Christmastime.
Nobody knows I have this photo. I took it from one of my mother’s photo albums. She has millions of photos all over the house, and mostly I hate them all. I’ve told her this, and during check-in at the hospital I made a point to tell Old Doctor this in front of her. It made her sniffle, which made me feel sad inside but smile on the outside.
I hold the photo up. I love his face. His skin was olive and smooth, and his eyes were chocolate brown. A big sob rises in my throat, so I kiss Dad’s face, and a tear drops onto the glossy finish. I quickly wipe it off and place the photo on the bottom of my bag.
Nurses or not, I do need a few things. A pad of paper to write my mother a goodbye note. I’ll tuck it between the netting and upright tray table on the back of the seat in front of me.
I need my wallet to get from town to the airport and to get my plane ticket from the automated ticket machine. My mother bought the ticket on a credit card and mailed the credit card to the hospital. It was given to me with great ceremony yesterday. “Jane, this is for the pickup of your ticket only-your mother is bestowing great trust in you, and I think you’ve earned it.” Oh yes I have, with every lie and fake tear you swallowed, sir. Don’t worry, Dr. Gallus, going wild with a credit card isn’t in my plans.
I open my wallet. I have a hundred bucks in cash. (Money my mother gave me to use, just in case.) I pull my dad’s watch from my pocket and check the time. Three minutes to my last session.
What am I going to say to him? It has to be perfect because Old Doctor isn’t stupid. If he catches a whiff of the Plan or of anything out of whack, I’m done. No pass. No flight. No oblivion. But if I can give him a faux revelation that’s not too big, but not too small, he’ll get happy and animated with his own genius and forget about me. He’s human, after all. Notebooks out, people: This is how you can fool all adult beings. Make them think they are genius. They are even more vain than we are.
And, frankly, I’m not a genius myself but I am a very good liar.
Chapter 5
“Jane?” Old Doctor says.
I hear him, but I want to move on. He wants to discuss my father. What I remember of him during the holidays. I’ve been barfing out my usual responses for more than twenty minutes: I was only eleven, and he died on Christmas Eve. Of course, “died” isn’t right. It is like me saying “incident” about my incident, I suppose, but I’d never tell Old Doctor that. Died is what you say about people who go, gently or not, into that good night propelled by some external force: cancerous cells or a speeding car. My father called his own shot. He hit his own switch, as the patients here at Life House are fond of saying. My father killed himself. (That’s how Old Doctor would want me to say it, with honesty and frankness.)
“I remember very little about his death,” I say, which is both true and untrue, but to say anything else now, after all my half memories told and untold over the past year, would raise too many questions. And I know why he is asking. It’s because I’m going home and it’s Christmas and inevitably things will be stirred up. That’s what the holidays are for me: a big stir-up-shit festival. People don’t get this, but memories are just like the future. You can’t plan for when they show up, and you’ve got no control over them when they do. Worst of all, the older you get, the sadder they are. At least, that’s been my experience.
And by the way, nobody stirs the shit like my mother. That’s what Old Doctor is probably biting his nails about late at night. He’s met my mother, so he knows. She’s bonkersville with all the photographs in every fucking room, like having a picture in your room will keep your dead husband alive in your heart. It certainly keeps the depression alive and kicking in mine. Leaving the house, of course, isn’t an option either. For instance, if you go shopping at the Stop and Shop, a banal act by any sane person’s account, every aisle is the location of a forgotten memory. “Oh, your father loved Honey Nut Cheerios,” or, “Coffee, your father just loved the aroma of a freshly brewed cup.” Really, Mom? Did he like the soft feel of Charmin toilet paper too? It’s enough to make you want to scream, “If he loved so much, why the fuck did he kill himself!”
I hear Old Doc clear gravel from his throat.
“Sorry. What did you ask?” I say, looking to buy time.
Old Doctor sits in his big leather chair and waits for me to continue. His arms are thin and knotted with bones that threaten to poke right out of his saggy, chapped skin.
“You haven’t been home in a year,” he says, switching gears on me. “How does it make you feel?”
“I’m ready,” I say, but offer nothing else.
“Ready?” he finally asks, after waiting a few moments.
I worry for a second that the combination of my reluctance to speak and my short, unproductive answers will lead to his questioning my readiness. I look down at my shoes, pretending to ponder his question deeply. I can’t die in these shoes. They’re old lady shoes my mom bought for me in case Life House had a prom or something. Think about that for a second, and you have a little window into what I’m dealing with. My mom figured there might be some nice boys I could dance with here at this fine mental institution.
I should be clear: I don’t blame my mom for anything that happened. My dad was a suicide seeker, like his mom was and I’d bet her mom or dad was too. I’m sure there are studies that show this better than I can state it, but if somebody in your family has killed themselves, you are way more likely to try it yourself. I do blame her for not letting go and letting his ugly decision fester like an open sore on my life: left untreated, it can become a problem, as doctors like to say. And I guess I’ve become the problem. Sure, she took me to doctors galore, but she could never fucking move on, so that’s why we’re stuck in the same place since the Offing on that Christmas five years ago.
“You keep looking at your shoes. Why?”
“My mother gave them to me in case there was an event here. A dance or something. God, it sounds so pathetic to say it out loud. She’s bonkers, right?”
He nods again, more acknowledgement than agreement. But I say nothing. Finally, he relents.
“Is your trip home an event?”
I feel it. Those old bony hands have taken hold of something inside of me. But did he know what he had his hands on?
“Sadly, a bus trip to a podunk town, followed by another bus to a sad little airport in a hick city is a big event in my life these days.” I crack a nervous smile. I don’t like where this is going.
He looks at me, waiting. He wants me to barf my secret plan onto the table.
I sit stone-faced.
He leans in, focusing on my eyes, trying to tighten his grip on the unknown inside of me. I bet the use of the word event has pricked his antennae and he’s searching for his prize. Show no emotion, Jane.
“Jane,” he says softly.
I notice for the first time that I’m shaking. He must see a little opening because his eyes twinkle. I have to say something to break his spell.
“I hate these shoes. My mother likes to buy shoes. I hate her fucking shoes. My father made fun of her shoes. I remember that.” Stop talking, Jane. No more.
I look down at my shoes, and surprisingly a tear hits them. I wish I could say that the waterworks are an act, part of my small revelation, but they are beyond my control. This old bastard has a way with the questions, and with the timing of them, I suppose. I’ve been so busy blocking knowledge of the Plan from Old Doctor, my other secrets have become less defended. Or maybe I’m nervous about today. It feels like something inside of me is breaking open.
“Why did he make fun of her?”
“I have no idea. He’s been dead for so long. He used to say she had ‘more shoes than a princess.’ He liked ties. My mother and I always bought him two ties every Christmas. We’d open a pile of gifts: toys for me, shoe boxes for Mom, and Daddy would always open two thin tie boxes.”
I stop talking for a moment and visualize my father in my mind’s eye. I always see the same picture when I try to remember what he looked like: what he was actually like day to day. He’s sitting in his studio, leaning back in his chair staring out the window. I’d walk in very quietly, thinking that he had no idea I was sneaking into his
