But Inside I'm Screaming

He turned back to John. “She’s lucky Roberts is in town or I’d wipe the floor with her. Okay, Chip, let’s get the desk ready for him. The computer’s all booted up, right? Melissa, go down to the lobby and hold an elevator open for him. We got some water by the desk in case he’s thirsty? Good.”

Move. You have to get up now. It’s over. Move.

Two

It’s so thin and small it seems impossible that it can end a human life.

Do it.

Two long, quick slices and the pain bleeds away.

So why am I hesitating? Do it.

Isabel knows that she is scared to slit her wrists. She’d rather find a painless solution. To her it sounds like something Yogi Berra might have said: I’d kill myself but it’d hurt too much.

The white porcelain feels cold to her as she climbs, fully clothed, into the tub.

This is it. This makes the most sense. Do it.

Isabel looks from the metal blade balancing on the edge of the bathtub to the sink counter where her sleeping pills are neatly arranged. Plan B. The last time she tried swallowing pills she did not take enough and woke up with a stiff tube snaking down her throat, pumping charcoal into her belly. For hours she vomited up the black coal as unsympathetic interns scowled and mixed up more of the pitch-black concoction that’s meant to absorb the poison.

Maybe I’ll try the pills again. That’s much easier. And this time I’ll take the entire bottle and throw in some Tylenol PM for good measure. That’ll work.

She pulls herself up and out of the bathtub. After pushing down and twisting the prescription bottle open, she turns on the faucet. Then she finally gives in to the magnetic pull of the mirror facing her. She had resisted it until now, knowing her face, however exhausted, haggard or gaunt, would betray her fear.

Look at me. Jesus. Who is this looking back at me?

She looks back down to the running water.

Thirty-five years of living, thirty-five years packed with classes she excelled in, jobs she succeeded at… Isabel’s thirty-five years all boiled down to one moment, an image she pulled out and focused her inner eye on whenever she despaired.

In the image is five-year-old Isabel, pretty and shy, quietly curled up on the floor alongside the family dog, a huge Saint Bernard named Violet. The two slept together almost every night, the enormously fat Violet providing enough body heat to warm the tiny child nestled against her. Isabel’s parents took many photographs of this scene, but it is Isabel’s own recollection she relies on in times of confusion. When she needs to feel comforted, to feel safe. Lately the image was becoming mentally frayed with overuse.

Thinking of the warmth of Violet’s belly, the steadiness of her breathing, the softness of her thick coat, Isabel is once again momentarily transported away from her pain.

How did that little girl end up alone and desperate in a cold New York City bathroom trying to decide whether to slash her wrists or swallow a fistful of pills?

What else is there? What else can I do?

Three

Isabel gingerly touches her upper chest and winces at the pain. Her throat feels sore from the plastic tubing, her stomach raw from being angrily pumped the day before.

“Hi.” Isabel’s mother, Katherine, is waiting on the sidewalk in front of the freshly washed SUV.

She holds out her arms for a hug that Isabel returns perfunctorily. Isabel studiously avoids meeting her mother’s eyes.

“Let’s go” is all she says as she climbs up into the black Range Rover.

“I’ve got the directions, so we’re all set,” Katherine says, trying to fill the awkward silence that descends once both are buckled inside. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.” She pulls into busy Manhattan traffic.

Isabel stares out the window, watching her apartment building disappear into the distance.

“Do you want to listen to the radio?”

“Huh?”

“The radio. Do you want it on or off?”

“I don’t care.” Isabel never breaks her numb stare. She is fighting to keep her eyes open.

“What’s that station you always used to listen to?” her mother asks. “You know the one. You and your brother used to call in all the time.”

“Mom.” Isabel turns her weary head. “I just got released from the emergency room. I’m exhausted. I don’t care if the radio is on. Put it on if you want to. I don’t care.”

“Watch your tone, Isabel,” her mother warns. “I’m your mother and I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Do we have to have a conversation right now?”

“Your father and I don’t know why you didn’t call us last night. We could have talked to you, cheered you up. You’re always giving up so easily.”

“So even in this I didn’t do the right thing? The thing you and Dad would have wanted? Sorry to disappoint you once again, Mother.”

“Well, I don’t understand why you always give up. Like ballet, for instance. Whatever happened with that? I’ll tell you what happened with that—you weren’t any good so you dropped it. Instead of sticking it out you dropped it.”

“Thanks, Mom. This is making me feel so much better.”

“And then there was volleyball…you couldn’t get that ball over the net no matter what you tried…so what’d you do?”

“Mom.”

“You dropped it. I’m sorry, Isabel, but someone has to help you see the truth here. Maybe it’s tough love….”

Isabel closed her eyes, her mother’s familiar lecture a sad lullaby for the rest of the ride up the interstate.

There is no sign for Three Breezes, just a discreet number expensively etched into the low stone pillars flanking the wooded driveway. Katherine slows as she makes the turn, anticipating the speed bump just inside the entrance. While they ease over it, Isabel catches sight of a groundskeeper raking a few errant leaves underneath a magnolia tree. As their car passes, he glances up and ever so slightly tips his head to Isabel. She looks away.

Everything is in slow motion.

Within forty-five minutes her belongings are spread out on the floor of the nurses’ station. Everything she has brought with her to Three Breezes is out of her suitcase and on display for all to see. Her underwear, her raincoat, her nail clippers, needlepoint, tweezers. Everything.

What the hell is going on?

“You don’t have to stay here while we do this, Isabel.” The nurse is sitting cross-legged on the floor among Isabel’s things, Isabel’s own hairdryer in the nurse’s lap. “We explained to you when you checked in that everyone’s suitcase has to be inspected. It’s nothing personal. Some people find it easier to let us do this and then we bring them the things they’re allowed.”

“What do you mean allowed?”

“It’s for your own protection,” the nurse answers. “We just go through here and take anything that might be dangerous and we set it aside. After the inspection, we take all the things we set aside and we put them into a bin marked with your very own name on it….”