Bright Burning Things(21)
‘Is there any way I could shorten my stint in here, Nurse? I have a little boy at home who needs me.’
‘It’s a twelve-week programme of abstinence. Designed that way, for a reason.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but I’m really not that bad.’ Ms Perfect Diction. ‘Is there a bathroom nearby?’
She points at a room down the corridor. ‘You can leave your bag here.’
‘I need it. Women’s stuff.’
In the cubicle I unscrew, swallow, soothe. Down the hatch. Nice n floaty.
Nursey Nurse brings me to a room with fluorescent tube lighting running the length of the ceiling, flicker flicker hum, and four beds. I’m shown to the bed by the window, which I’m glad about as the air is stifling, not with heat but with something heavy and stale. The colour and sense of brown, a gagging smell of Dettol. I’m in Mrs O’Malley’s stuffy front room with my boys, surrounded by plastic-covered furniture and tiny knick-knacks that line every surface. Don’t break them, Herbie! Static has built up in my head and I can’t hear the words the nurse is saying, something about needing to check my luggage, is that ok? I shake my head as she removes the remaining full bottle, the other almost empty one, no judgement, no surprise, no need for any outrage: mine or hers. I place my hand on my chest. What will happen to the winged creatures without my daily dose of anaesthesia? I’m scared they’ll rise up and rip out of me.
Nurse holds her hand out. ‘Your phone?’
‘How will I make contact with my son?’
‘No contact with the outside world for two weeks, except in the case of an emergency.’
I get up off the bed. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘I understand this is all a bit of a shock, but bear in mind if you leave now you may not be allowed access to your young son.’
Seriously? I hand my phone over, instantly bereft. Nursey tells me that the next twenty-four hours will be the most intense. There’ll be no expectation on me to do anything, bar eat and sleep and take my Librium. I don’t need that shit. I’m not that bad.
‘Lunch will be brought to you shortly.’
‘I don’t eat meat.’
‘Well, that’s a shame.’
Why? Why’s that a shame, Nursey Nurse? Don’t you know the torture we inflict on those poor innocent creatures? My mouth is full of the taste of their fear. The looping starts: bushfires burning up koalas and kangaroos, monkeys being injected with human viruses, polar bears in shopping malls for selfies, dogs being bred in cages over and over until their wombs fall out, intrusive thoughts, images, crowding.
‘Just settle yourself in here, and I’ll be back with a sandwich and your first dose. Best to eat something first.’ Nursey Nurse’s voice is a welcome interruption.
I sit on my allocated bed, fingering the synthetic cover, which sends sparks of electricity to my fingertips. My body is experiencing a turboboost of energy and speed, yet, beyond the incessant worrying of my mind and thumb and forefinger, is incapable of moving. I smell sulphur, nothing left of me but charred remains. Spontaneous combustion! Suitably dramatic and high-pitched. Pity Tommy couldn’t be here to enjoy the spectacle. His anxious face looms large, gains substance and settles itself around me like a cloak. I am wearing his worry.
The rain is falling gently, little blurred waterfalls sliding down the window. I allow my focus to soften. Has anything ever seemed so lovely? Water surrounding me, holding me. A heavy kind of apathy claims me, laying me down with the weight of it. Tip, tap, tip, God’s own fingertips, softly first, then building in intensity, until the rain tapping against the pane sounds like artillery fire. The sky is chucking hard pebbles against the glass. These balls of ice are worrying, a sign of punishment from above. I think I remember being clobbered the day of my mother’s funeral but couldn’t be sure. So much of that day was filtered through an unfocused lens, though the sensation of being stoned by the Man Above lingers. Bold girl.
Then: a picture of Tommy, lying on the couch, his tiny feet swimming in my socks, tummy gurgling; Herbie and himself curled into each other, talking in their own language; his little body rigid in that stranger’s arms on the beach; my hand reaching out to smack him; my overwhelming need for him; him pushing me away and the dangerous pain of that; his eyes, sparkling, reflecting the fire from the burning grill pan. Beeootiful, Yaya. Hot and slinky like the sun. What if I hadn’t woken up? A sea of flames engulfing him.
The next few days pass in a blur of white-bread cheese sandwiches, black tea, ginger-snap biscuits, orange squash – which every time I swallow a mouthful makes me think of Tommy and I feel like I might openly sob, but I never do, just quiet leaking tears, which no one passes comment on. Bodies come and go, different shades of snores, waking and sleeping merge into one. At first I don’t swallow the pills, at first I tell myself I’m in control of this, I’m not so bad, I haven’t even been drinking for that long, have I? I wasn’t even drinking that heavily anyway, was I? But: the sweats are bad, the spasms weird, the sensation of spinning sickening, the dreams (hallucinations?) too vivid, too intense, even for me; a woman smiling down on me, smelling of rose water, her voice sweet yet sharp, not safe, everything speedy. The cracks on the ceiling over my head are a portal to another world. Little winged creatures, fairy-like but buzzing like bluebottles, fly from these cracks and Tommy is trying to swat them away before they land on me, before they make their home inside me. Sound of Tommy crying, Herbie barking, all the dogs in the world howling, animals burning up, our greed, our greed, our greed. The sheets crackle and irritate my hot skin. Everything irritates: Nursey Nurse’s grating voice, various attempts at striking up a conversation, which I ignore, plastic undersheets, the stinging smack of antiseptic, the suffocating weight of the colour brown on carpets and curtains, the buzz hum flicker of the lights, the kindly nun with her apple cheeks and the swish-swish of her habit on the ground. A palm on my clammy forehead, a prayer uttered, or maybe I’m making that up. Pretty soon – how soon I don’t know, not a conscious decision on my part – the pills go down, softening the edges of my impatience, my sorrow, my crackling irritation, my anger, my impotent ravening anger, which feels like it might devour me whole. Sometimes I wake myself up, shouting – is that really me, that raving woman? Must be, as I hear the name Tommy, over and over. TOMMY. And no one answers. The woman on the beach and Mrs O’Malley blend into one terrifying hag, all my fears for him realised as he’s spirited away to another dimension. SNAP. My imp appears, clad in her gaudiest gear; she looks at me in blatant disappointment, like I’m pathetic, a killjoy, no spunk. She orders me to go find my son, grow some balls, but then my father appears and Mrs O’Malley, and behind them flashing blue lights and sirens.