Magnetism Page 21

  Larry is silent beside me as we walk up the path to the front door. It’s all dark in the house except for the glow coming from the kitchen. The porch is crowded with rows of potted geraniums and the sweet stink is earthy. There is no light here, just shadows. His body is close behind me as I turn the key. I’ve only been in here in the daytime until now and am surprised how different the house appears at night. When the door opens, the dog starts up her noise again and Larry shouts through for her to shut up. As we enter the kitchen – me first – Daisy bounces up and begins throwing herself at my legs. Larry steps between us and kicks the dog away, which shocks Daisy, and me as well.

  ‘You’ve always got to let an animal know who is in charge,’ he says, and I bend down to pet the dog, who didn’t deserve to be kicked. She’s whimpering and cowering. I pick her up and stroke her as I carry her back into the hall and through into the dining room.

  Without words it seems we have decided that we will not turn on any lights except for the one that was on when we came in. Light from the back yard is coming through the open venetian blinds and gleaming off the huge glass table. Larry puts his arm around my back and whispers right into my ear that we should put the dog back in the kitchen and get down to business. Then he leans over the lumpy squirming dog that I am clutching and kisses me. Whereas I expected and hoped for cool and romantic, the whole thing, particularly his mouth and tongue, is clumsy. And when he says, ‘Come on, baby. Give me some,’ he sounds like an idiot.

  Daisy starts yapping again. I wonder if we can find something to give her that will keep her quiet. Do dogs like pumpkin pie? I am chattering fast when I tell Larry that we can’t be unkind and that I’m not sure about this, but that we could explore the house, while we’re here. That would be something to do. I untangle myself and begin opening doors. When we discover the guest bathroom I check out the medicine cabinet. It’s virtually empty. Upstairs, Mary Wilkins’ bathroom cabinet is a bit more interesting. I’m reading out the prescription labels and estimating how many Valium are left in one container and would she miss one or two when Daisy squirms right out of my arms. She drops to the ground and dashes into the bedroom next door, running off with one of Mary’s scarves; she must have left it lying around.

  ‘Damn it,’ Larry says and we both chase her. He’s in the lead. He manages to grab one end before the dog reaches the stairs. Daisy starts to growl and tugs it back. It’s a game to her but not to Larry. The result is a loud tearing sound and Daisy tumbles down the stairs with bits of blue chiffon in her mouth. ‘Shit,’ Larry says. ‘Stupid dog.’ Daisy wobbles to her feet but looks okay.

  I gather up the remains of the material and stuff it into my back pocket for disposal later. Larry is now just annoyed and I feel I have to do something so I kiss him this time. As we begin to make out at the top of the stairs I can see Daisy watching us from the bottom. Finally, as Larry tugs my jeans down and off and begins to undress himself too, I shut my eyes and hope that Daisy does the same.

  When it’s just us in the evening, Mom, Dad and I watch Welcome Back, Kotter. Gabe has a dream about life in 2050. It’s creepy to think that by then no one here in this room is probably going to be alive, including me.

  The phone rings and Mom goes out to answer it. She’s a little while before she comes back and tells Dad that he’s wanted on the phone. ‘It’s Pete,’ she says. ‘You should talk to him. He’s family. Your brother, for God’s sake!’ But Dad tells her to say he’s gone out, he won’t speak to him, and she goes back to the kitchen and it’s another ten minutes or so before she comes through again. Mom sighs loudly and drops back into her chair. She crosses her legs and her right leg moves up and down, like she’s kicking an invisible and persistent balloon in front of her. Though it’s irritating the way she says it, when she asks me about Larry it’s a welcome interruption because I thought she was brewing for an argument with Dad again. ‘You going to see Larry again?’ she says. ‘Are you?’

  Dad says. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, sweetie.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was selling myself at all,’ I say.

  Then Mom just stares at me. She stops moving and squints at me. She looks at my face, my chest, my legs, my shoes and back to my eyes. I tell them I’m tired and want to go to bed. Dad says goodnight but Mom doesn’t say anything. She knows everything.

  It’s two months later and we’ve only been back at school for three weeks when I say to Mom that I think I need to see a doctor. She phones for an appointment and then drives me straight to her gynaecologist.

  I pass over the still-warm urine sample and Mom helps me to fill in the forms. When the nurse calls me through and takes me briskly along the corridor, Mom waits for me in the tidy green waiting room, flicking through Redbook magazine. Then, after the doctor has finished his examination, she comes into the room. We’re left alone. I don’t have to explain anything. I ask if she wants to tell Dad.

  ‘We can get another opinion,’ she says. ‘Before anything is definite.’

  ‘He’s recommended a D and C. It’s not exactly an abortion.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘No – not the abortion bit, of course. He said it wouldn’t take long. It’s a simple procedure.’

  She says, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  We eat ice-cream sitting on stools at Walgreens and then she goes to the gas station and phones Louelle, who knows a female doctor who can see me the same day, that afternoon, downtown. We don’t need an appointment.

  This waiting room has posters plastered all over the walls, advertising concerts, yoga classes, all sorts and every kind of hippy shit. It is also full of women and there are six or seven little kids sitting on the floor playing with toys. The receptionist says there aren’t any forms to fill in. We can tell the doctor everything ourselves.

  Because there are no magazines, we play snap while we wait, with a well-worn deck of cards I spotted under the table in the corner.

  When she comes out it takes a moment to realise that this must be the doctor and not another patient who is just calling someone’s name. She’s wearing a maxi skirt and white T-shirt, with no bra underneath. Her breasts are large and droopy and mesmerising.

  When it’s finally our turn, this time Mom comes in with me. The doctor introduces herself as Rosanna and she asks me the three questions: Could I be pregnant? Where does it hurt? And when was my last period? Even though the questions are short, she has a gentle, patient voice. I try to avoid looking at her unfettered breasts.

  I answer and Mom explains that I’ve already done a urine test but it didn’t tell us anything.

  ‘You don’t get false positives,’ Rosanna says, ‘but you can get false negatives.’

  ‘It was negative,’ I say.

  ‘It’s early. Tests aren’t accurate so soon,’ she says and proceeds to tell us that she needs to do an examination, is that okay? She suggests Mom waits outside.

  When we’re alone, I start to wonder if two OB-GYN exams in one day is a kind of torture, and then whether or not this torture is deserved punishment. When she’s finished, Dr Rosanna says there’s nothing that I have to do now. There will be no problem in waiting. She thinks that the pain is nothing to do with anything, that I don’t need to worry: my period will probably come soon. I should go on the pill. She’ll do a prescription. She pats my hand and I feel like crying.

  While she was busy poking inside me and I was trying to pretend I wasn’t in this room, I was thinking about Larry. I haven’t heard from him. He didn’t phone me, and when I phoned him at Jack’s at Christmas to talk to him, and Jack said he wasn’t available, I was sure Larry just wanted to duck the call. Jack passed on Larry’s message that said he was too busy right now to meet up. Not ever speaking to Larry again for the rest of my life was my New Year’s resolution.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t had sex with him,’ I say.

  ‘Ah.’ Rosanna gets up from her stool and washes and dries her hands.

  Even if I wanted to tell her tha
t I think I’m all messed up, and that I’m a recently released mental patient, and that everything I can see and hear tells me that the world is crazier than I am, I wouldn’t know how to start. She hasn’t asked anything about any drugs that I’m taking – prescription or otherwise. I didn’t speak for months, but now I just want to keep talking. I want this Rosanna to step in and save me. I want her to tell me how I should live, now. I want more from this stranger-woman than anyone should be responsible for.

  ‘I thought I wanted to, or maybe I thought I should, I guess,’ I say. ‘It was supposed to be fun. All of that. He’s got smarts; he’s very together. He wasn’t my first, but sort of.’ I can’t really explain myself. I can never explain myself. I’m useless at expressing myself.

  ‘You’re fine,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘You’re young, that’s all.’ She squeezes my shoulder and tells me I can get dressed, there is nothing to be worried about.

  On the drive home from the women’s clinic I ask Mom, ‘Are you going to tell Dad?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know. Women have accidents. These things happen. The important thing is to keep your options open. We’re not living in the fifties.’

  I want to tell her that I don’t want to go back to classes, ever. I want to be in my own bed, at least for the weekend. Maybe forever. ‘Can I stay at home again for a while?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I didn’t really like Larry.’

  ‘He’s a lowlife. Like his brother.’

  ‘The doctor was nice.’

  ‘Louelle knows a lot of people.’

  Another way she’s like Big Bird, I think.

  We go silent for a moment and then I ask Mom what she thinks happens to the balloons after Thanksgiving, between one year and the next. She says maybe they go on vacation, but I’m not joking. They must deflate them.

  ‘Of course they do. They can’t be big balloons all the time, honey. It would be a hell of a storage problem.’

  ‘It’s sad, really. Don’t you think?’

  ‘No,’ Mom says. ‘It’s a day. Thanksgiving comes and goes and comes right back again, just as good as before.’ Then she says, ‘You’ll be okay. I promise.’

  1976

  Silk Worms

  Carl says to me, ‘Wilbur’s not all that bad. For a faggot.’ He takes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shakes it until one drops out. ‘Changed your mind? Want one?’ I shake my head. He gets up and goes over to wave it at Dolly, who is on duty this afternoon. She is also just sitting and watching. He has to ask for permission to light up. There’s a thing like a car cigarette lighter on the wall, but it has to be turned on from inside the nurses’ room. He bends over to get his mouth to it. Carl is tall and lean with broad shoulders. He winks at me as he walks back.

  That night he and I sit up watching TV. This is because Henry has pulled a double shift and wants to watch a film. He’s got the okay to do this as long as at least two of us watch it too. No one else was interested.

  I think the film is stupid and scary. I’ve never got the point of science-fiction. Carl keeps laughing, pretends to be eating popcorn and feeding it to me. Asks me how old I am. He keeps guessing, and when he gets it right I finally nod and he grins, shouts, ‘Should have known. I’ll bet you’re a virgin.’

  Even though it’s only Carl making any sound, Henry turns to hiss at both of us, ‘Shut the fuck up, you fucking mentals, I want to watch this.’

  Carl started guessing with ‘twenty-five’. I wonder if this is because he is twenty-five. When he puts his arm around the back of my chair, Henry can’t see the move because Henry has his mind on entertainment and is leaning forward to watch the screen. And then he can’t see when Carl leans over to me and lifts my hair gently. His mouth brushes my cheek. I turn and he kisses my lips. His thin, pointy tongue presses against my mouth and worms its way inside. Carl tastes of Camels and salt, even though the popcorn was only pretend. It’s a delicious combination.

  ‘Thank God it’s a private hospital,’ Mom says when she first sits down on the chair next to Wilbur. We are over by the window and she’s just arrived. The moment before she saw me it felt like I was invisible, or maybe actually not here, or anywhere, at all.

  It’s hot all the time in here. It’s never really cold enough in Arizona for a fur coat, but Mom loves her mink. Today it makes her look like a big brown bear. The coat comes out of storage in September and is returned at the beginning of every March.

  She’s bought more things for me, in a large white Neiman Marcus bag, but she just drops this down on the floor and goes to look out the window. I don’t know why she wants to look outside. There’s a park not too far away, but the windows here all have wire grills like chicken wire, and you have to see past those, and then the road and past the houses until finally you can you spot the park. I don’t know if she has the patience to look that far.

  Wilbur is interested in what she’s brought in for me. He leans over and tries to peek inside the bag. I wonder if he’ll start taking things out, but he doesn’t.

  She comes back. ‘God knows what a state hospital would be like,’ she says.

  ‘Your luscious little girl wouldn’t make it out of a state unit,’ Wilbur says in his snakiest voice. Then he gets up and walks off, which he should have done earlier. It’s an unspoken rule that other patients should respect. They are supposed to leave the visitors alone with the visitee.

  ‘Did that boy have varnish on his nails?’ Mom says. She takes a deep breath. ‘Dad can’t make it again this week, sweetie. But I said I’d give you his love. You’re all right, aren’t you, baby?’ She reaches over to put her arm around me. I move a bit so that we fit together like a puzzle and snuggle into the warm smell of her perfume. I like the feel of the soft fur of her coat as it tickles my cheek but I try not to think about the hundred and fifty dead minks. Minks make a high-pitched squealing noise. People grow them on farms and there’s a lot of noise on a mink farm because they must stir each other up.

  Mom says, ‘I’ve booked a conference with Dr Wilson and we’ll see what he’s got to say for himself. You are looking A-okay, young lady. We’ll have a fresh start soon. It’s always warm in Phoenix. Even in January.’ She smooths my hair away from my face and kisses my forehead. ‘I think you’re looking darn good, honey. I think you’ve dropped a couple of pounds. What’s the food like? It damn well better be great, for what we’re paying. But don’t worry. This is what insurance is for. That’s what your dad’s job is for: to take care of us. We’ll get you over this thing. Do they have bathroom scales here? Maybe not. You know, don’t worry about it. I know it’s not a health farm. When you come home we could go together.’

  I pull away. I want to tell her that this is like no other place and that this ward, as terrible as it is, is an improvement on where I landed on admission.

  Only male nurses are allowed to work on the top floor. There was just a six-foot-square, carefully guarded communal area. People were restrained in straitjackets, or secured on beds with wrist ties. They said I could have no visitors until they were sure that I would behave myself.

  I graduated down to this ward after a week and was granted visitor rights. Here there are women nurses and nursing assistants. I didn’t realise how reassuring it could be to have women around instead of just men in charge. I felt I could breathe again.

  I can’t tell my mother that there are no baths here and we are watched when we take showers in a row, in grubby mouldy stalls that have no curtains. Yesterday, a nurse shaved my legs and under my arms for me. Afterwards she stuck a Band-Aid on the razor, and then wrote my name on that with a magic marker and dropped it, unwashed, into a shoebox with more than twenty other razors. Mom wouldn’t understand that there are no weighing scales anywhere, and the only mirror is in the toilet block. I’ve never seen it myself. Why would I want to look?

  Anyone refusing to eat for longer than a couple of days may be force-fed. If you refuse to swallow your meds, they put you in re
straints, inject them and then leave you in one of the padded rooms at the far end of the corridor. You might even get moved back upstairs if you fail to comply with whatever you are told to do.

  Just being here means I am beyond the pale. I will never, ever be able to tell anyone what this place is like. No one who hasn’t been here could ever understand.

  When Dr Wilson comes on to the ward today, Mom and I go with him into the conference room to talk. Wilson is the sort of man I think would be at home in the army instead of in a hospital. Wilson has a trim moustache. Upstairs he barked out orders at the staff like a sergeant. He’s only on staff here, but Wilbur said that ninety-five per cent of inmates are Wilson’s. He acts charming around the nurses when he comes to this floor and does lots of shoulder-squeezing, winking, and encouraging talk about the next thing ‘we’ need to do as he parades through, but everything he ‘suggests’ is an order.

  Mom told me that she chose this hospital specifically because of Dr Wilson. He was a recommendation from her friend Judy, who is a walking user’s guide to psychiatric services nationwide. She’s had everything and he once treated her bipolar on a sun retreat. I know that Mom hadn’t talked to her for years, but she phoned Judy from the emergency room when I was admitted.

  Dr Wilson holds Mom’s hand a bit too long after shaking it. He pulls out the chair for her to sit down and she slips off her coat and drapes it over the back. I deal with my own seating while he sits down on the other side of the table from us. He starts speaking. ‘Well, how’re we all doing?’ He smiles at her.

  I can see that he’s doing just fine. Mom’s not looking good. And I am totally shit.

  Mom says, ‘Let’s be clear. I want my daughter to come home and for things to be back to normal.’

  When the light from the table lamp catches the yellow lining of Mom’s coat, the material glints like gold. I consider how many silk worms were sacrificed in its production. Manufacture of a blouse requires over six hundred cocoons and this must have taken two thousand. Only some of the moths are allowed to emerge from their cocoons in order to produce worms for the next cycle. The vast majority are never allowed to hatch. Silk worms eat constantly until they begin to make their cocoons. I wonder what noise they make. Quiet humming, crunching, or steady grinding?