hurt like hell – and shook me out of my crying jag.

  There was a moment of shocked silence between us. Then she stood up and smoothed out her uniform and stared down at me.

  ‘You could have my job for that,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think you want to go there, do you?’

  I shook my head. Nurse Rainier was about to automatically say: ‘Language!’ but checked herself.

  ‘Your face OK?’

  I nodded, then managed to mutter: ‘Your head?’

  ‘I’ll live,’ she said. Nurse Pepper came running back with the syringe and a glass vial, handing them both to her senior colleague.