Otherwise, I’ll be found out.
I realize as it goes down that it’s the one with the bitter taste. When I hand back the cup, she says, “Open up.”
I know this drill, even though I don’t remember ever doing it. I open my mouth wide, sticking out my tongue. I’m painfully aware of those pills against my cheek, but they’re not popping out. If she sees them, I’m positive I know what will happen—they’ll either give me a shot, or they’ll force them down my throat somehow.
She scrutinizes my mouth and, if I weren’t so dazed, my emotions so muted, I would be panicking by now.
Finally, she says, “Okay,” and turns, wheeling the cart out.
Rose says, “Ready to go to the bathroom?”
I nod, but I suspect I might even be able to get away with talking with those pills in my cheeks. Now, though, I’m starting to think this is more like my “old self,” the person Joe was used to talking to.
Once I’m in the bathroom and by myself in the stall, I sit on the toilet and use my tongue to remove the pills I was able to hide.
This is my new experience. And now I think I’m beginning to understand why I can’t remember a fucking thing about my old life.
The question is if I will be able to do anything about it.
*
At breakfast, Joe finds me. Rose actually comes to our table and says to him, “Do you mind keeping an eye on her, Joe? Her therapy yesterday took quite a bit out of her.”
“Sure thing.” Once Rose is out of earshot, he says, “No shit, Sherlock.” Then he looks at me. “How you holding up?”
I tell him, “I feel like I’m in a fog.” The way he looks at me, I sense that I’m definitely out of it.
“What about meds?”
“They watched me today and made me open my mouth. I was able to hide all of them but one.”
“So you had to swallow it?”
“Yeah. But maybe if I can shake this feeling of being completely out of it, I can get better at hiding them.”
“You can always practice here, too, tucking food in your cheek. It’s not exactly the same, but…” He takes a bite of hash browns. “I don’t know if coffee would help the way you’re feeling now.”
“I’m having some but, yeah, I don’t know, either.”
After we eat in silence for a while, Joe says, “Before they snatched you away for ECT yesterday, you were telling me about your visit with your husband.”
I struggle, trying like hell to remember yesterday. I actually felt almost happy, if I even know what that is. My brain goes back even further, to the night before, when Joe and I made love—if it could be called that. Spending that time with him, connecting on that level, must have been what elevated my mood. And I remember visiting his room for the first time, followed by Rose telling me I had a visitor.
Oh, yes, the lawyer man.
It still seems so strange, so foreign that that man is my husband. But I feel a huge sense of relief that those memories are beginning to come back to me. There’s that at least. I tell him everything I can recall about the visit, but I’m sure I’ve forgotten details. Still, at this point, I trust Joe’s memory far more than I trust my own.
I don’t eat much. I feel really hungry but I don’t have the energy.
Joe says, “Why don’t we just hang in the living room for a while?”
I’ll go wherever Joe likes. I feel safe with him—but I also know that, if the people in charge here wanted to do something, he wouldn’t be able to protect me. The safety I feel with him is an illusion.
Still, it’s something I need.
Soon, we’re sitting in the living room in our usual spot, only we’re not talking much. I used up most of my energy earlier when I told Joe everything I could remember about the day before. It’s still nice, though, especially because he seems to understand.
But after a while, we’re interrupted by a familiar voice. “Rep,” she begins as she wheels her way toward us from behind.
I know what’s coming but, for a change, I’m not braced for impact or freaking out.
I am calm, almost Zen-like and, medicated or not, I think it’s all good. Hit me with all you got, Sharon. No matter what she has for me, she can’t hurt me like the people running the show here.
16
Joe looks at me with a huge grin as Sharon’s wheelchair gets closer. We both say together, along with Sharon, “Resent.”
I look at her—really look in her eyes—for the first time ever. They are the lightest blue I’ve ever seen, almost spooky looking, but her mouth seems kind. This woman slogs around the way I feel, almost sloth-like, so why have I been nervous or scared around her? She can’t hurt me.
In fact, she doesn’t want to harm me. I can sense that now. Or at least I think I do, but that could be due to the medication.
I know the next thing out of her mouth will be incoherent mumble, but her eyes are speaking to me. Maybe she’s not as out of it as I’ve always thought. I see her chest swell as she takes in another breath before saying, “Tative.”
My brow almost furrows, but my muscles aren’t responding the way I’d like. Joe says something before I can. “Wait. What’d you say?”
Sharon’s eyes almost seem exasperated, but I think I’m imagining it. Taking another deep breath, she says, “Rep.”
Joe, now impatient, says, “Yeah, yeah. We got that part.”
She takes another lungful of air. “Resent.”
Fortunately, this time Joe just waits.
“Tative.”
Joe’s sky-blue eyes light up just as I start to put things together myself. He says, “Wait. Are you saying representative?”
When my eyes shift back to Sharon, she slowly lifts her head. Inhaling another slow breath, she then says, “Yes.”
Joe turns to me. “Representative. What do you suppose she means?”
He’s evidently forgotten I’m not firing on all cylinders today. I might have been bright and whippy yesterday, but I’m back to “normal” now. I’m no Hercule Poirot at the moment. Finally, I manage to say, “I don’t know.”
Sharon says, “Show.” Joe is again leaning over, rapt, giving her his full attention. After she’s taken another breath, she adds, “You.”
Joe repeats her words. “Show you. You want to show us?”
The older woman gives one short nod. “Yes.”
“You need to take us somewhere to show us something?”
“Yes.”
Looking at me, he asks, “Do you need help standing up?”
While I nod, I suspect I might have been able to stand on my own, but it would have taken much longer without his help. Placing one hand on my elbow, he helps me up, and then he puts another arm around my back as if to steady me.
Once more, I feel safe.
Sharon has already started wheeling her chair toward the rec room. The way my feet shuffle slowly, she’s actually way ahead of us. All the activity this morning has used most of my reserves, and I’d really like to sleep.
By the time we rejoin her, she’s pointing to the stack of magazines. Joe helps me to one of the chairs beside the end table and then he asks Sharon, “Do you want me to hand you those?”