Chapter 23 Peggy
They moved me.
I fell asleep, and then they moved me here.
I am in a long room now with lots of identical beds.
I tried to leave after they wheeled me out to the second ambulance.
They explained calmly how I was not going home yet and how I needed to stay to receive some help.
I told them I was leaving to go take care of my son.
More people arrived. There must have been ten of them.
They tried to persuade me to swallow medicine.
I did not know what it was, and I did not know who to trust. I still don’t.
I told them I would not take it just now, maybe later.
I reminded them I was an adult, and a mother, and I needed to see my son.
They said I was sick. I told them I knew that, I would take their medicine in time, I would see the doctors, do whatever they wanted, but I was well enough to go home to look after Sammy.
He needed me. They said I was not well enough.
I told them they could not hold me against my will, I had done nothing wrong.
They said they could. I said I wasn’t a prisoner, I wasn’t a criminal.
I had done nothing. What had I done? Nothing.
Not one damn thing. They asked me not to shout.
To settle down. I couldn’t get through to them.
My son needed me more than they could ever know.
I had to go. I needed to watch his back and cook his supper.
Breakfast? What time is it? I need to check on him.
They asked me to sit down. I could not get through to them.
They told me they would have to give me medicine to calm me if I did not sit.
I pleaded with them to see him. For them to let me out for one day.
I needed to check on him. I said Drew and I would get some help.
I said I wanted Kim Assell. They stared at each other.
Their expressions changed. I mentioned her name again, I screamed it, and they looked at each other again.
I ran for the door. They held me down. I screamed louder.
Thrashed out. Sammy! Get off me. Leave me alone. They held me down tight.
A needle.
The weight of them over me.
Sharp scratch.
I have been vague ever since.
They are not pinning me down anymore, they do not need to.
I am locked inside a thick, opaque bubble filled with heavy water. I cannot move quickly. I can’t think properly. The volume of my life has been turned down.
The other patients are like me.
They are quiet and their faces are sad.
I rub my hand up and down my throat. The necklace that is no more.
I have nothing in here. No hair clips or shoes with laces.
I have less than before. Not even my purse.
The frail, soft-spoken woman in the next bed showed me how the showers are sloping so we can’t hang ourselves.
There are no mirrors to smash into sharp fragments.
The windows only open an inch. She explained to me how there are no metal knives or forks.
The door handles are sloped like the showers.
Did I mention that already? The bathroom doors are half missing so they can check on us at all times.
I will go home soon.
Tomorrow, maybe.
No, apparently they say I will need to stay longer so I can recover.
Give the medicine a chance to build up in my system.
They say I need to talk to the doctors. Talk in a group.
I said I would because what choice do I have?
But what I really need is to see him, to kiss him good night, to make his school packed lunch, to shield him. How is he coping? What is he thinking?
Dessert is Jell-O.
Raspberry.
Soft.
The frail woman with the gray hair looks very thin. She does not eat her Jell-O. They watch her closely. She will not eat it and then they will take her away to another room again and I will cover my ears with my hands like last time.
They want me to talk about the evening of the bath, but I tell them I do not know what happened.
They would like me to explain how I felt.
Draw it on paper if that’s easier. How did I feel?
I felt nothing. I feel nothing. I am in the bubble filled with heavy water, unable to hear clearly or speak like normal.
The days are long.
Muffled.
It is all about routine.
People crying and watching the dayroom TV with the sound off. Rinse, repeat.
When an exciting program comes on the nurse changes channels immediately.
We watched Bob Ross painting yesterday, and then we watched a long documentary about the Atacama Desert.
I want to hold my child. That is what I want, and I know he needs it from me.
After Jeff Turner died and I took Sammy downtown I saw how the other boys treated him.
After that I waited one afternoon close to the bus stop.
I stood by the Mexican restaurant, the one that closed down, watching.
Sammy spent most of the time in Smith’s Bookstore and Stationers, clever boy, checking out nonfiction and staying out of trouble.
I saw an older kid with a faint moustache tug at his bag.
I saw two other boys push him when he went to board the bus.
It took all my strength to stop myself from running over there and teaching them some manners, but I did not.
I knew it would make things far worse for him the next day, and the next.
And now he is going home to a distant, cold boat.
He has his father to deal with all on his own, and no matter how hard it is for him, I cannot do a thing to help.
I do not know what I did in the bathroom that night.
I can’t remember swallowing any pills. I would not do that to Sammy.
But my mind was playing tricks, had been for months, years, I know that.
I was making mistakes. Causing trouble and losing things.
The time my child needs me the most and I am failing him.
I have thought about breaking out but there are so many locked doors to navigate and so many nurses and how can I break out of anything when the medicine they give me makes me this vague?
Cameras everywhere. Heavy doors that lead to other heavy doors.
I cannot remember the start of a sentence by the time I reach the end.
My thoughts are damaged. Fragmented and broken.
The ward is quiet tonight.
Maybe I have done something wrong. More than one thing.
Why would they lock me in here if I had done nothing wrong?
An incident. A crazed spree. The cold air on my thighs that night as they carried me through the trees to the ambulance.
The long, stiff tube forced down my throat.
The fight when they held me down so hard I thought my bones would surely break.
Maybe it’s all my fault.
Maybe it’s me.