The Empty Room (29 page)

Alas, Colleen had no pills.

If she was going to do it, it would have to be the knife. This was a thought, cold and clear and barren as the Namibian Desert
at midnight, which called for a drink. Her legs were unsteady as she plowed back to the kitchen. A little more, just a slippery lick should do the trick.

By the time she made it back to the living room, Colleen wanted to talk to someone. What time was it? How difficult it had become to focus on her watch. She picked up her phone from the coffee table. It was nearly midnight. Jake never went to bed until at least midnight. She should call him and apologize for the way she’d behaved this afternoon. She shouldn’t have slammed the door in his face. Helen was right; he wouldn’t last with this girl. He’d come back to her the way he always did. She fumbled for a few minutes, trying to find his number in her list, but yes, there it was. The call went directly to voice mail.

“Yeah, it’s me. You know what to do.”

Beep.

“It’s me. I wanted to say to you that I was not my best. Did I tell you I got fired? Yeah. My own fucking fault. Fucked up, you know?” This wasn’t what she wanted to say at all. “Never mind that. Forget that. Shit. Call me, okay? Just call me.”

She sat looking at the phone and then realized she hadn’t disconnected, so she did. She kept looking at the phone. Waiting for him to call back. He’d call back. But maybe he wouldn’t. It was too late to call Lori. Ah, right, she knew what to do.

She hit another number.

“Spring Lake Place.”

“Put me through to my mother’s nurse.”

“Uh, sure, okay, who would that be?”

“You know who it is. Unless you fired her. Probably should have.”

There was muffled talk, as though the woman on the other end had her hand over the phone. A new voice came on, a man’s voice.

“Can I help you? Who is this?”

Hadn’t she said who it was? “This is Colleen Kerrigan. Deirdre Kerrigan’s daughter.” Oh, she had mangled that last bit, very slurry. Deirdre had come out as
Dedruh
. Shit.

“It’s late to be calling your mother, Ms. Kerrigan. They go to bed at eight-thirty on that floor, you know.”

“She’s not even there, you idiot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why I’m calling. Somebody called and told me she was dying, and she’s not fucking dying. A stake through the heart couldn’t kill her.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t he find that funny? It
was
funny.

“I think perhaps you might want to call back in the morning, when you’ve had some sleep.”

“You people should be careful calling a person like that.”

“I’m happy to have someone check on your mother if you’d like, but it really is quite late.”

Typical. They were morons. “She’s in hospital. Fell again.” Oops. Words had become quite impossibly complicated creatures. Perhaps calling hadn’t been the best idea.
Flegain
surely wasn’t a word.

“I beg your pardon?” Oh, the ice a man could put in his voice.

“Never mind.” She hung up.

It wouldn’t matter. Either she’d be dead tomorrow or she’d just deny it. She’d done it before.

The silence. It was so loud. It was the freight train of silence, the Krakatoa, the Hiroshima of silence. Emptiness wasn’t empty at all; it was a thick block of solid no-sound, no-presence. An empty room was filled with all the things that weren’t in it.

A person could drown in silence.

One last thing and then, if that didn’t work, Option B. It seemed quite simple all of a sudden. She understood Robert’s calm, the peace of those last days. It was such a relief. Let the world run on without her, let the water in the bucket close over her absence, let the last note ring and fade, let the shadows lengthen to darkness. Fade out. Done.

Glass in one hand. Phone in pocket. Into the kitchen. Top off the Russian fairy. Yes, there she was, performing a frantic Cossack dance between the sugar canister and the knife block. Colleen slipped the butcher knife out of its slot, and as she did, it seemed to sing with a high whine. Pretty knife, such a talented blade. Beverage, phone and knife, what else did a girl need? All contingencies covered.

And now, to navigate the great long hall of angles and wobbles. It would be too ironic if she were to trip and fall onto her knife now. There is a certain decorum one must follow, a certain ceremony, at times like this. But the walls stayed put, more or less, as did the floor. It was amazing what one could accomplish with a little resolve and the balancing power of one’s elbows.

In the bedroom she sat at the desk and opened her laptop. As it
booted up she looked out the window. That vast green (now black) space to the south—the Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Oh, perfect. The peace, the gentle surrender of flesh and bone to earth—it moved her and calmed her, but really, does anyone really go for long walks in the graveyard without wondering if maybe they shouldn’t just lie down and stay? Inevitable. Why bother with all the messy in-between bits?

The computer lit up in a friendly way. She keyed “Alcoholics Anonymous Toronto” into the search window. She kept misspelling it. But finally managed. The homepage. Such a lot of information. Look at that, a meeting close to the liquor store at Yonge and Eglinton. How convenient. And there, at the top of the page, Have Questions? Need Help? And after that a phone number. The knife lay quietly, for the moment, beside the computer. Well yes, she suspected she just might be able to use the tiniest bit of help. She took a drink. She punched the number into her phone.

“Alcoholics Anonymous, how can I help you?” said a man.

Since Colleen didn’t have the faintest idea how he could help her, she said nothing.

“Hello?” said the man.

“Hello,” she said.

“My name’s Neil, and who’s this, then?”

He was entirely too fucking cheerful. “Barbara,” she said.

“Well, Barbara, how can I help you tonight?”

She took another sip. “I have no idea.”

“Ah. Well, is it possible you’ve been drinking a little?”

“Not calling you ’cause I’m interested in tap dancing lessons.”

Tap dancing lessons. That had seemed such a simple phrase when it was still in her head, but on the way out it had been a treacherous piece of tongue-twistery.

“Ha!” Neil laughed, which startled Colleen. If he was laughing at her slurry-ness, she’d hang right up. He had a funny, honking kind of laugh. “It’s good to have a sense of humour,” he went on. “The devil does so hate a good laugh.”

Lovely, now there would be talk of God and the devil. “I don’t believe in the devil,” she said.

“Then you haven’t met my mother-in-law,” said Neil, and again, the big laugh.

“Are you there all week?” asked Colleen.

“What? Oh, good one. Yeah, don’t forget to tip your waitress!”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Can I assume your drinking isn’t making you happy?”

“Lots of things make me unhappy. I lost my job today.”

“I’m really sorry. What happened?”

“Working at the university. I worked there forever. Years and years, and now they tell me I have a problem and that I’m a lousy employee. It’s not fair.”

“At the university, huh? We got quite a few members from the university. All kinds in AA, you know? Drinking have anything to do with you losing your job?”

Barbara
was anonymous, so why not just say it? “I think so. Maybe. A little.”

“I lost a lot of jobs because of my drinking. Good thing, too,
since I drove long-distance hauls. Nothing like a drunk in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler to screw up the traffic flow. What happened to you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” She rested her forehead in her hand. This was worthless. She was tired. So tired. If she was going to do what she was going to do she’d better just get on with it.

“Feeling pretty bad, right?”

“Yup.”

“Do you want to quit drinking?”

“I want to stop feeling like shit.” She was crying. Salty drops hit the laptop’s keyboard. “I want the fucking pain to stop. I can’t take the fucking pain. It’s all so fucking hopeless. I killed my friend’s cat.” Why was she saying all this? Her lips were thick around the words, like she’d been to the dentist and was all frozen. “I’m frozen,” she said.

“I hear you. But you can stop the pain. I promise. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“I have no idea.”

“That much, huh?” When she said nothing he went on. “Are you feeling sick?”

“Don’t feel much of anything. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. We drunks drink for oblivion.”

Drunks
? Fuck you, she thought, but there seemed no point in saying it. “Oblivion,” she muttered. “That’s where I’m headed.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Think you can just go to sleep tonight, and then tomorrow, can you get to a meeting?”

“Been to meetings. Not for me.” My God, but she was tired. What had she been thinking this guy would do? It wasn’t like the movies where worried strangers showed up at your door and held your hand while you cried out all your troubles. Nobody was coming.

“Tell you what, why don’t we make a plan, okay? Tomorrow morning I’ll have a friend of mine call you, a really nice woman, and you can arrange to go to a meeting with her. There are a couple of meetings around noon, or earlier if you like. Think you’ll be up early? I used to wake up about 4 a.m. every single morning, just feeling like crap, you know? You awake that early you could get to a seven-thirty meeting. Or a noon meeting. She’d go with you. You’ll like her. She works at the university too.”

These last words hit Colleen’s brain like water on a hot skillet. Suddenly her mind was popping and fizzing. She didn’t want anyone at the university knowing she’d called AA. What if it was someone she knew?

“How about it?” Neil asked.

“I have to go.”

“I wish you wouldn’t—”

Colleen hung up. She hit her temples with the heels of her hands.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
. What had she been thinking? She checked her messages. Nothing. No one.
Nada
. The silence crept up behind her, making the hair on her neck stand on end. It stalked her. It was coming for her. An inch or so of vodka remained in her glass. She
knocked it back and picked up the knife. She would run the bath, she would sink in, sink under and say goodbye to all her friends on shore.
Friends
. That was a joke.

She stood up, but the floor danced beneath her feet. She dropped the knife by the bed. No matter. She’d get it in a minute. She was so cold. She must make sure the water in the bath was very hot. The path to the bathroom was a funhouse obstacle course of slip-sliding floors, glittering bits of glass and moving walls. At last she reached the tub and turned on the hot water. She considered bath salts. Why not? Why not pamper herself on her last night? She reached for the plastic jar of lavender salts and poured in a great deal. The scent was cloying and reminded her of old ladies. That wouldn’t do. She let the water run out and started again. She had some sandalwood oil in her bedroom. She would get that.

It took some minutes to make it back to the bedroom, and the last few yards she managed on all fours. The sandalwood oil, in such a pretty little bevelled bottle with a gold lid, was all the way over on the dresser. It was exhausting, this business. She needed a moment. She pulled herself onto the bed and looked at her wrists. They were so fragile-looking, with the green and blue veins like ribbons just under the thin white sheath of skin. Almost anything could tear through that skin. She ran her fingers over one wrist and then the other. It tickled a little. The sound of the running water came from the bathroom. It would be steaming up the mirror, making the edges of everything soft and warm. She looked at her wrists again. Poor little things. Poor wee delicate things. Like baby skin.

She drew the covers round her. She sobbed. In a few minutes she would get up and do this thing. And then it would all be over and she’d wake up somewhere else entirely, or else she wouldn’t wake up at all and both possibilities were just fine with her.

Good night, world
.

THEY DON’T CALL IT “SPIRITS”
FOR NOTHING

C
olleen felt as though she were scrabbling out of a grave. The earthen sides slipped away beneath her fingers and feet. She kept sliding back down to the black pit. She was sure she was awake, but then she realized she was still asleep and great red-fire danger crouched at the end of her bed. She had to wake up. She tried to move her little finger, to cry out, and it took a terrible effort; her chest felt weighed down by grave dirt. She would suffocate. She would be crushed … Then she woke with a heart-pounding start, swatting at her head, filled with the image of bats swooping down on her. No bats. Just dark dreams. She was damp with sweat and her breath was foul even to her. What time was it? Something other than her breath smelled like death itself. Her eyes were caked shut, and something horrible stuck to her cheek and mouth. She pried her eyes open, pulling lashes out as she did, knowing she must look, but not wanting to see. A pool of yellowish slime lay near her pillow. Jesus, she’d vomited in her sleep, and … more than that. She reached between her legs. Her pants were wet. She’d thrown up and wet herself. A flush of shame seared her nerve-exposed flesh. And what was that fucking noise,
like a dentist’s drill in her head? On the desk her phone buzzed. It might as well have been in Antarctica. She tried to sit up and as she did an invisible axe planted itself between her eyes. She wiped away the matter from around her mouth. She had to get to the bathroom.
Now
.

As her legs swung over the bed and her stomach cramped, her foot hit something. A butcher knife. The big one from the kitchen. She staggered to the bathroom, her mind racing. Why was there a knife in the bedroom? Had there been an intruder? She envisioned an attacker standing over her bed with the knife in his hand as she sprawled before him, dead drunk. Had someone done something to her? The water in the bath was running. What the fuck? Bile filled her mouth and she clutched her belly as she bent over the toilet. Little came out. What did was a yellow-greenish colour, flecked with blood. My God, she was dying. Her face streamed with tears and her nose ran. She gagged and retched and retched until she thought she’d eject an organ. Her stomach, perhaps, or her spleen.