Too Bright to Hear Too Loud to See (33 page)

The itch becomes secondary.

The words roll around in my head and eventually a red flag goes up. My vision is a little blurry, particularly around the edges, but this time my eyes stay open. I have an excellent view of the floor from this position, and this time I notice that my ankle is handcuffed to the crossbar of the wheelchair. Or foot-cuffed, as the case may be. I wonder if the police have special ankle cuffs or if standard-issue handcuffs are designed to expand to accommodate lower extremities. I kick at the restraint and the metal bites into my bare skin. When did I lose my socks? I kick again and try to get some forward momentum going on the wheelchair. It occurs to me this whole thing is overkill on someone’s part. Whatever I did, I have less neck strength than a newborn, so I’m probably not much of a flight risk.

Slowly, as the blood rushes forward, I become aware of a dull ache on the left side of my mouth. It throbs rhythmically as if it has its own pulse. My tongue is thick, dry, and it would help if I could use a finger or two to peel it off the roof of my mouth. But I concentrate on sucking and swallowing and eventually produce enough saliva to wrench it free. And to notice the distinctly unpleasant coppery tang of recently shed blood.

A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I reluctantly allow the oral exploration to continue and almost immediately regret it when the tip of my tongue encounters a large gap occupied by teeth last time I checked. Now it is just a big empty parking lot haunted by soft, sore gums. The handcuffs, the wheelchair, the sign, the missing teeth—as the fog begins to lift, I am starting to get the feeling something bad has happened.

A second wave of nausea hits and this time there is no turning back the tide. There is also nowhere to go except maybe six inches front and center, give or take. I pitch forward and projectile vomit the nearly day-old contents of my stomach—mostly alcohol, stomach acid, and the remains of a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder, which, if not upchucked, might have remained in my colon undigested for years. I lurch forward with such force that I actually achieve the forward momentum I was seeking just a moment ago. The chair falls forward and I fall face-first onto the black-and-white-checkered linoleum floor and into the pool of warm vomit I’ve just deposited there.

New York, 1994
. Viagra guy is already waiting in line for dinner. Even though there is no line and there is no dinner. But when it gets there, he will be first in line. It’s like this at every meal. We call him “Viagra guy” because that’s what his shirt says. It is bright yellow with blue lettering. On the back there is some information about Viagra in red letters. Viagra guy wears his T-shirt every single day tucked into his hospital-issue paper pants.

I’ve never heard him speak. Just the occasional grunt. Bald on top but with more hair on his arms, hands, and knuckles than I’ve ever seen on a human being. I believe Viagra guy may be the closest thing science will ever get to a living, breathing specimen of the missing link. When Glenda and I walk by the dining area, Viagra guy has one hairy arm crossed over his belly. That arm supports the other so that he can pick his nose for extended periods of time without fatiguing the picking arm. Viagra guy doesn’t read, watch TV, or participate in group activities unless forced to. His chosen form of recreation is nose-picking.

“You are revolting,” Glenda says as we walk by him.

“FUCK YOU!” he yells.

“So you do speak,” I say. “Way to go.”

The dinner cart is wheeled in and Viagra guy grabs a tray. “Don’t you think you should wash your hands?” Glenda says, curling her lip at him in disgust.

“It’s none of your damn business,” he says, flicking what I can only imagine is a tiny rolled-up ball of snot in her direction.

“It
is
my business, you filthy illiterate cretin.”

“FUCK YOU!” he yells at her.

“LIMP DICK!” she yells back and takes her place at the back of the line.

New York, 1994
. I’m thinking about moving. From this chair. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Thinking that if I concentrate—really put my mind to the task, give it a hundred and ten percent—I could do it. I could move. But then, I think, that would probably be it. Today’s activity. And what if I want to move later? What if there’s a fire and I
have
to move later? I’ll be fucked. More fucked.

They have started me on lithium and something called Zyprexa. But lithium, they say, is the first line of treatment. This from the people who call ECT the gold standard. They make it sound so VIP. So why is it my muscles are filled with something heavier than lead and I can’t keep my hands from shaking? I’m thinking I want my money back.

But my brain trust is optimistic. They stand around in their white coats conferring and consulting and continuing to throw around phrases like “gold standard” and “first line” like we are in the throes of deal-making and these are perks, negotiating points. I begin to feel I stand to make big money if I concede. Apparently there was no decision to be made about the shock. They told Hannah it was the only thing that would work—and, of course, that it was the gold standard. So she signed the papers. And though my memory has more holes than that kind of cheese they make in the country where you get those clocks with the little birds that come out and … Oh fuck it.

After I am all done with shock, they say, the drugs will keep me on the straight and narrow. But I will have to take them for the rest of my life. Hard to imagine since the lithium makes my head heavy and my hands shake, and the Zyprexa causes confusion, constipation, weight gain, and more memory loss. God knows what the others might do. But if these don’t work, there are lots of others to try. In literally dozens of combinations. So not to worry, my doctors say.

I wanna do business with these guys, but so far they’ve been all pitch and no product, and frankly, I’m beginning to think they’re blowing a lot of sunshine up my ass. But that could just be me being negative. Or maybe having no memory and no cognitive skills to speak of is what’s causing the negativity. Could definitely be a chicken-and-egg thing.

Regardless, when Ted, an orderly clearly hired more for his brute strength than for his sharp wit, comes to tell me I have a visitor, it’s tough to muster up any enthusiasm, let alone the momentum required to get myself out of the chair in my room where I’m installed in front of my teeny personal TV with my supplemental premium cable and VHS player. Especially since “You have a visitor” is what they say when your shrink has stopped by unannounced. I choose to ignore Ted and continue watching
Easy Rider
.

“Come on, Mr. Todd, don’t you want to know who’s here to see you?” Ted sings this to me as if I were a baby and he were an idiot trying to feed me mashed peas.

“The possibilities are extremely limited, Ted,” I say.

It couldn’t be my sister. Hannah called from California yesterday. Or maybe the day before? Well, I’m sure it was a Tuesday. I think.

Anyway, eliminating her leaves only my shrink, Dr. Knight. Nice guy. Funny. Almost worth getting up for. But not quite. “I’m afraid dangling the carrot is a very bad strategy, Ted. You’ll have to try again.”

“Aw, come on now, Mr. Todd. Don’t be like that. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”

After extracting the promise of an extra package of cigarettes (the drive to negotiate is either deeply ingrained or genetically determined), I shuffle into the visitor’s lounge and collapse into a deep, soft armchair near a window overlooking the street in front of the hospital. Outside, the sun is melting what little is left of an unseasonably early snowfall. Though the storm ultimately dumped only two inches of snow, the sky was fierce and blew icy forty-mile-an-hour winds. Or so I heard. But that was yesterday. Today it’s warm again—so I hear—nearly fifty degrees. Maybe nature is bipolar. That would explain a lot.

The walk here has taken nearly everything out of me. I take a quick survey of what’s left. I can move my eyes in my head. I can move my diaphragm in and out. I can push air through my lungs. But that’s about it. I am hollow and with each breath out I deflate further. I am not tired. “Tired” is for marathoners who hit the wall at mile twenty or ER doctors who pull thirty-six-hour shifts. Tired is for sissies. I am an oxygen-starved climber of Everest forced on to ever higher altitudes by dangerous weather conditions; stranded for days in a dark little ice cave, supplies exhausted, with no hope of rescue. Or something like that. Must tell the brain trust a new cocktail is in order. This shit’s a deal breaker.

I stare absently at the stains on my grey sweatpants and try to remember how many days it has taken me to accumulate them. I try to remember the last time I went outside, the last time I read a sentence I understood. The last time I took a crap. I try to remember what day today is. I try to remember when I started feeling so fucking sorry for myself.

I hear that last thought circling my mind like the last bit of dirty bathwater rounding the drain before it’s sucked down. And when it’s nothing but meaningless residue, I look up and see Knight through the glass wall of the activities room. He smiles and nods. He is talking to someone. From here all I can see is a pair of legs. Not Knight’s. He is a tall man, a little on the doughy side, with circles under his eyes that bespeak chronic sleep deprivation. He wears heavy, lug-soled hiking boots with his wrinkled khakis and is oblivious to the dirty snow he tracks into the lounge. I find this eccentricity amusing; the orderlies who have to mop up after him, less so.

The legs in front of Knight are long and slim and are dressed in a pair of lived-in jeans. The feet on the ends of them are wearing brown leather boots. Cowboy. From the look of the dark stains around the edges, clearly not waterproof or built for snow. Even an early November snow. There is a fine-boned hand hanging down next to each of these legs. Pale skin. Long, thin fingers. Short nails. Bitten maybe.

A girl. The legs belong to a girl. In one hand she holds a bulky pair of ski gloves and earmuffs. Overkill. Even with the snow. This girl has overdressed for the weather but she has gotten the shoes wrong. Typical of people from California who’ve only recently moved to the East Coast.

She raises one little hand, puts it in Knight’s big meaty paw, and they shake. Then they leave the activities room and walk in my direction. I continue my exploratory analysis. A ridiculously puffy blue down jacket balloons out from the narrow hips, creating a mushroom effect.

The ass, however, is spectacular. Round. High. Ripe. Like a piece of summer fruit. There’s a red JanSport backpack hanging off one shoulder. Resting on the ass. Juicy. Sweet.

I feel a hand on my arm. I look up and see Miriam, one of the few nurses here I actually like. She is from Trinidad and has very cool hands.

“Greyson, Dr. Knight has a special visitor for you. Would you like to come into one of the conference rooms?” Miriam’s voice is quiet and gentle and I like the sound of her words. Their meaning is lost on me, but I like the sound. There is music in her voice. She smiles at me and I smile back.

“No. I am very, very tired. I would like to stay right here.”

And then the wrinkled khakis enter the frame, obscuring my perfect view of the perfect ass.

“It’s okay, Miriam. We’ll sit out here. Thank you,” Knight says. “How are you feeling today, Greyson? A little bit foggy still?”

“Little like a fucking zombie still.”

“It takes a few weeks, maybe longer, after stopping the ECT, but that will wear off. Your memory will get better too. Meantime, we’ll get a lithium level. See if we need to adjust the dose.”

I’m not really sure whether he says this for my benefit or that of the girl who stands several feet behind him uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other.

“Listen, I want you to meet someone,” Knight says casually. “You might remember her, you might not. Either way, it’s okay.”

He waves the girl over. We stare at one another.

I turn to Knight. “Well, I failed that test. Want me to take another?”

The girl hangs back, looks at Knight, then lets her gaze drift slowly my way.

“No, let’s stay with this a little while,” he says patiently. “Greyson, this is … Willa.”

“Nice to meet you, Willa.”
Willa
, I think,
Willa
. “That’s a nice name.”

Knight smiles. “I’m going to let you two talk for a while.”

“But …” The girl turns to him.

“Just talk to him. We’re not expecting a miracle in one visit.” Knight starts to walk away.

She grabs his sleeve and I can just make out what she’s saying. “Dr. Knight? He obviously doesn’t know me, and frankly I hardly know him, so … I mean, I really don’t think there’s going to be a next time.”

Knight is soft, gentle. “Why don’t we just see how it goes today?”

I am baffled by the whole exchange.

She comes back and looks around at the empty chairs and couches, deciding where to sit. She chooses the far end of the sofa across from me and burrows into the corner.

We are silent. I assume she is new and suffers from depression or paranoia or OCD or one of the other quieter pathologies. And while I am an electrified, burnt-out, post-paralytic zombie, she is extremely attractive and I do remember how afraid I was when I first got here, so I make an attempt to form a reassuring sentence.