Leaving the World (44 page)

‘The fare’s only twenty,’ he said.

‘Well, you deserve forty.’

He looked unsettled as he said goodbye to me – as if he had a premonition of what I intended to do and was fearful on my behalf. As soon as he was gone I called the front desk and asked them if they might have a roll of duct tape behind the counter, as I needed something to repair a torn handle on my suitcase.

‘You’re in luck,’ the woman said. ‘We had an electrician doing a job for us here a couple of days ago and he left a roll behind.’

Using my cane I limped back to reception and picked it up.

‘Can you get it back to me before you check out tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Just in case the guy comes back looking for it.’

‘No problem,’ I said.

I returned to the room. I put the pills and the tape in a bedside drawer. I found a plastic laundry bag in a shelf in the closet. I pulled out the pills and the plastic bag and the tape.

Do it fast before you can think about it. Pour yourself three fingers of vodka to steady your nerves, then take the pills – ten at a time, all chased with more vodka. Once they’re all ingested, place the plastic bag over your head. Seal it tightly around your neck with duct tape – by which time the Tylenol/vodka cocktail will have done its chemical work and you will begin to drift off into
 . . .

I found a plastic cup in the bathroom. I returned to the bed. I spread all the pills out on the bedside table. I half-filled the cup with vodka. I took a long sip. The alcohol burned as it slipped down. I raised the cup again and downed its contents. The vodka went straight to my head. I grabbed a notepad by the bed and scraped half the pills into my left hand. But just as I was raising them to my mouth, I heard a woman’s voice. A shrill woman’s voice, raised in anger.

‘You little bitch . . . you ever fucking sass me again . . .’

Then I heard the distinctive sound of a slap, followed by a howl from a little girl.

‘No, Mamma, no . . .’

Another slap, another howl. Then: ‘You get that look off your face, you little . . .’

Suddenly I was on my feet, throwing the pills to the ground and hobbling to the door. As I yanked it open I saw the shrill woman – large, overweight, a shock of black hair – slapping a little girl across the side of the head. The girl couldn’t have been more than five – and, like her mother, she was already oversized. Without thinking what I was doing I grabbed the woman’s hand just as it was about to land again on her daughter’s head.

‘You stop that,’ I heard myself yell.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the woman screamed back at me, struggling against my grip.

‘You stop that right now.’

With her free hand she punched me right in the abdomen. It landed with full force, doubling me over, making me retch up vodka.

‘You’ve got some nerve, lady,’ she said, pulling the little girl into a car. I tried to get up. I couldn’t.

‘You can’t do that to a child.’

The woman doubled back on me.

‘You tellin’ me how to treat my daughter?’ she screamed. ‘You givin’ me parent lessons, Miss Fancy Pants?’

With that she kicked me right in the ribcage. I fell to the pavement and was sick again. There was the sound of an engine starting up. Over this: ‘See what you caused, you little bitch?’

The girl begged her mother to forgive her. Then, with a shriek of rubber, the car pulled away and they were gone.

The entire incident couldn’t have lasted more than a minute and it was witnessed by no one. I spat out the toxic bile that was now swimming around my mouth. Picking myself up I staggered back into the room. As I walked inside, my shoe landed on top of all the pills I had scattered on the floor. All at once I was crying and sweeping the remaining pills off the bedside table and crushing them with the heels of my shoes, and grabbing the bottle of vodka and racing into the bathroom and smashing it in the tub, and finally collapsing on the bed, sobbing wildly, feeling beyond lost.

When the sobbing eventually subsided I lifted myself up off the bed and went into the bathroom and picked up every shard of glass in the bathtub. Then I found a dustpan and brush in the closet and swept up all that now-powdered Tylenol, thinking:
Even when you’ve been assaulted and have botched another attempt at suicide, you have to tidy up. Because you’re a bad girl. And bad girls who want to be good girls always try to clean up the mess they’ve made, even though they know that they still won’t feel better about themselves. Because
 . . .

How could that woman do that to a child?
Her child
.

I felt another sob lodging in my throat. But I caught it and wouldn’t let it escape. No more of that. Nurse Rainier was right: crying in the face of hell was just crying in the face of hell. And another failed suicide was just . . . pathetic.

I stood up. I went into the bathroom. My ribcage hurt and my mouth was noxious. Before splashing water on my face, I stared at my red eyes, the small lingering abrasion across my forehead, the lips now free of stitches but still marked by scars. As I turned away in disgust, a question formed in my addled brain.

The answer arrived without much in the way of rumination . . . because it was so damn obvious.

I
T TOOK AROUND
twelve hours to divest myself of myself. It was fast work. After telling the woman at the front desk of the Holiday Inn that I would be staying there for the next two nights I used my cane to limp across the road to a grim little strip mall. There I bought a $20 telephone card, some cold cuts and bread, a pair of scissors and a few bottles of water.

Back in the room I started to work the phone. I called American Express, Visa, Discovery and MasterCard and cancelled all my accounts. All four of the ‘customer services agents’ I spoke with professed horror at my decision to end business with their companies, the Amex woman actually asking me: ‘Have we done anything to upset you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve just decided I don’t need your card anymore.’

‘But we’d hate to lose you.’

‘I’m sure you’ll get over it.’

I phoned the telephone service of my bank in Boston to transfer the necessary funds to clear what remained on these accounts, then cut the cards in half. I did keep one piece of plastic: the debit card for my checking account, which, at close of business today, had a balance of $23,863.84. Enough to keep me going for a while – especially as my salary from New England State was still being paid into it monthly.

New England State
. That was, so to speak, my next port of call. Opening my laptop, I found the wireless connection for the hotel and went online. I hadn’t opened my mailbox since running away from Boston over five weeks ago. There were 338 messages. I deleted them all without reading a single one, even though I noticed many from Christy and from colleagues and even from old classmates, someone evidently having supplied my email address to everyone in the wake of. . .

But I couldn’t bear reading words of condolence now, any more than I could deal with my best friend and her tough-love stance about getting me installed at her house. I counted eighteen emails from her.
Click, click, click
 . . . and they were consigned to oblivion.

After also emptying the Recently Deleted folder of my server, I wrote Professor Sanders an email. It was short and to the point: in the wake of recent events in my life, I felt I had no choice but to resign my position at the university, effective immediately. And I thanked him for the support he showed me after . . .

Fifteen minutes after sending this, a reply came bouncing back to me.

Without pausing to reconsider I clicked the Reply button at the end of this email and wrote:

Around a minute after sending this, there was an instant reply from Sanders. I deleted it before it could be opened. Then I sent an email to Mr Alkan.

Over the next few hours I also cancelled all health insurance premiums, all pension plans, all monthly saving schemes. Then I spent over two hours stripping the hard drive of my laptop computer of every file, email and software program. Before doing so I also canceled my email account with AOL. I wouldn’t be using email again for a very long time.

By the time I had completed all these tasks it was midnight. I took a long bath. I climbed into the stiff, rough Holiday Inn sheets. I popped a Mirtazapine and turned on the television and watched crap until the pill did its work and I faded into nocturnal limbo.

I slept straight through until nine the next morning and woke with a curious sense of disengagement. The dreaded instant still arrived when sleep gave way to consciousness and the world rushed in. But today, accompanying that ‘each dawn I die’ moment, was a grim resolution to get through the day . . . and to do so with the knowledge that my former life was just that: a part of a now-eradicated past. The laptop had been stripped clean. I had no instruments of credit, no debt, no material possession, a modest sum of money in the bank, $2,000 in cash, $1,800 in traveler’s checks, no job, no family, no dependents, no obligations. Had I been of a philosophical bent I could have described my current condition as one approaching existential purity – a state of complete individual freedom, devoid of responsibility to anyone bar myself. But I knew better. I was engaged in the act of wiping the material hard disk of my life – with the bleak cognizance of the fact that I would never erase its emotional content.

Still . . .
keep busy, keep busy
. So I rang the front desk and asked them if they knew the number for the bus depot in town. They did. I called them up and found that there was a bus which left Mountain Falls tomorrow morning at nine a.m., crossing the frontier into Canada at one p.m. and then continuing non-stop to Calgary, arriving there around four p.m. One-way $47 – payable at the depot in town.

Why Calgary? It was the nearest city that was not in the United States. And if I was in the process of deleting the past, then the act of geographically detaching myself from my country had a certain logic to it. Had I been in Texas, I would have headed south to Mexico. As I had crash-landed myself in the higher reaches of Montana, there was only one place to go from here: up. Calgary was the first big city due north of where I now found myself. There was the extra bonus of having a Canadian passport (courtesy of dear old Dad). So Calgary was the obvious destination. I didn’t care what it turned out to be. It was
there
– and
there
was where I was heading.

But before I caught that bus over the border there were a few final pieces of business to which I needed to attend. So I showered and changed into clean clothes and found a housekeeper doing the room next to mine and asked her for a large plastic bag. Then I went back to my room and opened my suitcase and dumped every item of clothing I owned into the bag. I also added the three pairs of shoes I’d thrown in and the extra coat that I’d grabbed as I fled my Somerville apartment.