My theory was, fucked up people can’t help being drawn to other fucked up people, sometimes unwittingly. She was duplicitous, I knew this. BUT.
Those people were already dead. What was the real harm, other than conning a system that screwed you anyway? If you could and got away with it, wouldn’t you? In my warped way I was a little envious of her ruses, and her balls.
Later, I squeezed through her white unlocked kitchen window. Except for the sofa (there before she came), the fridge, the bed, the wardrobe, chests of drawers and washing machine, everything was gone. Even Buddy the Buddha, was no longer there to keep watch in the garden for only half the time. The kitchen felt barren without her collection of herbs mixing together, scenting the air with an unidentifiable perfume. They’d flown the coop with her. I ran my fingers over the black, scratched counter tops. She was real to me. I thought of her sitting at my hospital bed, sipping green ginger wine together on the rooftop, and eating the best breakfast I could remember for a long time. I thought of her saving my life. And my heart bloomed for her, whoever she was. Pangs of loss arrived, sudden, hard.
Days later I found her postcard in my vest drawer. It had a blue lit up question mark positioned over a man’s head. It read:
Well, the jig is up butterfly, I expect the boys in blue will be round asking questions. One day, I’ll tell you all about it. And… I really am Scottish. Until that time, do the right thing xxx.
She could be anywhere. “Do the right thing.”
Who’d have thought?
Inside her, Houdini chuckled.
Boat
In the dream, my head smacked repeatedly against the curved underside of a boat back at those same traffic lights where the baby had wandered, illuminated by the opening of another day and the acrid smell of smoke in the air. I felt the tug of a current inside me but there was no water holding the boat, only glass everywhere and traffic lights winking. The chatter of voices filled with concern and curiosity. Cheated of water the boat didn’t move, but interrupted the flow of traffic. The wound on my head stung. Blood oozed down the side of my face. Dry mouthed and nauseous, my head lolled. Through the thick, neon-coloured haze a slender, elegant figure reached out to me, grabbing my arm. Anon. She dragged me, my skin freshly stung, through ground filled with blood stained glass, glinting like jewels. Because of my position at floor level, a pigeon appeared to stumble away from the wound on my head. Undeterred, Anon dragged me to another road, only to shove me into light speed traffic. Decorated in broken glass, I fell to the ground, swallowed by engine noise, calling out freakishly in pigeon language to Anon who’d led me to the boat in the first place. I only owned half of the betrayal I tasted.
Chorus
At the medical centre, the woman in the painting of a dense forest had moved. Last time, she’d taken shelter beneath a hollow tree. This time, she was waist deep in the lake, searching for something as the painted strokes rippled. Hung on the off-yellow wall behind the reception desk, my eyes automatically went there each visit.
The receptionist named Carol, a slender auburn haired woman with overly plucked eyebrows, was talking on the phone at the back, while a photocopying machine churned out documents. She spotted me hovering, placed her hand over the receiver angling her head. “Hi Joy, you signed in for me?” I nodded, fished out a squeezed piece of paper from my back pocket. “This isn’t helping.” I said loudly. “I’m still not getting enough sleep.” On the wall the white clock above a cluster of certificates ticked sharply. A fly in the clock skimmed the glass before landing on the nine. I paced the small reception area, hearing its wings flutter.
“Okay, take a seat. The doctor will be with you in a bit; I’ll let him know you’re here.” Carol went back to talking into her static. The area smelt of pine, the floors gleamed and intermittently, the sliding entry glass doors delivered health care professionals bearing ID’s in rectangular, blue plastic holders jangling around their necks. I sat back listening to voices filtering through from the Saratoga Room behind me. I took a quick peek. In the centre wooden chairs were arranged in a circle, a few people loitered. One man with earphones rocked his head gently back and forth. Another was drawing at a table decorated with fresh, ivory-hued gardenias where a marred heart floated between stems. I tapped my foot absentmindedly; watching silhouettes on the floor morph, listening to the crackle of the voices buzzed into reception, resenting my punishment for attempting to kill myself only once. Only once. Once. One time.
I looked up. The woman in the painting was underwater. My breath thinned. Plastic fish made of old photo ID’s swam towards her from the bottom.
Dr Krull’s room was royal blue. I wondered if that was deliberate, to keep the likes of me calm, royal blue to smooth frayed edges. On opposite sides but not too far away from each other were two plush brown leather chairs. In the left corner, a silent water machine. A wide wooden desk was filled with a stack of books and files. Almost mockingly beside the files was a sun-drenched picture of the Dr and his wife on a colourful street somewhere exotic. India maybe. They were an attractive, well-adjusted couple in a removable frame. I fidgeted in my seat while I watched Dr Krull’s handsome face wrinkle as he studied his notes. He looked Thai, perhaps Malaysian. His angular face and glinting eyes never seemed overly ruffled but his mouth always appeared to have more to say, twisting sardonically or curving down. We looked at each other across the gape of space between us, the battle line drawn using a chalky stone I could taste on my tongue.
Dr: How are you doing with the Sertraline tablets I prescribed?
In my mind’s eye, I saw the tablets dancing down a fat neck of toilet water, or melting in a sink full of bleach, taking their numbness down a plughole better equipped to manage the sluggish silhouettes, unable to cry out quickly their tongues having been weighed down my chemical solutions.
I nodded emphatically: Yes, I’m still taking them but I don’t know if they’re actually helping.
Dr: You have to give these medications time to properly take effect. Take them consistently. Tell me about your routine before leaving the house.
I willed my legs still, stopped the knees from knocking together. A couple of doors down the circle would have more people by now. Soon, they’d be confessing to practical strangers, taking their heads off like lids on sloppy jars, waiting to see things spill.
I watched the Dr’s face being kind, patient.
I check the kitchen cupboards, the wardrobe, make sure the windows are locked… About six or seven times, sometimes more if I’m feeling really anxious.
Dr: How long does it take you to leave the house? Why the cupboards and your wardrobe? What do you think you’ll find there? He kept his expression neutral, tone pleasant, pen poised over the notes in his lap. Outside, a car tore off into the distance. Lights changed around the city, indicating when to wait, stop, go. Amber, red, green. But when should a person be green, amber and red? Which organs could I swap for lights that helped you navigate through the dark? Where would I leave my organs? On a zebra crossing, a bridge or a kerb? The fly from the reception clock had left number nine. Tentatively I said: I, my hearing… It’s changing.