Lemon (33 page)

An usher hustles me out. ‘This is not a shelter,' he says. His stitched harelip gets me thinking about those Chinese baby girls in orphanages deemed unadoptable because of harelips. Grotty rooms full of growing girls with broken mouths. They're sent away at sixteen, no doubt into slavery. Or the sex trade. Sick Topics.

More time to kill before nightfall and the burglary. And no money. I count it. Enough for a juice, stay away from coffee, not good for baby. Time crawls when you're homeless. But I'm calm, at peace, looking forward for once. I see her learning to walk, chubby with golden curls, grabbing hold of whatever's in reach, stumbling, crying. I pick her up and kiss the salt off her cheeks. I tickle her and she starts to laugh, big belly laughs like Bradley. I know he's dead. It doesn't take them long to die. Like Kadylak, he just let go. They don't hang on like the grownups. They who have so much to lose let go too easily.

I sip an oj very slowly, avoiding eye contact with the servers who must be figuring out I'm a street kid. I try not to watch the clock, try to think positively, think of a good role model with a life purpose. Florence Nightingale. Everybody thinks she just hopped over to Crimea to bandage soldiers, but the fact is she was one of the first people to tell doctors to wash their hands, gowns and surgical instruments. They ignored her, of course, kept mutilating one person after another with their dirty knives. Patients were dying from infections but this didn't faze the doctors. Bloody smocks and blades were badges of honour with these duffers. Florence changed nursing care, made it respectable. She fought for the poor not only in England but in India where old Victoria was named empress. Millions of Indians were starving while old Victoria was gumming crumpets, pining for dead Albert. Florence was always in poor health, and got no support from her family who disapproved of her humanitarian efforts. They wanted her to marry a gent with cash and settle down. She died alone and blind.

Maybe I'll call her Florence.

It's 1:37 a.m. I stare at a paper, more adults in a flap over cyber-bullying. I look for ads for baby stuff, strollers, Exersaucers, high chairs. Although we won't need all that crap. We'll live like peasants. Grains and beans. Slung on my back she will feel safe. I will feel safe. I use the back door, don't turn on lights, grope and creep, bumping and squeaking. It smells different with him here. All that slop cooking. I feel my way to the front hall, stumble over the table where she leaves her purse. I stop and listen. Just fridge noise. I dig around for her wallet, take out some bills but can't see which is her bank card. I sneak to the basement, close the bathroom door and switch on the light, shove the cash and card in my back pocket. Wouldn't mind taking a shower but it's bound to wake Treeboy who'll show up and stare, offering profound insights like
you can't let them see your fear
. They don't need to see it, dickhead, they can smell it.

I wash my hands and face, squirt toothpaste on my finger for my teeth. I'm in no rush to go out there again where striped umbrellas vanish. At least not until dawn. I can snooze here, on the bath mat, dream of baby Florence, watch her running through fields of buttercups. I take out her slippers and hold them against my face, promising to take her to forests and meadows, to show her wild animals and sparkling fish in rocky streams.

I pull down my pants to piss and see blood.

All is quiet, the last person on Earth. I alone a Speck upon a Ball.

It's different from the busted hymen blood. I watch it swirl in the toilet bowl. I wad toilet paper and hold it between my legs. It has to stop. It
will
stop. I lie on my back with my feet on the toilet seat and beg Jesus. ‘Please, Jesus, don't take her, I'll stop rebelling against the truth, please don't take her.'

Dying babies, the preemies in the neo-natal unit plugged with tubes and electrodes, forced into an existence they tried to avoid, squirming on their backs like fallen featherless baby birds, destined for a life crippled by brain damage. Kadylak's falling from me, limbs awash in blood. ‘Please let me have her, Jesus. I know I have sinned. She's all I have,
please
… '

The blood conquers gravity, volcanic gushes of useless uterine lining soaking the toilet paper and dribbling down Damian's ass. I do not deserve to live, conceived in plaster dust by the Witch and the Slug. Loveless, soulless, destructive, an embarrassment. Grotesque. I will not live trapped inside this body that is not my own.

I scrabble back upstairs, dripping blood, grab her Xanax, which she never takes. I chew a few and feel around for her keys, gulp tap water en route to the garage. It stalls, of course. I try again with purpose. The engine awakens and idles soothingly. I take her notepad and pen out of the glove compartment. I write down everything
Bonehead and company did to me, every humiliating detail including dick in mouth and beer bottle. I write it down so Doyle will have a defence. I don't mention Rossi. I date and sign it and leave it on the dash. I open the windows and turn on the jazz station but they're off the air. It's just the usual all-night pop drivel. I switch it off and sing, ‘Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars.'

I've taken her anxiety drugs before, they take forever to kick in. My dead baby floats in the toilet bowl, bloodied chunks of flesh, curls, tiny severed hands. She's gone. Never was. As the blood oozes from me so does salt water. My lungs are filling with ocean. I push the seat back and feel the tears dripping into my ears.

‘I hate you, Jesus,' I croak while I'm drowning. Try to hum, keep my mind off the blackness. Stay calm. Float. I'll be with her, won't I? She's waiting for me with her arms outstretched, isn't she? I'll bury my face in the soft curve between her neck and shoulder. We'll build Lego houses with doors in case somebody nice comes to visit.

Starting to breathe the carbon monoxide finally. Slow going with a low-emissions vehicle. Still no drugs kicking in. Not like in the movies. I try the radio again. Céline Dion yowling. I switch it off. Slide my fingers into the tiny slippers. The preemies are constantly in crisis, constantly being resuscitated. Let them die, why can't they die? The parents stand on the periphery, believing the doctors are helping, not torturing, not disabling their beloved baby. Why life at any cost? Why can't we
die
? Who says we have to put up with this shit day in and day out, these lies, these betrayals? My eyes and throat are burning. I'm so thirsty. So tired. She was so tired. Where's the man in black? Come get me, you fucker. I'm so thirsty. So tired. Fly me to the moon.

31

M
assive headache. Can't move. Mask gripping my face. Where is she? Can't kick, scream. Scared shitless. Fluorescents obscure, curtains swish. Mouth tastes of ashes. They've squirted charcoal down my nose, the fuckers. Tired, so tired. Where is she? Find me, come find me, the fuckers have hooked me up, can feel it, iv, oxygen monitor pinching my finger. A whitecoat is jabbing at my wrist, sucking more blood. Can't lift my head, scream. So tired, sick, choking on vomit. Can hear the ecg monitor beep beep beep. Fucking heart pumping. So tired. Let me die, Jesus,
please
let me die.

‘Lemon, can you hear me?'

Don't rise to the surface. Sink where they can't find you.

‘Lemon, please nod, love, if you can hear me.'

What's she want? Get out go go go go.

Yak yak yakking at my feet. Shut the fuck up, you meddlers. Can't move my arms. Where is she? She was here with Mischa and Sweetheart. I saw her.

‘Lemon? Please nod, love, if you can hear me.'

My botched suicide got her out. She sits there like a gargoyle. Get out of my face, go go go go.

A broken heart can kill. The adrenals go berserk, blasting an overdose of stress hormones.
Please
let me die. She was here. I could smell her, touch her. Why won't she take me with her? Every time I surface she's gone. Must stay down, down.

The meddlers won't leave me alone. Have to escape. Must act grateful to be alive, won't do it again, doctor. It was a cry for help, you understand. Just write me a scrip and I'll take my antidepressants like a good little girl.

‘Lemon, can you hear me?' the gargoyle asks. ‘Please nod if you can hear me.'

I nod because I need an ally.

‘Lemon, listen to me, you can't act crazy or they won't let you out. You were pulling at the tubes, that's why they tied you up.' She leans over the bed rail, her eyes deranged, and whispers, ‘I'm serious, they're like the cops, they can throw away the key. I read your note. Nobody else has. You can pretend you never wrote it. I'll burn it if you want me to. I haven't told these morons anything.'

She's right. I have to act normal before I can sleep in front of a train. They're not far from her house, always toot-tooting, uselessly, endlessly coming and going.

A woman moans on the other side of the curtain.

‘I tried to kill myself once,' Drew says. ‘I hated my rescuer. She was our cleaning lady, a little Italian who hardly spoke English. I wanted her dead. You probably want me dead.'

Just get out of my face. Go go go go.

Close my eyes. Sink. Where is she?

A resident who looks like a boxer pulls off my mask. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Excellent.'

‘I guess you'd like us to remove the restraints.'

‘Hell no, I enjoy them.'

‘You're doing great,' the boxer says. ‘You've got a good ticker. We're going to have you assessed. Obviously the concern is that you might try this again.'

‘Obviously.'

‘Do you think you might try it again?'

‘Absolutely not. Not worth the hangover.'

‘That's the spirit. Well, Dr. Fireman should be here shortly then we'll talk more.'

‘Can't wait.'

The boxer trots off. The gargoyle strokes my forehead.

‘Did he say Dr. Fireman?' I ask.

‘He did.'

‘Where's Dr. Policeman?'

‘Guess he's busy.'

‘I have to get out of here.'

‘Then act normal, and don't be a wiseass.'

‘I'm thirsty.'

‘They're allowing you ice chips.' She hands me a Styrofoam cup.

‘What was your method?' I ask.

‘Same as yours. Except gasoline had lead in it in those days, packed more of a punch. They thought I had neurological damage, wouldn't let me out. Hospitals weren't quadruple-booked back then.'

‘Why did you do it?'

‘It's pretty maudlin and not very original.'

‘A broken heart.'

‘Bingo. Dawson Frost destroyed my life.'

‘Dawson Frost?'

‘His wife wrote an obituary for him a while back and there he was, fat and smug. She said he was a gentleman and a gentle man.'

‘You beg to differ?'

‘He was an unctuous sociopath.'

‘Was he fat when he broke your heart?'

‘No, but certainly smug. I seem to go for those.' She looks a mess, still in Damian's pjs.

‘How did you get here?'

‘Ambulance.' She holds my still-restrained hand, meaning

I can't pull away. ‘I'm not leaving without you.'

Dr. Fireman is one of those balding types who shaves his pate to disguise the fact that he's balding. Behind his rectangular glasses are the agitated eyes of the overworked. He sniffs repeatedly, which suggests a cold or a cocaine habit. He removes the restraints and asks my ‘mother' to leave to preserve patient confidentiality. He wants her gone so I will reveal hidden truths.

‘How are you feeling?' he asks.

‘Better.' I rub my wrists like the recently cuffed.

‘Very good.' He starts making notes. ‘Let's start with family history. Any psychological illness in your family?'

‘I have no family. I'm adopted.' Don't tell him about the crazy aunt.

‘So that woman is your adoptive mother?'

‘My stepmother, actually. My adoptive mother passed on.'

‘I'm sorry. When was that?'

‘Years ago.'

‘Do you miss her?'

‘Not really.'

Sniff, sniff. ‘Are you in high school?'

‘Yes.'

‘What is your previous medical history?'

‘Don't have any.'

‘Psychiatric history?'

‘Ditto.'

‘Do you use drugs?' Sniff, sniff.

‘No.'

‘Not at all? At parties and so on?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Alcohol?'

‘Not much.'

‘What does “not much” mean?'

‘Almost never.'

‘Have you attempted suicide before?'

‘Absolutely not.'

‘Okaaay.' He scribbles more. ‘Limone, is there any psychological trauma you can tell me about, or a history of depression?'

‘Nothing springs to mind.'

‘Okaaay.' Each time he says ‘okaaay' he pauses briefly, narrowing his eyes, as though in deep concentration. ‘Can you tell me what precipitated this event?'

‘It's pretty maudlin and not very original.'

‘Can you tell me about it?'

‘I was in love.'

‘Ah.' Sniff, sniff.

‘Dawson Frost … ' I look away, pausing for effect, ‘broke my heart.'

‘Okaaay.' His eyes narrow. ‘I gather Dawson did not return your feelings?'

‘Everything was going swell at first. I really thought he loved me. He even invited me to the prom.'

‘What changed, do you think?'

‘Her. That ho Wendy. I saw them together. She was supposed to be my bff.'

‘bff?'

‘Best Friend Forever. I wanted to die.'

Recognition ignites behind the rectangular glasses. Okaaay, just another teenage girl spurned, attempting suicide after a breakup. Herr Freud would say her daddy spanked her and she got off on it. ‘Can you tell me something about your bruises?'