My bed is carefully made. Two letters and two books sit atop the bedspread. One letter for Wendy, one for David. One book for Leigh, one for Timothy. There are no apologies, no blame, and no explanations beyond one central expression of truth: I have no desire to be alive any longer.
I swallow another of the larger pills. I have no idea if forty pills are going to accomplish anything, but I figure if it doesn’t work, I can go back to the source and continue the quest. I decide to quicken the poison. I imagine the pills are candy. I take a few more at a time, and fairly quickly, with the help of the Fanta, I finish.
The rug takes on an almost mystical energy. It was my grandfather’s family’s rug. I start to believe that its threads hold secrets, their colors worn in a pattern reflecting the lives of which it’s been a part. Like a genetic memory.
Where it came from originally, I have no idea. It belonged to my grandfather’s bubbe and his parents brought it with them when they immigrated to America. Peeling back the corner of the rug, I find a faded tan label sewed to the underside. Product of Iran.
Iran? How did this Iranian rug arrive in the Ukraine all those years ago?
I wish I knew this story. I realize I have no knowledge whatsoever of my grandfather’s childhood. Wendy never talks about it; she rarely brings up her father at all. I wonder if she has any idea about his family. Once I asked where his family came from and she answered, “the Ukraine,” but that was it. She doesn’t know anything else, which, I think, is weird. My grandfather never talks about most of his family, except to say they died in World War II. I never saw Rose, his sister, after I was a toddler. She lived in Brookline at one time, near him, but she died in Florida around the time that Moses and my Grandmother Yetta died.
I miss my Grandmother Yetta. I love Ruth, and my grandfather seems happier in many ways than I’ve ever known him to be, but I’ve seen him less and less since they got married.
Ruth mails checks to Wendy and me since we aren’t visiting often. I think Wendy feels a bit jealous of her new stepmother. She barely speaks to her when she does see her.
I begin to feel dizzy; I lie back against the rug. I wonder if this happens when people lose their minds. In being lost to the world, I seem to have found a more direct link to mine.
I wait for what I hope will be a slow, sleepy descent into death. Instead I find myself becoming even more aware.
I study the carpet design. The wool threads become individually interesting. Each thread holds its own secrets, its own portent. Each detail on the rug, and in the room itself, is strikingly crystalline in its definition.
My skin becomes warm, then prickly, as each pore opens and perspires.
My scalp, first warm, then unbearably itchy.
My eyes at first unfocused, then sharply tuned to each color.
Images pop across my retina with the rapidity of subliminal messages in a commercial ad: The jacquard design of the curtains. The letters with their carefully scripted names on the envelopes that lay across the bed. Timothy’s copy of Illusions.
A feather from my bedspread floats out and over the bed, landing softly beside me at the edge of the carpet and the wooden floor.
This does not seem peculiar, but merely a pleasant offering.
My hand reaches for the feather, but as I do it becomes a fascinating tool, an entity—its intention unknown and sinister.
I pull my eyes away, terrified.
My bureau with its array of perfume bottles. I can smell each bottled scent individually as I look over them one by one. Lavender. Rose. Cinnamon. Musk.
My drawings and paintings, which cover the walls, come alive. The pop art painting of a Raisin Bran box breathes its purple package like a lung. I smell sugarcoated raisins.
Shutting my eyes, I tell myself it’s not real.
My hearing becomes highly alert. The brush of my hand against the wool of the rug. My throat clearing, my breathing, the sound of my heart beating against its chamber walls.
I begin to have odd, floaty feelings, although they aren’t the feelings I hoped for. This is not a peaceful drift into sleeping death.
The pattern in the rug. I trail my fingers through the wool threads, admiring the colors, which have become quite vibrant and glorious. I can see the paisley, the complexity of the pattern, in ways I’ve never noticed before. The design takes on a remarkable richness and artistry. I never noticed how the midnight blue paisley is dotted with black lines and surrounded by magenta shadows. Even the beige background is not truly beige, but dabs of chestnut brown speckled with grass green, glinty gold, and magenta, spoke-like circular flowers on a creamy canvas. As I run my fingers over them, the colors each feel different. The blue paisleys are velvety and soft. The reds are coarse. The gold is silky like stockings. The multicolored flower spokes have three-dimensional textures.
I have a sudden vision of the time Wendy drugged me with acid and I climbed the backyard willow tree. I remember the boy who came into the backyard and tried to stop me from jumping from the branch limb. The boy I thought was Moses. I wonder who he was.
The phone rings. I glare at it disbelievingly, then I speak to it.
“What?”
The phone responds with another set of rings.
I let the phone continue until whoever is calling hangs up.
I sit up, my heart beating fast. So fast I worry.
What if I accidentally took hits of acid with the sleeping pills? I realize this could easily be what the unlabeled film canister drugs were.
What if I end up living with a completely scrambled brain?
What if the call was Wendy in trouble?
What if it was David in trouble?
What if someone needs something, and because I’m unavailable—and so useless—something terrible is happening right now?
It occurs to me my last human act toward another person might be ignoring his or her phone call, and in doing so providing an opportunity for chaos for that person.
I am, of course, filled with guilt.
I thought I’d carefully calculated guilt out of the act I’m about to complete. Now here it is anyway, in what I know are my last moments.
The telephone rings again. I glare at it and roll over to where it sits by my bedside and lift the receiver out of its cradle.
“What?”
Timothy’s calm voice says, “What are you doing?”
I laugh. I’m thinking his question imitates the phrasing in the seductive tones of a crank caller, “What are you wearing?” Knowing him, he has no clue he’s come off like that.
I feel sure the effects of the drugs are hitting me, because I can’t stop laughing.
Timothy’s voice breaks through. “Why are you laughing?”
“I thought your question might be followed by ‘Talk dirty to me,’” I choke out through my laughter.
“Talk dirty to me,” he says, joking.
I answer without hesitation: “Slime, mud, piles of rubbish, moldy carpets, red tides …”
“Stop,” he says. “I couldn’t sleep, and I had this feeling you might be up too. What are you doing?”
I can’t answer. I didn’t count on anyone sensing what I might be doing. I was as casual as ever when I said good-bye for the semester to my teachers.
I wonder if he suspected what I was up to or if he truly wants to connect and figured I’d forgive him if I’d been sleeping soundly and his call woke me.
“Are you all right? I had this feeling you might not be all right.”
I try to unwind our conversation. What did I say? What have I done to alert him?
I have trouble finding words. I have trouble thinking words.
I find a few.
“I’m fine. What are you doing calling?”
I hoped my lack of response would be interpreted as sleepiness, but he persists. “You were awake, weren’t you?” I can’t lie to him. “Yeah, I’m up.” “Are you okay?”
I can’t lie to him about this either. He sounds concerned,
and I know that if I do lie it will leave him with absolutely the wrong idea about his last interaction with me.
I feel frustrated and trapped. If I say I feel fine, he’ll think he missed it. His chance to save me from my death.
He will have the same legacy I’ve been trying to escape. I can see the recrimination, the guilt, the remorse, the endless questioning.
If I tell the truth, though, my plan will be shattered. The instant I think this, I’m realizing that it’s true already; my plan is shattered.
I haven’t responded for quite a while. I lie there, trying to form an answer. To give word forms to my scattered feelings. I’m not sure how much time has gone by. I become acutely aware of the beating of my heart.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask.
“I’m coming over,” he says.
“How will you? Are you going to fly from Cambridge?”
I imagine I can see my heart beating out of the T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s faint, but I can definitely see movement toward the center of my chest. I remember it must be my lungs moving with my breath. But it’s such a small area; shouldn’t the rise be on both sides?
I can see a small beat, very definitely the beat of my heart,
Off-center left.
I feel faint, lying back against the rug again with the phone in my hand.
Thirty
Jules, 17 years | December 23rd, 1978
THINK OF ME AS AN ANGEL
TIMOTHY’S VOICE SHOUTS at me, and I notice my hand, which is holding the phone an arm’s length away. His distant, tinny yells bring me back to focus.
I pull the phone over to my ear. This is a slow, laborious process of joint enervation. I am acutely aware of each part of my arm’s pull and the muscle mechanism taken to achieve the task.
When the phone is against my ear I hear Timothy’s voice clearly shouting: “Jules, Jules, are you there? Can you hear me? I’m home, and I’m coming over.”
“No!” I shout.
I am deeply ashamed. I’m ashamed for shouting: I have released the demon I save for my fights with Wendy. I feel ashamed for my anger.
This is the part where I share the side of me I have never wanted anyone else to know.
I also feel ashamed at my actions this night. The pills, this pathetic suicide drama.
I’m still thinking these thoughts when I see Timothy standing above me. I had no idea he he’d hung up the phone. I thought he might still be deciding whether to respond.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“It took me the usual amount of time.”
I locate the phone by my ear and roll over on my side to put it into its cradle. I notice how slowly I’m moving. I try to cover it by getting up quickly, but as I’m kneeling to stand, a blanket of dizziness hits me, and I’m falling backwards.
In the next moment he’s holding me, he’s under me and we’re falling, him backwards, onto my bed. The movement is unbearably slow, and I can barely feel my body. But I know he’s holding me. I can see his arms surrounding me.
I experience something like wind around me, covering him, pushing him with its force, blowing us where we land, him thudding on top of the letters and books, me without substance. I cannot feel my body any longer. I have become a sail.
Timothy talks in my ear, arms still around me. His voice is soft and deep, and I can taste it. It tastes like chocolate pudding. His voice has a cedar and ivory soap smell.
“What’s going on Jules? Have you been drinking? What’s all this?”
He’s pulling the cards to Wendy and David, the books I left for him and Leigh, out from underneath us.
Timothy is almost six feet tall, and his body is contorted with the effort of pulling these things from underneath us, but I can see his focus is complete.
He’s unaware my body still covers him. In any other circumstance, we might find this extremely uncomfortable. But now, in this moment, while I’m highly aware of his body, the fabric of his green wool sweater and his jeans, I cannot feel myself, and he is distracted, and it’s comfortable.
I’m realizing I’ve never touched Timothy. We’ve only gotten to know one another in the past few years, during what has been a physically awkward time for both of us.
“Oh.” I cannot find words to cover what I now know he will know.
Now he lifts me off of him and swings his legs over the bed, opening up the copy of Richard Bach’s Illusions I’ve given him. He has dropped everything else. He finds the letter I’ve written inside.
I panic. “No.” I am trying to grab the letter, but I am still dizzy and I find myself falling off the edge of the bed. Timothy reaches out an arm to catch my fall, but it’s not enough to stop my trajectory forward. I am rolling onto the rug when a wave of nausea hits me.
I manage to moan through my teeth. He pulls me up and drags me into the hallway toward the bath. If I could stand, walk, feel my legs at all … I might be able to make it to the bathroom. Instead I vomit Orange Fanta all over the wooden floors of the hallway. Instead of the shame I know I should be feeling, I am admiring the blending of colors—the orange of the bile against the wood grain.
“Resplendent.”
“Huh? Yeah … real pretty.” He starts to laugh. I am laughing too.
Shame comes later, much later, during a long night in the bathroom, my head stuck down in the toilet bowl, where Orange Fanta-colored particles swim, while Timothy alternately holds a washcloth against my neck and reads the letter I’ve written to him.
“So, this is what you left me? A schlocky book and a reassurance that nothing I could have done would have stopped you?” He pauses, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He is angry now. “Did you think this would keep me from losing my mind over this? Over losing you?”
I lift my head miserably, and I realize what he’s saying is true.
“It’s a great book. One of my favorites.”
He smiles.
“This isn’t the way I thought it would go. My plan had no drama or pain.” “What about your family?
What about your friends? Did you think we weren’t going to be incredibly sad? Or pissed off? What did you take, anyway? Pills?”
He grimaces at the toilet, wrinkling his nose.
He’s right. How embarrassing. How selfish.
I’ve been so self-absorbed, so caught up in my thoughts about leaving, that I haven’t considered the effects of my actions. I haven’t cared.
I took all the responsibility for my actions in my letters, and I convinced myself I wouldn’t be causing chaos for anyone because I was absolving them.
This thought brings another wave of nausea, and while I try to bring up something to satisfy my stomach’s urges, I wave Timothy out.
“I’m fine. Wait for me outside.”
He obeys and walks out. After what seems like a long time, I can tell I have nothing left in me. I need sleep. I pull myself up and catch myself in the mirror above the sink as I’m brushing my teeth and gargling with the Listerine from the cabinet. My eyes seem sunken in my face, my pupils wide and staring. I wonder at the chemical mix I made with the meds I chose. At least the psychedelic effects are finally starting to wear off.
I have no idea what time it is, but as I open the door to the bath I can see the sun slinking its way across the hallway floors.
I find Timothy in my room. He’s sitting on the bed reading Illusions. As I make my way across the floor he moves against the wall and makes space for me, opening the covers for me first.
“This book is weird.”
“I know, but read it anyway. Turn away.”
“Okay, I’m not looking.” He turns his head, and I peel off my jeans and T-shirt and crawl under the sheets. I’m relieved and sleepy, and I’m smiling now as I think about Timothy actually reading Illusions.
When I wake up he’s gone. I’m shocked to see it’s already eleven thirty. I’m supposed to be dead or on an airplane to Miami right now.
I’m showering when I’m startled by
Timothy’s voice. “Hey, do you want Raisin Bran or pancakes for breakfast? I can’t find any butter or syrup in the fridge, but I could run over to my place and grab some. I called home and they haven’t figured out I didn’t sleep there last night. My grandmother thought I went to play basketball this morning.”
“Jeez, you scared me.” I turn off the shower and grab the towel hanging by the stall, wrapping it around me as I step out. I’m hit with embarrassment as I remember the details of last night.
“Sorry. I got hungry and you’ve been sleeping all morning. You must be hungry too—there can’t be anything left in your stomach. I found the empty bottle of soda. You put down a lot of Orange Fanta.”
God, did I drink it all? No wonder I got sick.
I’m embarrassed again.
“Oh my God.” I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, holding the towel around me.
“What?”
“Can’t we forget last night happened?”
He’s quiet in the doorway. Then he answers, “Well, it might be possible for you, but for me it’s going to be impossible. I nearly lost my best friend last night, and it’s not the first time I’ve known someone who wanted to check out.”
I look up, puzzled.
“My mother killed herself. I know I should have told you this a long, long time ago, but it never felt like the right time. I wanted, badly, to tell you last night, but I figured I would wait. I want you to hear this with a clear head: No matter how bad it is, it’s never going to be bad enough to make killing yourself a viable option. In my book the only people who get to check out are the ones who are on their way out anyway and want to avoid unnecessary pain.”
I’m nervous. “Well, that would be all of us,” I laugh. “We’re all on our way out …”
“Listen to me,” he says, not smiling at my joke. “This is hard enough.” He takes a long breath. “When my mother decided to end things, I thought it was because she was angry with me. Now I know she did feel angry, but not with me. She got pissed off at the world. She got pissed off she’d been sold a lie. She felt stuck in our family, stuck with a husband and two kids and a suburban nightmare she never wanted in the first place. But she left me, my brother, my father, and her mother, everyone in her life, totally holding this angry bag of shit. She didn’t clear anything. She left us holding a shit bag while she split out the back door.”
The Belief in Angels Page 31