The Suicide Year

by Lena Prodan

  "A murderer is running loose."

  "My parents wouldn't care."

  "This isn't a discussion. The trip is cancelled.” He turned his gaze from me. “We have another plan. We've organized a weekend trip to a Bible camp in Michigan, and we'll have a day trip to King's Island amusement park."

  Everyone cheered except me.

  "Bible camp?” I muttered. I crossed my arms and slunk down in my chair.

  "I'm sorry,” Eric said. “I know you wanted to go really bad."

  "It was the only thing I had to look forward to."

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Not the only thing. Don't say that."

  "Name something."

  He couldn't.

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  Chapter 23

  When I realized the hiking trip would never happen, I gave up. Everything that could go wrong in my life finally had. My brain taunted me with crazy schemes to salvage the trip, but as soon as I got my hopes up that it might work, reality set in and reminded me why it wouldn't. Each time, the high from hope was briefer and more fragile, until I couldn't even feel that anymore.

  The gray film of depression oozed over me. It hung in the air inside the house, muting color and sound, crept over food, and removed the flavor. Everything I put in my mouth was reduced to textures which made me gag. It was hard to fall asleep, and when I woke in the middle of the night, there was no getting back to sleep.

  Maybe it was exhaustion, or blind hope, but I convinced myself that if Mom would come home, everything would be fine. Not great, but good enough. She was always telling me to snap out of it. Maybe, for once, it would work. I was drowning under the gray and I needed someone to jolt me back above the surface so that I could breathe again.

  I made promises to God. If she came back, I'd be the daughter she demanded. I'd keep my mouth shut. I'd watch my attitude. I'd pretend to be all girl. I fixated on a date. If she walked in the door by Mother's Day, by some miracle, I'd come out of it.

  It wasn't that I believed in magic, but I couldn't stop myself from creating rituals to bring Mom home. I tried to walk like a girl. I read Mom's women's magazines, as if they held the clues I needed to pass as a girl. I vowed to let my hair grow out of the short buzz cut I liked so much.

  Pop and I went to church on Mother's Day. I felt like a criminal when surrounded by people who had their mothers with them. An usher at the front door of the base chapel pressed a white carnation into my hand to give to my mother. I held it up to my nose, enjoying the spiced scent, and then pulled it apart petal by petal until it was a sad heap on my lap.

  After we got home from church, I pleaded with Pop, “Please just let me call and say Happy Mother's Day? I'll pay for the call."

  "Leave her alone."

  Even though I hadn't slept in days, nervous energy kept me on my feet. I paced by the front door and looked through the peephole every time a car drove by. It was never Mom.

  It didn't make sense. If Mom had been home, she would have ignored me, or worse, honed in on one of my many faults and shredded me until I ran to hide in my bedroom. I couldn't get past wanting to see her though, so I tucked Pop's address book into the waistband of my jeans, pulled my concert T-shirt over it, and went over to the Foster's.

  The gray haze must have seeped through our shared wall, because the bright lemon yellow of their kitchen seemed muted. Or maybe the gray followed me around and contaminated everything I saw.

  "Can I ask a favor?” I asked Mrs. Foster.

  "Sure, hon.” Her side of the house smelled of cinnamon, like carnations. “I'm making snickerdoodles. Would you like one?"

  "No thank you, ma'am. May I use your phone?"

  "Of course."

  "It's long distance.” I pulled waded bills out of my pocket and shoved them into her hand. Coins fell to the floor. “If this isn't enough to pay for it, I swear I'll pay you back. I just ... I have to talk to Mom."

  She stooped down to pick up the change. “Sweetie, it's fine. It's Mother's Day, after all. Keep your money."

  "I can't."

  "Really. This is far too much."

  I was shaking my head and hoping it hid how I trembled. “I can't.” The words stuck in a dry spot in the back of my throat.

  "Okay.” She touched my shoulder. “How about this? I have a timer. You start it when you dial, and after you hang up, we'll see how much you spent. Okay? Fair enough?"

  I swallowed and swallowed. “Yeah."

  She dug through the kitchen cabinets and found a white plastic timer. “You probably want some privacy, so why don't you use the extension upstairs in my bedroom?"

  I'd never dialed long distance before. Feeling like a complete idiot, I went downstairs and asked her how to do it. Press one. How was I supposed to know that? Why was it that everyone in the world knew a million things I didn't? Basic stuff. I was lucky I knew how to breathe.

  The phone rang only twice.

  "Hello?"

  I was afraid for a moment I wouldn't be able to speak. She was still in Georgia. A tear leaked out of the corner of my eye. “Mom?” My voice broke.

  "Hello? Who is this?"

  And then I realized it wasn't Mom. “Aunt Rosalind?” Relief was almost worse than fear. If Aunt Rosalind was at her house, it meant Mom was already driving home. “How long ago did Mom leave?"

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about, honey. Your mother isn't here."

  "So she's on her way home now? When did she leave?” My brain whirled and tried to calculate the distance and how long it would take Mom to drive home.

  "Honey, your mother hasn't been down to visit us since last summer, when you were here."

  "But ... But she's been there twice since then. Over Christmas, and for the past couple weeks."

  "No she hasn't."

  "She told me—"

  "We always like you to visit, but why did you think she came to see me?"

  "Mom goes down to take care of Lee, Brian, and Madison while you're away at the hospital."

  There was a long silence. I expected her to be cold or mean, but Aunt Rosalind's voice was soft. “Honey, I know your father disapproves of me taking medication for my illness, but since I started my anti-depressants three years ago, I haven't been to the hospital."

  "No."

  "I'm better now."

  "Then where's Mom?” I was remembering something Mom said. When we were at her parent's house in Georgia, she told Pop, “They haven't seen any of us in three years.” She'd been lying to me.

  "I don't know, honey."

  "But Mom told me she was taking care of my cousins. She goes down to help you out all the time."

  "No, honey. It isn't true."

  I rubbed my face. “Then where is she?"

  "Honey, I have to go help the ladies in the church guild set up for our ice cream social this evening. We're having a covered-dish dinner. I wish I could help you, but I can't. I'm so sorry. I wish I could help you."

  I forgot the timer, forgot Mrs. Foster, forgot to keep it secret.

  Our front door bounced off the wall when I barreled through it. “Where's Mom?” I yelled at Pop. “Where is she?"

  "Don't you slam doors."

  "Where is she?"

  "At your aunt's."

  "No she isn't! She isn't there, she's never been there! Where is she?"

  "Don't you raise your voice to me."

  "I know you're lying. I talked to Aunt Rosalind just now."

  Pop's face got a shade darker. “You can't believe a word that woman says."

  "Where's Mom?"

  He rose, his finger shaking at me. “You're going to shut up now. You're not going to talk about this. Did it ever occur to you that she was there and didn't want to talk to you?"

  "Aunt Rosalind said she wasn't there."

  "Your aunt is a drug addict and a liar."

  No, she wasn't. She told me the truth and I believed her.

  Pop grabbed my elbow and steered me toward the stairs. The dog went nut
s, yapping, weaving between us. He reached down and smacked her butt. She whimpered, cast a worried look at me, and ran up the stairs.

  "We're leaving for Hans’ in an hour. For God's sake, you've been in those same clothes for a week. You stink. Can't you smell yourself? Clean up. And when you come back down here, you will calm down, and you will never, ever talk about this again."

  "Just tell me where she is."

  "It's your fault, you know. Look at yourself. You're a fat slob. A freak. I have to explain to people that you're my daughter, not a boy, and half the time I wonder why I even admit you're mine. No wonder she can't stand to be around you."

  He should have just hit me. It would have hurt less. I ran up the stairs, not to obey him, but to hide the shock that I knew was still on my face. I didn't want him to know how much it stung.

  The dog was on my bed, her head resting on her paws. I gave her ears a quick ruffle.

  "You're not a doberman, ya stupid mutt."

  She wagged her tail anyway.

  * * * *

  Pop didn't talk on the drive to Hans', or on the way back. A small miracle. He finally ran out of sermons. I guess once he'd told me how much Mom hated me, further conversation was unnecessary. I knew I had nothing left to say to him.

  When we got home, I slinked into the kitchen, too defeated to go anywhere. Pop turned on the TV.

  The phone rang. I didn't move. It rang again.

  "Pick up the god damn phone,” Pop shouted.

  At first, I thought it was Mom, but the voice and the tone didn't fit together. “Aunt Rosalind?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you want to talk to Pop?” I twisted the telephone cord around my finger and unwound it.

  Her sigh was the only sound for a couple more seconds. She was paying an awful lot of money to not talk. “Don't let him know it's me. Honey, I just feel awful. I lied to you. This should come from your parents, but I won't protect that man any longer."

  It took me a moment to realize “that man” was Pop.

  "When your mother goes away, she ... No, she needs to know this."

  "Huh?"

  "Sorry. The Reverend doesn't want me to tell you. He's talking to me. Now Walter, hush. Go on. Sorry about that. You mother has been staying at a private mental hospital somewhere near Covington, Kentucky. They didn't want the military to find out. Something about it hurting your father's chances for promotion if anyone found out she had a mental illness."

  "I—” The telephone cord was so tight that the tip of my finger pulsed hot pain.

  "The hospital is called Hillcrest or Hillview or something like that. I thought you should know."

  Mom's insomnia, her rages, the way she flew to pieces over everything just before she disappeared—it wasn't my fault.

  I closed my eyes and hugged my arms tight around my stomach, as if the rage building up under my ribs would make me fly into a million pieces if I didn't hang on. It burned though, radiating out from my skin until I could feel a coat of sweat bonding my clothes to my skin. My hand flexed into a fist.

  Pop, absorbed in his show, jumped from the couch and crouched down, throwing punches at imaginary foes. He must have been watching a boxing match. I glared, but as usual, he didn't see me.

  "Honey?” Aunt Rosalind said.

  My throat was tight. I was suffocating on truth. When I tried to talk, it came out as a sob.

  "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” Aunt Rosalind kept saying, even though she wasn't the one who owed me apologies.

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  Chapter 24

  I had a fresh pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a bottle of peppermint schnapps, and a baggie with the Elavils I'd swiped from Aunt Rosalind at Thanksgiving.

  The dog tried to come with me. I had to get a little rough with her, shoving her back into the house and slamming the door before she could run out.

  No one was at the gazebo. I dusted off a spot on the picnic table and sat there for a bit, staring into the dark underbrush of the woods. The only thing I kind of regretted was the roof overhead. I would have liked to see the moon, and stars. I always did like a starry sky.

  Everything was a ritual. Lifting the cigarette to my mouth and exhaling the smoke that curled like food coloring in water. Sipping the schnapps, feeling the warmth ooze down to my stomach. Lining up the three pills on the edge of the table. The metallic scent of my sweat.

  By moving slowly and experiencing each moment to its fullest, I gave it meaning. No one would know but me, but it was important to approach suicide in the right frame of mind, like someone in Japan carefully going through the rites of seppuku. The focus drew my fragmented pieces together.

  Lifting the first pill, I put it on the back of my tongue and washed it down with schnapps. It had a good feeling, like success.

  The last pill stuck to my tongue when I tried to wash it down with the schnapps. It dissolved into bitter granules. I scraped it with my teeth and took another swallow.

  The schnapps was a mistake. It smelled like a candy cane, but after the first sip, all I tasted was alcohol. Alcohol and bitterness.

  It was time for the last part of my private rite.

  Fuck you, God. Fuck you. I believe in you more than anyone else I know. And since you are the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, remember this for all eternity: you started this war between us. You made me live with those people. You made me be a girl. You made my life unending misery just because you could. I hope you had a fucking good laugh over it, you cruel, sadistic bastard.

  The inside of my mouth was still bitter from the pill. I flicked my cigarette away, lit a new one, and took another sip of the schnapps. The syrupy texture of it didn't sit well in my stomach.

  As soon as I became stomach aware, I knew I was in trouble. No matter how much practice I had at holding it down, it was a losing battle. I pitched forward on my knees and puked on the cement.

  God, you perverse son of a bitch.

  I dug into my pocket for my lighter. It burned my thumb as I held it down close to the remains of my dinner.

  I heard someone coming down the trail to the gazebo, but I knew if I looked away from the vomit I couldn't force myself to look again, so I kept relighting the flame.

  "What the hell are you doing?” Eric asked.

  "I'm looking for something. Isn't it obvious?"

  "What did you lose, besides your lunch?"

  "Go away. I'm busy."

  "Busy doing what?” Eric snapped.

  We knew each other well enough that I didn't have to say anything. I just met his gaze and held it.

  He shook his head. “No."

  Yes.

  Eric lunged at me and shoved me back on my butt. “Just stop it! Just stop!"

  "If you were a real friend, you'd let me go."

  "You selfish shit! Do you have any idea what it was like, watching you die at the Officer's Club? It was the worst moment of my life, but you never even asked me. Quit thinking about yourself for once."

  It shocked me, but he was right. I never asked him what happened.

  The anger faded from his face. “Your eyes are scaring me. They aren't right."

  What could I say? It was so absurd. I knew that. I was absurd. I took a deep breath. “I think I figured it out. God makes me stay alive as punishment for telling him to fuck off. Next time, I'll skip the speech and just kill myself.” Eric startled when I laughed. Maybe I was babbling.

  "You can't stay here,” he told me.

  "Yes, I can."

  "You're not going to die tonight. All you can do is get really sick, but you'll survive puking."

  I hated it when he made sense. My teeth chattered hard, as if it were cold outside.

  Eric kicked dirt over the puddle of puke, burying my pills. I miscalculated, again. Ah, well. There'd always be next time.

  At first, I thought Eric was taking me back to my parent's place, but he stopped at the Foster's half of our duplex and pounded on the door. Even though they wer
e dressed for bed, Mrs. Foster let us inside. Tony came halfway down the stairs, but she sent him away.

  "Have you been drinking?” she asked me.

  "Look at her eyes,” Eric said. “They're all wrong."

  Mrs. Foster's cool hands cupped my chin and she stared at my eyes, frowning.

  "Okay. Eric, go look in the boxes in the kitchen for a white plastic bowl and bring it to me. Then go upstairs and tell Tony to grab you a blanket."

  She led me to the couch. She sat and had me lie with my head in her lap. “Do you want to watch TV?"

  Eric handed me the bowl. They took off my hiking boots and gently peeled off my coat before draping a blanket over me.

  Every time dry heaves shook through me, Mrs. Foster rubbed my back. While I rested, she stroked my short hair.

  "I think I have a drinking problem,” I said after I spit yellow bile into the bowl. “I can't keep it down.” It was supposed to be a joke, but no one laughed. Tough room.

  Eric sat on the ground beside the couch. His fingers crept along the cushion and intertwined with mine.

  "I wish I could just die."

  "Oh, dear.” I'm sure she meant to say something more comforting than that, but that's what Mrs. Foster said. “I'm going to make some tea. Would you like tea?"

  I didn't want any, but I said yes.

  After a while, I sat up. I really wanted a smoke, but I was afraid to let go of Eric's hand.

  "Do you want sugar?’ Mrs. Foster called from the kitchen.

  "No,” we answered together.

  Eric got up close to my face. “Don't ever pull that shit again. I don't want to go to your funeral, okay? Yeah, your life sucks. Your parents are demented, you got stuck being a girl, you'll never hike the Appalachians, and your date dumped you at the prom for some grit boy, but is it really that bad that you can't stand it?” He glared at me.

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but couldn't decide if I should tell him off. He had no idea how hard it was for me. Or maybe he did.

  Mrs. Foster brought us the tea. I grasped the hot mug with both hands.

  "Her eyes are getting back to normal,” Eric told Mrs. Foster. “But—you aren't going to tell anyone about this, are you?"