Heart Berries: A Memoir(6)

Before I left intake, Josue approached me with a digital camera.

“We need this for head counts,” he said.

I had cut my hair before I committed myself. I had thin eyebrows, which I overplucked, and I wanted bangs to cover them as they grew out. I was meticulous in my preparation. I packed books and lotion and shower gel and every outfit I felt I could wallow in: dark clothes and cotton tee shirts.

He took my picture, and I asked to see it.

“Another,” I said.

He had forgotten how sure of myself I could sound. He took another, and told me I could have smiled. He escorted me up two floors to the women’s ward. It was late, so the workers showed me to my room and gave me a paper cone of water and two pills—I don’t know what. I had to change into a hospital gown so they could examine what I wore. They said they would give it back to me soon.

I am familiar with death, and I remembered it was heavy to hold. My mother’s death was violent, internally. I remember once an elder skinned a rabbit in our yard. He wanted to teach me how to do it. He said so many times that a body is a universe. He slit the rabbit open and pointed with his knife to the thick parts of it. He said the word entropy. I remembered that when my mother died, a tube had stretched open the dry corners of her mouth. She was not given grace into the next world. When they pulled the tube from her throat, her lips were dry, and her mouth fell open.

Nothing is too ugly for this world, I think. It’s just that people pretend not to see.

I fell asleep trying to remember the composition of a tooth. Gum and bone support the softer things. The raw nerve in my tooth tingled under the weight of my tongue. I don’t want my mouth to be obscene when I die.

I was finally beneath myself at a new low.

In the morning, I was the only one dressed in my hospital gown for breakfast. The nurses walked me back to my room and explained I should wear my clothes, which were put away in my dresser.

I asked the women if there was a scale to weigh myself. I weighed a hundred and twenty-two pounds the day before. They pointed to my dresser and left the room. There’s no right way to dress in the hospital. Some women were dressed provocatively. I put on my cotton shirt and leggings, thinking of what threads weighed the least.

In line, a stringy-blond woman who looked ill talked about meth, and everything she said seemed like a small lie. I stood behind her and just let her lead the way. Her feet and mouth seemed so urgent and dangerous.

The cafeteria was coed, and the men looked violent. I didn’t eat because I considered the pills I had taken might have been the type that made me hungry—the type that allowed me to eat until I’d realize I was full. It feels like a skill to refrain. The benefit in this place is that I must refrain from you. I can’t physically see you or know what you’re doing.

The nurses escorted us back to the ward, and then they pulled me aside for a full tour. The brunette nurse asked me if I believed in God, and the smart one said I looked heartbroken.

“Is this about a man?” she said.

I felt breathless, like every question was a step up a stairway.

Casey, it was more than surreal. I needed a drink, but I reminded myself not to say that out loud, even in jest. The women walked me to the reading room.

“Nobody reads in here,” the smart one said. “It’s quiet.”

The nurses smelled good because everything in there, including us, was sterilized and without distinction. They smelled like their homes and lunches and living.

“You’re welcome to read so long as it doesn’t take away from your healing,” the brunette said. “We have romance novels in stock and some books from the Oprah Book Club.”

I did enjoy Oprah.

The art room was all colored paper, glue, and glitter. The pool was stagnant. The birds outside offended me—domestic but free. All the rooms were stark white, but the lighting was dim so everyone looked bleaker. A dull blue stripe ran along every room for the invalids to follow. They gave me an Ambien, and I walked the line, stopping at every barred window. I wanted to hear the world, but the glass was too thick.

It was funny and hurtful to see the women walking past my room to glimpse at me and assess what type of crazy I was. Every few minutes I saw a new girl who looked sad or angry. We mirrored each other’s blank stares. It was nice to feel at home in that odd place. I tidied my room like I never do at home.

You said you love to failure. I made you full and flushed. You loved me until your body failed your will. You said making love was kissing my eyelids. I kept them open once and saw you differently. You rooted against me and forced my eyes closed like little coffins. I wondered how many bitter ghosts it took to create a cold feeling in a room. My face was covered in your sweat. I was all points and sharp corners before I loved you.

You don’t appreciate that you’ve broken me. Lovers want to undo their partners. I feel unveiled and more work than you had bargained for. I was unsure of the currency of men and unaware that losing myself would feel so physical.

I remember when I spent the night with you once: In the morning I wanted to order a proper breakfast with potatoes and an egg, with toast, and another breakfast of French toast and maple syrup, and butter. You tell me it’s too much. You don’t think I’m gracious. I ordered the proper breakfast, and the server didn’t bring me toast. I complained, and then she brought cold toast, and then I complained again, and then my food went cold. My eyes welled, and you looked disgusted. I usually don’t care about that look. What right does a man have to look at me like that? I think it’s justifiable to hurt someone when they look at me like that.