I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (2 page)

I stretch out in the tub so that only my head and shoulders are above the water. I only know that a sense of purpose is very purifying. The hot water is still running from the tap; there is rising steam and crimson water. I feel pleasantly faint in a peaceful sort of twilight zone. They will find me naked, but it won't be embarrassing because I will be dead.

I wake up in the middle of the night with the shakes again. A siren is inside my head, trying to split my skull in two. The train is roaring. My nightgown is soaked with cold sweat; I lie in the fetal position and quiver. The train is shaking the whole earth. I am dizzy because I'm about to be tossed off the planet and into the abyss.

I make it to the bathroom, where I wipe my face and dab the towel at my stringy hair. It must have been a nightmare. I take off the soaked nightgown and I am standing naked in the harsh bathroom light. I have the shakes so bad I have to lean on the lavatory to keep my balance. I try some deep breathing. I look at myself in the mirror, my red watery eyes and my pasty white skin. I never shave under my arms. My mother says it's a tacky, sloppy thing, and if I shaved my armpits, and took care of my complexion, and did something with my hair, I would look better and feel better. I always shave my legs but it's absurd, really. I wear blue jeans every day so no one ever sees my legs but me.

I put on my robe and go to the lounge. When I pass the nurses' station, I don't look to the right or the left. The lounge is nearly empty because it's not yet dawn. I can only see two or three people, and they are mostly floating in the mist. I sit on the blue couch beside the open window and hug my knees. The wind blows peace and quiet from the far-off university farm, cattle lowing and the rich smell of manure in a barn.

Even at this early hour, I can hear traffic noise from the interstate. The drivers are probably going to work. I'm sure they are very competent; they will drive their cars skillfully and arrive at their destinations on time. They will work in stressful offices all day without getting scrambled, and their personal relationships will be effective. Their lives are so good and so sound.

Dr. Phyllis Rowe is firmly convinced that my father is dead, but I don't have the energy to dispute with her. There's so much she doesn't understand. The Surly People run rampant in our new neighborhood. They trample underfoot whatsoever is good, whatsoever is kind, whatsoever is merciful, but how could I ever explain it to her? I've tried to tell her about the Surly People and I've tried to tell her about my dreams, but there's so much interpretation.

I know exactly what place this is. If my father comes today, he will be proud that I don't shave my armpits, that I haven't become a pawn in the empty game called the
Amerikan Way
. If he does come, I think I'll ask him if we can read some poetry.

“Grace, did you hear what I said?”

It's Mrs. Higgins. “Mrs. Higgins, I've meant to ask you. Why are there so many mirrors in the lounge?”

“It's used sometimes for aerobic and dance classes. Are you ready to get dressed?”

Mrs. Higgins is floating and misty. “Too many mirrors may not be a good thing, you know. They make so many facets. It can make a fractured person feel all the more fractured.”

“I'll think that over.”

Mrs. Higgins always means well, but her teeth are so long. I've noticed it quite often in group therapy. Especially when she smiles: she's very long in the tooth. It seems to be the funniest thing I've ever heard, to be long in the tooth, and I start to giggle. I try to stop because I don't want to hurt her feelings, but that only makes it worse. Of course she doesn't know that I'm thinking about long in the tooth. I am laughing hysterically until the tears are running down my face.

“Momma is momma and poppa is poppa.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Momma does what momma does and poppa does what poppa does.”

“Your father died in June of last year. You're not forgetting that, are you?” Her voice is popping and crackling with electrical charge.

She goes on. “Your mother and father had different values? Different goals and priorities? Is that what you mean?”

“That's it. Dr. Rowe, have I told you about the nightmares?”

“You've tried to from time to time. Are you still having the nightmares?”

“I always have them. I'm sure they must be important.”

“If you want to be specific, I'll be happy to hear about them. If not, I'd rather not change the subject.”

I'm starting to go flat out, but I say, “My dad was vegetarian. He thought it was barbaric to kill and devour a sentient being. I thought he was right. My mom didn't really go along with it. We ate different things at the dinner table. Sometimes my dad would fix some vegetarian thing for the two of us and Mom would have something else.”

“Did they quarrel much about it?”

My mother is patient and kind; she has so much goodness. I say to Dr. Rowe, “They didn't quarrel much about anything. At least not in front of me. That's what I remember most: they weren't really together on things, but their antagonism was always below the surface. It wasn't out in the open.” I'm flat out now, and I don't feel like talking.

“I'm listening,” says Dr. Rowe.

I just shrug. At Allerton, the sun is warm, and the dove brings peace and harmony.

“Don't stonewall me,” she says. “Please go on.”

I shrug again. “Not worth the effort.”

“
I
think it's worth the effort. You can give up on your own time if you want, but not on my time.”

She ties my stomach in knots. “I've been trying to tell you.”

“So keep trying. Your affect is completely flat.” There is electrical interference in her voice. I don't know if it's charge or
dis
charge. She tells me I have no affect. I have no effect either. If I died in the bathtub, no one would ever notice my absence.

“Dr. Rowe, I have no affect and no effect. Hospital language is crazy, it's crazy language for crazy people. Have you ever noticed that?”

“We were talking about your parents, Grace.”

“I've been trying to tell you!” I snap. “My father felt things very deeply, and he was always full of energy. There was always a wrong to be righted.”

“Such as?”

“Peace march, vegetarianism, animal rights. When my dad and I were together, we were always doing something or going somewhere.”

“And your mother?”

“The opposite.” She ties me up in knots the way she bores in. She's boring and she's boring. She's asking me more questions but the only thing coming out of her mouth is electrical static.

This is the night that crawls by. Seconds are minutes and minutes are hours and hours are days. I can't go to sleep no matter how hard I try. I should ask for more medicine but I know they won't let me have it. Every scary thing that ever was makes a fiery chain in my brain. A nuclear war is incinerating the whole planet. I see burning streets and melting people, their flesh dripping from their bones like candle wax. In slaughterhouses poor beasts are getting butchered. They bleat out their panic and squeal out their terror and the blood gets washed away with a hose. I cover my ears with such pressure that my head begins to ache.

I get out of my bed and sit on the floor in the corner of the room and hug my knees. I pray for daylight. Why should my life be like this? If I shut out the frightening things in my own life, then the calamities of the whole earth take their place. I begin to sob, but at first I try not to make a lot of noise and wake Mrs. O'Rourke.

Now I'm crying so loud I wonder why she doesn't wake up. No nurse comes, so it must be that they can't hear me at the nurses' station. Mrs. O'Rourke is in for acute depression due to menopause; she will get better, everybody says so. I will never get better. The meaningful part of my life is over, if I ever had one. I'm sixteen now, if I live to be 80, that means 64 years of fear and getting scrambled. It's so obvious that the answer is death. Maybe my father will bring me one of his razor blades, but if he does I can't botch it this time.

Before dawn, I put on my robe. I go to the lounge and sit on the blue couch. A nurse I don't know follows me through the mist. She is asking questions, but I turn away from her and cover my ears. She makes electricity. Then she leaves; she's probably going to get Mrs. Grant.

I am really scrambled. I hug my knees to try and stop the shaking. If Mrs. Hernandez comes, it means Dr. Barber is going to give me a jolt. They will take me to the treatment room and I will have to lie on the cold sheet. They will put the lotion and the electrodes on my forehead, and the rubber mouthpiece between my teeth. They will drip anesthetic into my veins. After I am unconscious, Dr. Barber will zap my brain with electric current. They will watch me flop around in a seizure. I will be like a flopping fish on a dock.

If Mrs. Hernandez comes, she will ask me if I have
voided
, or if I have
evacuated
. Hospital language is crazy language for crazy people. If I
void
, does that mean I vanish? Do I disappear as if the hand of God came down with a giant eraser and wiped me off the blackboard?

This thinking gives me the giggles, so now I have the shakes and the giggles at the same time. Thank God my mother can't see me.

8/18

Dear Diary:

The hospital is a warm, safe place but there's nothing of my father here. I need something of his. I would like Mother to bring Uncle Larry's fatigue jacket so I can wear it in group. It isn't really something of Father's, but he and Uncle Larry were so close. I would love to have my Beauty and the Beast statue, but it wouldn't do to have it here; someone might steal it or damage it
.

Sometimes I have to suffer the voice. The voice comes of its own accord, like a whisper or a hiss. How is it that the voice knows my thoughts and gives me advice? The voice frightens me. I'm afraid that the voice belongs to the eye, and the eye rotates in the heavens so it has total vision
.

I have to stop writing. I get such a head rush when I try and think about the voice, lights are popping in my head like tiny flashbulbs.

Mrs. Grant is beside me with my medicine. She has cleansed herself of the mist. I take my pills and ask her to look at what I've written.

She says, “I think this is exactly what Dr. Rowe wants you to do.”

“But I know nothing about writing a journal, I've never done it before. This material isn't organized or developed.”

“It doesn't need to be,” she says. “Dr. Rowe just wants you to write your thoughts and feelings. It's not homework for English class.”

“Don't forget, Mrs. Grant, that English is my best subject.”

She has a warm smile. I believe she is a dear and resourceful person. “Do you want to write some more, or would you like to take a walk?”

“I would enjoy taking a walk, but please do keep the static out of your voice.”

We are in the south hallway. The yellow line and the red line are irrelevant; it is the green line which leads to the exit which leads to the lawn. I remind Mrs. Grant of this.

“We'll follow the green line all the way, Grace.”

“There are so many lines, sometimes it makes too much data. You have to concentrate very hard on the one which applies to you.”

“We may not need the tape at all, Grace.”

It's a bold thought, but I fasten my eyes on the green line all the same.

The sun is warm on the lawn. I can hear the traffic noise from the highway, but I can't hear the cattle. There are no clouds; it's such a relief—the voice usually comes with the clouds. If there's motion in the sky, you need the clouds to see it. At Allerton, the statue of the dying centaur is deep in the woods, far from the formal gardens. You can get there on a straight path lined by tall trees. The centaur is huge and dying, dying lonely in the woods. But his death is heroic and magnificent.

I tell Mrs. Grant how death can be misunderstood, but she says, “It depends on what you mean.”

“When the centaur dies and the leaves fall it is beautiful.”

“Leaves are beautiful when they die, but why are we talking about death?”

The sun is warm, but I can't hear the cattle. I have a knot forming in my stomach. “Mrs. Grant, if I'm going to keep a journal, should I start out every page with
dear diary
?”

“If you want to, why not?”

“It seems so childish. Girls who write
dear diary
write about parties and proms and boyfriends.” I wish I could hear the cattle, but of course: this is midday, it's not milking time. If my mind is this clear, I will be in control again soon. I'm getting short of breath.

“Mrs. Grant, I have to be sure about the date. If I'm going to keep a diary, I have to have accurate dates.”

“Today is Monday, the eighteenth.”

“That's what I wrote down, but I have to be sure. I get so confused about dates.”

“You can be sure; this is the eighteenth.” She smiles.

“It seems personal though, doesn't it, Mrs. Grant? Writing a diary and beginning each page with a greeting?”

“Yes, it does.”

My teeth are chattering. “I think we should go back inside now.”

“So soon? We've only been here a few minutes, Grace.”

“Yes please. Let's go back inside now.”

“Okay. Would you like to listen to your tape?”

Her voice is full of static. She means well, but it's something she can't control.

“I've told you before, Grace; no ECT.”

“Dr. Barber gives me shocks.”

“Dr. Barber
gave
you shocks. This is a different hospital, and I'm not Dr. Barber.”

“Is Mrs. Hernandez coming?”

“Who is Mrs. Hernandez?”

“She's the nurse who gets me ready when I'm going to get jolted.”