Perfect Strangers

Five weeks later

It’s amazing how fast I grow accustomed to the humiliation that accompanies having a useless body. For instance, right now I’m watching in disinterest as the nice orderly changes my diapers.

His name is Ernest. Ah, the irony.

He’s quick and efficient, whistling as he does his work. My pale, scrawny form is just another widget to him, one of dozens he cares for daily in this facility. His large hands protected by blue latex gloves, he cheerfully cleans my ass with a baby wipe as I lay on my side in the hospital bed.

“We gotta watch this pressure sore,” he says, tapping a spot on my butt. “Gettin’ bigger. I’ll need to start shifting your weight around more during the night.”

“Hmm.” I turn my attention to the poster of Frank Sinatra tacked on the wall by the closet door. Ol’ Blue Eyes grins at me from beneath the brim of a fedora, those famous peepers of his the color of a tropical summer sky.

Or, you know, an artist/contract killer’s.

Apparently, Ernest put up the Sinatra poster, though it was Kelly who brought the one of the lavender fields of Provence. I understand the urge to decorate: this place is so sterile it would instantly kill any bug who accidentally wandered in.

“Do I have to go to the lounge today? That place is totally depressing.”

Ernest chuckles. “Ha ha. Depressing. I get it.” Removing a fresh adult diaper from a box underneath the bed, he snaps it open and starts the tedious process of getting me into it, one wasted leg at a time.

“Is that a yes?”

“I don’t make the rules around here, sweetheart. Doc says it’s good for you to socialize with others.”

Others. Thinking of the variety of human misery that word encompasses, I shudder.

“But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take you for a spin around the garden before community group. Deal?”

“If either of us doesn’t want to get into the details of something, we’ll just say, ‘touchy subject.’ It’ll be our safe word. Safe phrase, technically. Deal?”

Remembering James’s words, I have to squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply for a moment. His imaginary words live on like beautiful ghosts inside my head.

Every moment with him, in fact, still lives in my head. All our conversations are so vivid. I still feel the warmth of his kisses on my lips. The time I spent with him seems so much more real than this, actual reality.

Cold, horrible, actual reality, in which not only did I accidentally kill my child and I’m married to a man who likes beer way more than me, but also—wait for it—I’m dying.

From what, you ask?

Can’t you guess?

Finished pulling the diapers up around my hips, Ernest drags me upright and props me against his chest as he reaches for the fresh set of pale blue scrubs he laid on the bedside table. I rest my head against his shoulder, marveling that this disease that’s robbed all my muscles of their power has the audacity to leave all my senses intact.

I still see, hear, taste, smell, and feel touch, like the warmth of Ernest’s shoulder against my cheek and his tap on my bottom. And aside from some leftover fuzziness around long-term memories caused by my catatonia that I’m told will go away, my mind is working perfectly.

Which means that when the muscles that control my lungs become paralyzed in the final stages of this disease, I’ll be completely aware that I’m suffocating to death.

With practiced ease, Ernest arranges my limbs and moves me this way and that so I’m quickly dressed in the soft cotton scrubs that have no pesky buttons, zippers, or strings on which the patients might hurt themselves. Then he lifts me from the bed and carefully places me into my waiting wheelchair, propping my feet up on the metal footrests and arranging my hands in my lap. He covers me with the knitted patchwork afghan, tucks it around my thighs, then assesses his work.

When he purses his lips in dissatisfaction, I say, “Don’t tell me—my lipstick’s all over my teeth, isn’t it?”

I’m not wearing makeup, but he plays along, nodding somberly. “You look like you ate a crayon.”

“A crayon would taste better than what they served for dinner last night. Do you think the chef knows that green beans are called green beans for a reason? I’ve never seen that shade of gray in a vegetable before.”

Ernest guffaws. “Chef? That’s generous.” He grabs a wide-toothed comb from the nightstand and begins to run it through my hair, gently working out the tangles.

He’s the one who showers me, too. Soaps me up and rinses me off with brisk impersonality, like I’m a car going through a car wash at the strip mall down the street.

There’s a different wheelchair for the showers. A special waterproof one, with a hole in the middle of the seat so Ernest can reach all the nitty-gritty places that need to be cleaned.

Yeah, good times. I keep praying for another psychotic break to come and save me, but so far I’m shit outta luck.

Once he’s satisfied my hair looks presentable, Ernest wheels me to the main congregating area for the patients, a dayroom ironically called the “lounge” in an effort to make it sound relaxing. The noise level is anything but relaxing, however. People in the throes of mental illness are not a quiet bunch. And whoever decorated it obviously watched the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for inspiration, because it looks exactly like a room of which the evil Nurse Ratched would approve.

It’s amazing how a space so bare can also manage to be so ugly.

First up, it’s medication time. Ernest wheels me to the dispensary window. It’s reminiscent of a bank teller’s window, complete with a person in uniform sitting behind a thick plexiglass safety shield trying too hard to smile.

“Mornin’, Bernadette.” Ernest salutes the lady with the bad perm behind the plexiglass.

“Howdeedoo, Ernest!” Smiling like mad, she turns her sparkling green eyes to me. “And a grand good morning to you, too, Miss Olivia!”

The woman is always as chipper as a fucking chipmunk. I’d like to reach through the small opening in the window where the medicine is placed and grab her around her throat.

“Your hair looks nice today,” I tell her. “Did you just have it done?”

Patting her hideous helmet of curls that resemble a poodle’s coat—if the poodle dyed itself a screaming shade of orange that doesn’t occur anywhere in nature—she beams at me. “Why, yes! How sweet of you to notice!”

“Your curls look especially tight. And the color is very…fresh.”

When she thanks me, turning away to get a paper cup of water to go with my medicine, Ernest chuckles quietly. He says under his breath, “You’re so bad.”

I play the innocent. “What? I’m giving her a compliment.”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m Taylor Swift.”

“Really? You’re bigger in person that I would’ve thought, Tay. And I didn’t realize you were a man. That doesn’t come through in your music videos.”

Ernest clucks his tongue, trying to be disapproving, but I know he gets a kick out of my smart mouth.

Imaginary or otherwise, men seem to enjoy a smartass.

When Ernest holds out my anti-psychotics, I open up obediently for the pills. He places them on my tongue, then helps me swallow water from the paper cup, watching carefully to make sure I don’t choke.

My throat muscles have been getting progressively weaker. Swallowing is one of those things we take for granted until we can’t do it anymore.

Like walking. Like wiping your own ass. Like everything else in life.

Then Ernest rolls me to my favorite spot in the room, a window that overlooks the lush green lawn outside. It’s my favorite because it’s as far away from everyone else as possible.

Especially the young blond woman who screams like she’s having an orgasm—except it’s pretty much all the time—and the tall thin man who only communicates through grunting.

Gigi suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. The voices in her head tell her everyone wants to kill her. Gaspard has severe bipolar disorder and clinical depression. He tried to commit suicide six times before he was committed.

Today he’s simply staring at the wall, interjecting a grunt here and there in between Gigi’s lusty screams.

Daily routines at the Rockland Psychiatric Center are managed through an inflexible schedule. After breakfast and an hour of “free” lounge time, I’m scheduled for community group. This is when all the patients get together to discuss such fascinating topics as the rigorously enforced no-touching policy, who stole (insert item) from someone else’s room, why Forrest Gump is an overrated movie, and the quality of the food, which everyone agrees stinks.

After that excitement, it’s lunch. Then one-on-one time with my psychiatrist for an assessment of how I’m feeling, sleeping, pooping, etcetera, and if I currently want to kill myself. If necessary, adjustments to meds are made. Then my vital signs are taken, and I’m off to process group with my social workers, where I usually nap in my chair while everyone else talks about how to combat negative thoughts. Someone always cries.

Then it’s recreational therapy, education group, visitation hour, dinner, quiet time, and lights out. The routine never varies.

So imagine my surprise when, after only ten minutes of window gazing, Ernest shows up again to take me to see Dr. Chevalier.

“Why does he want to see me?”

“You think anyone tells me anything? I just work here, sweetheart.”

We pass a group of men playing chess. One of them screams “Beetlejuice!” at me. I wave and smile, because I liked that movie.

When we arrive at Edmond’s office, he’s ensconced behind his big oak desk, examining papers from an open manila file. He looks up and says, “Ah.”

I don’t know why, but that feels ominous.

Ernest parks my chair in front of Edmond’s desk, then leaves, closing the office door behind him. Folding his hands together over the papers he’s been contemplating, Edmond gazes at me in silence. After a full minute, I can’t take it anymore.

“What’s up, Doc?”

He smiles. “I’ll miss your sense of humor, Olivia.”

I arch my brows. “Are you planning my funeral already?”

“You’re going home.”

It feels like an atom bomb just exploded atop my head. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. My organs are shriveling up and dying. “Home?”

“To live with your husband. Now, don’t look so shocked. You knew this day was coming.”

“No, I can honestly say I had no idea this day was coming!”

Edmond looks like he’s trying to resist rolling his eyes. “We’ve talked about your re-entry into society extensively in our sessions.”

“I meant I didn’t know this day was coming today!”

He gathers the papers and taps them on end on his desk to straighten them, then places them neatly back into the file. He closes the file and rests his folded hands on top of it, which is his passive-aggressive way of telling me the matter is settled.

Not everyone is as direct as my imaginary James. If I had use of my hands, I’d rip that file to shreds and toss it like confetti around the room.

Edmond says, “Let’s talk about why you’re upset.”

“For starters, you know Chris has only visited me once. And you know how well that went. Now I’m supposed to go live with him?”

“I’ve spoken with him many times, including today. He’s very eager to have you return to your home.”

Everyone has a tell when they lie: shifty eyes, restless hands, toying with their hair. Edmond’s is fiddling with his bowtie.

I watch him nervously adjust it for a while before I look at my crooked hands resting like dead doves in my lap. “Who’s going to care for me there? I know it won’t be him.”

“We’ve assisted him in finding twenty-four hour daily home care from an excellent company that specializes in patients with ALS.”

“Round-the-clock care? That sounds expensive.”

“It’s covered by a combination of Medicare and a policy included in his work insurance.”

Chris is a mechanic, as I remembered after his first visit. It’s honest work, and the pay is decent, but he doesn’t own the shop, and he has no ambition to move up.

I also remembered that he’d been having an affair with the busty twenty-something receptionist at the shop and was planning to leave me.

But that was before I was diagnosed with ALS—the diagnosis that came a few months after Emmie died.

I’d been ignoring the persistent twitching in my right thigh muscle, the numbness in my feet that would come and go, how I’d occasionally drop a pen or stumble. But during the investigation after the accident, while the police were ruling out intoxication as a possible reason I didn’t brake fast enough, I happened to mention that my foot had been bothering me that day. It had tingled then gone numb.

I hadn’t quite hit the brakes in time.

The bump I felt was the big metal rear bumper hitting Emmie. She was thrown a few feet back into the driveway from the initial impact. If I’d stopped right then, she would’ve been safe, but I fumbled with the brake just long enough to roll over her…

And stop right on top.

Edmond says gently, “Olivia.”

I glance up. He looks pained, so sorrowful and compassionate. I feel bad for him. He tries so hard. He really does want to help me. But what help can anyone offer a mother who killed her own child?

There’s a special place in hell for people like me. And I’m right here in it.

“You can still have quality of life,” he says softly. “You might have years left yet—”

My laugh is sharp and bitter. “God forbid.”

“You could reconnect with your husband.”From NôvelDrama.Org.

I scoff. “The husband who only didn’t leave me because he didn’t want people to think he was a total asshole for abandoning his dying wife? Yeah, that’s doubtful.”

“You could be an inspiration to others in your situation.”

I sigh, closing my eyes. “I’m a cautionary tale, Edmond. Not an inspiration.”

“You could write a book.”

A book? I’ve always wanted to write a book. I open my eyes and stare at him.

Encouraged by my attention, he warms to the idea, nodding and leaning forward. “Yes, you could write about your experiences. Here at Rockland, and with your disease, and as a mother coping with losing her child—it would be a riveting story. Simply riveting. Imagine what people dealing with hardships in their own lives could get out of it!”

“Major depression?”

“Inspiration,” he counters. “Hope.”

I suppose it makes a certain kind of sense. Even the worst tragedies have their lessons. And if my story could save even one parent from losing a child because they ignored strange medical symptoms…if even a single accident could be prevented…

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing a novel. Before I was a stay-at-home mom, I was a secretary.”

Edmond brightens. “So you have experience writing for business!”

“Only correspondence,” I argue, hoping he won’t give up too easily because if I’m going to do this, I’m gonna need tons of moral support.

I mean, I can’t use my hands! How the hell am I going to write a novel?

But Edmond is reading my mind. “You could dictate the whole story into a recorder. I’m sure there are many freelance editors you could hire to polish the final draft. And if you can’t find a publisher, you can publish it yourself. More to the point, it would be excellent therapy for you.”

My tone turns dry. “No matter how many books I might write, I think we both know I’ll never be mentally stable again.”

He waves a hand in disagreement. “The mind is an incredibly powerful thing. Just as it has, say, the potential to remain in a psychotic state forever, so too does it have an unlimited potential to heal itself.”

In reaction to Edmond’s words, I stop breathing. My blood stops circulating. Everything inside me screeches to a stop.

A person can remain in a psychotic state forever?

Forever?

Talk about hope.

For the first time, I’m grateful for my paralysis. Otherwise, I’d shake so violently the good doctor would call for enough tranquilizers to sedate a horse.

I say slowly, “You know, I just realized we never talked about the nuts and bolts of what happened to me. The logistics of how a psychotic break actually works.”

Surprised by the change in subject, Edmond blinks.

“I mean, I’ve told you how it all seemed so real to me. As real as it seems to me now, sitting here across from you. Maybe if I understood the process better, it would help me be prepared. Perhaps if I’m aware of what the mind goes through before a psychotic break, I could catch the signs. Like there were signs with my ALS that I ignored…are there any indications of imminent psychosis?”

After a moment, he nods. “Yes, there are. And to be frank, Olivia, I’m pleased you want to know. Facing your challenges directly is a significant step in your recovery.”

So get talking already! I gaze at him, outwardly composed. Inside I’m a rave party with screaming crowds, flashing lights, and deafening music, with riot police closing in.

Because if I can discover how I found James the first time…

Maybe I could do it again.