Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self (7 page)

The department chair had located my parents, who were on their way home. I spent a few days in the hospital looking, between the piles of blankets well-intentioned nurses kept putting on my bed and the scratchy blue paper hospital gown, worse than I actually felt. Help had arrived quickly enough that there hadn’t been much water in my lungs. I had scraped up an arm pretty badly, and knocked myself unconscious with some combination of fear and impact, but the worst of my injuries was a broken tibia. Once the wound above it closed and the risk of infection passed, the doctors told me it would heal normally. Though my leg occasionally throbbed, and the cast I wore itched like crazy, I reminded myself that I was lucky. I’d overheard a doctor telling my aunt that if the rock had hit my head two inches lower, the fall would have killed me.

Aunt Claire stayed in a Tallahassee hotel until my parents got back, visiting and reading me kids’ books. I was too exhausted to pretend I was too old for them. She made me excited promises about all the things we could do with my hair when it started to grow back, and was always reluctant to leave me for the hotel in the evening. I turned nine in the hospital; a nurse baked me a homemade red velvet cake; the entire pediatric staff sang to me; Aunt Claire bought me a beautiful set of turquoise-jeweled hair combs to decorate my shorter hair.

When my mother finally arrived, I heard her before I saw her. My parents had gotten in at midnight and come straight to the hospital. It was one in the morning when they got there, four days after my admittance, and they had to threaten several overprotective nurses in order to be allowed to wake me. When my mother saw me, she cried. My father was so wrapped up in hugging me and so close to crying himself that I don’t know if he even noticed her tears, but I wished somebody would have held her.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she said when she had composed herself. “We never should have left you. Allison is damn lucky she called the cops, lucky you’re alive, and lucky your father and I don’t believe in juvenile detention centers, or we’d be pressing charges against her for pushing you off in the first place.”

“Maybe it was just an accident,” I said. What I meant was that Allison might have wanted to go home, more than she wanted to hurt me. Hadn’t she said so? Hadn’t she confessed, even before I was awake to accuse her?

My mother waved this possibility off.

“I called my brother,” she said. “They cut their cruise short in Guam and came back several days ago. She’s got a lot of problems that have nothing to do with you. She’s very confused. This is all your grandmother’s doing. I’m sure if she hadn’t been treating you so badly, Allison wouldn’t have thought she could do the same. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on in that house?”

I considered this.
I
was very confused.

“You were in Brazil,” I said finally. “What are they going to do to Allison now?”

“Frankly, that’s her parents’ problem now, not mine,” said my mother, cradling me closer to her, and stroking my still naked feeling head. “My only job is to take care of you.”

 

 

But Allison was
the other half of the story; the half I didn’t tell because it didn’t belong to me anymore. People would ask me sometimes what happened to her. “I’m sure she grew up,” I would say, and they would nod at my empathy and rarely point out that
growing up
did not mean and never has meant the same thing as
getting better.
The truth was I didn’t know much about how Allison was doing. My mother had deliberately cut off contact with her family after that summer, deciding the whole lot of them were toxic. I’d heard her though, talking to my father about the fact that my uncle had decided to leave Allison with my grandmother for a little while, to straighten her out. “That’s a mistake,” my mother had said. “What an unfortunate pair.”

An unfortunate pair.
Her words were in the back of my mind when she called me a few weeks after my law school graduation. I had been hibernating, wearing headphones and reviewing for the Connecticut bar, and it was only because she called three times in a row that I bothered to pick up the phone.

“Tara,” my mother said, “the first thing I want you to know is you don’t have to do this.”

“OK...” I said.

“Allison is in the hospital,” she said.

“What’s wrong with her?” It occurred to me, stupidly, that maybe she needed a kidney.

“She tried to kill herself,” my mother said.

“My God,” I said.

“She’s asked to see you,” my mother said. “Apparently, her therapist thinks it would be good for her to talk to you. I’m sure she wants to apologize in person. But I told them, you have a life, too, and we’ll do this on your schedule, if at all, OK?”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

My mother paused on the other end of the line.

“I’ll book us flights,” she said finally.

“I can go by myself,” I said.

“No you can’t,” she said. “I don’t trust those people with you for a second.”

Her fear was understandable, if belated. The year after my summer with
the unfortunate pair
, I didn’t sleep more than an hour a night. When I said so later, my mother said that wasn’t biologically possible, and then changed the subject. My father said it simply wasn’t true, because he didn’t sleep well that year and he remembers waking up nights, walking down the hall, and pulling back the blankets in my room to check on me. “You slept,” he told me, “like an angel.” Perhaps they are right. When I was very little, my mother used to say there was something of my grandmother in me, in how I tell stories the way I need them to be and not the way that they actually happened. In any case, I remember staring at the ceiling every night for a year, tracing shadow patterns with my finger. I remember closing my eyes whenever I heard footsteps outside the door and relaxing every time I realized it was only my father.

My parents were careful with me like they’d never been before; I was in college before they were willing to let me out of their sight for more than a few hours. Even when Aunt Claire requested my company, to sit beside her bed and read to her those last few months before she died, they were reluctant to part with me. That summer was still with me somewhere, and so was Allison, and my grandmother, but thinking about any of it was like looking at an old photograph of myself, staring a long time and all the while trying to figure out whether it was really me in the picture.

 

 

And then there
I was in Tallahassee again, this time in a downtown mental institution, only the kind with a marble lobby and a fountain on the grounds, so you were supposed to call it a wellness center. I had waited for my mother’s flight at the airport and had lunch with her when she landed. Though she insisted on driving me to see Allison, she announced in the parking lot that it was probably best if she not come in, and I agreed with her. The grounds of the wellness center reminded me of the grounds of the country club so long ago. Everything was flowering, in obstinate resistance to the severity of its locale.

When I announced who I was and whom I’d come to see, the woman behind the desk looked at me sharply for a second but then looked again, nodded, and told me I had my grandmother’s eyes. A nurse in a powder blue uniform escorted me down the hall to a waiting area with plush teal chairs. I sat in one of them before I even took note of who was sitting on the other end of the room. My grandmother looked older, of course—her hair now gone completely white, her face creased with wrinkles—but there was no mistaking her. Her eyes were still as sharp as ever, her mouth still set in a line of grim determination. Her wardrobe, though, was in a state of disarray, her silk scarf tossed on the chair beside her, her blouse and pants wrinkled as though she had been sleeping in them—which, I supposed, was entirely possible. She looked at me, gave me an almost smile. I tried to think of a comforting thing to say to her, the kind of thing you would say to a stranger in similar circumstances, but nothing came to mind. I focused instead on the insulting giddiness of the waiting-room magazine covers, their cheerful refusal to be about anything that mattered.

A nurse punctuated the silence. “Miss Ellis?”

She led me down the hallway and opened the door to a room, but didn’t enter. I could see her hovering in the entry. Before I walked through the door, I heard Allison’s voice, still thick like sweet liquid. “You came.”

She looked worse than I was expecting, but I already couldn’t remember how I’d pictured her all this time. Certainly I was never picturing her in a hospital bed, with bandages and an IV and a red plastic food tray in her lap. She was thinner now than she had been when I had known her as a child; the roundness I remembered in her face had given way to something angular. Her eyes, which I’d remembered as being almost electric blue, seemed gray in this light, and her long hair was feathered with split ends. She looked exposed in a flimsy cloth gown; I wondered if there were levels of crazy here, if some people qualified to wear real clothes and others didn’t. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Allison smiled at me. I smiled back. I looked around the room, wondering what was coming next. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, as if counting down for an explosion.

“What happened?” I asked, which was the most delicate way I could think of putting the question. Something cold flashed through her eyes briefly, and then she smiled at me again. “I got divorced last month,” she said. “But I got divorced once before, and I didn’t try to kill myself afterward, so I guess that’s not it, is it?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I probably should have learned my lesson about marriage the first time.”

“Thanks for the warning.” I nodded at my engagement ring.

“I bet he’s a nice guy,” Allison said. “Is he a lawyer too?”

“Jason’s a journalist,” I said. “And I’m not a lawyer yet. I just graduated.”

“Still, look at you now. I always hoped you were doing well. Our grandmother would love it.”

The way she said it, it sounded like an accusation and a compliment at the same time. I waited for her to tell me why she’d asked me to come. To fill the silence, I told her a little about school, about Jason, about the sample bar question essays I’d written out and read into a tape recorder that I played so often I could hear it in my sleep.

“What are you doing these days?” I asked finally.

“Other than slitting my wrists?”

I flinched.

“I teach music,” she said. “We tried to make a real pianist out of me, but I was never quite good enough. My heart wasn’t in it.”

“ ‘We ’?”

“Grandma and I,” she said. “Grandma more than me. My parents gave me to her after that summer, you know. They put me in a place like this for a few weeks, and when I came out they said they simply
lacked the knowledge
to deal with a child with those kinds of issues. They moved to LA the next year.”

“I know,” I said. I had known, but hearing it out loud still felt like a slap. “I never understood why you told them. You could have said I’d fallen. I never told them you pushed me. I never said that. I wouldn’t have.”

“I could have said a lot of things,” said Allison. “I thought my parents would come get me and yours would come get you. I thought if anyone got in trouble, it would be our grandmother.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We were kids. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

“It took me all these years to figure out that she didn’t know, either. She had the next decade of my life scheduled before my parents were on the plane. She was so scared to mess up again that I was barely allowed to leave the house. I think I got married the first time just to get away from her. She went on and on about my first husband being trash. Her favorite thing to say when I messed up was that I took after my mother’s side of the family, and water seeks its level. I guess it never occurred to her I hadn’t seen my mother in years, or that it probably didn’t say much about her that I had decided that moving into a trailer with a man who sold cheap souvenirs in the Everglades would have been better than going back to her house.”

“But you went back,” I said.

“I didn’t know where else to go. So I lived with her until I got married again last year. He was grandmother-approved, but that didn’t stop him from sleeping with our next-door neighbor. Maybe I would have been better off staying in the Everglades. Lots of snakes there, but most of them are harmless. Sometimes seeing one would startle me, and I would think of you.”

I closed my eyes. I thought about all the things I’d accumulated since I’d last seen Allison, and how absolutely useless they seemed right now.

“Maybe you just need to start over someplace new,” I said. “Get away from all of this. You could stay with me for a while when they let you out.”

She parted her lips a little, like she was going to laugh, but she didn’t. I tried to picture it in my head: the look on Jason’s face when I told him I was bringing home a suicidal white woman who had almost killed me once; Jason and I converting the study into a bedroom for her, getting a piano, her getting settled in Connecticut. I imagined our kids growing up together, the way she and I had thought we would.

“Maybe I’d like that,” she said finally. “I never thought of you getting married without me. Remember, we were going to be each other’s bridesmaid?”

“I remember,” I said. “I was going to pick mint green dresses, because that was your favorite color, and you were going to pick orange, because it was mine. Jason’s sister is being a pain in the neck and doesn’t want to wear the dress I picked out. You should be a bridesmaid instead. I’d even change the color for you.”

“You would,” she said. “But I just wanted to see you. I just wanted you to see me. Take care of yourself. I really am glad you’re happy.”

I looked at the clock again, then back at Allison. It had been an hour; I was ready to go, though still uneasy about why I’d been sent for in the first place. I reached for her hand and squeezed it by way of good-bye. She didn’t ask me to stay. I felt like somebody ought to stop me from walking out, like there was a rule that you couldn’t leave behind such palpable need.