Suicide Kills, part 14

When I came back into the room, we put the movie back on, but the mood had soured.  The scene between Nettie and I could have ended in apologies and laughter (that’s a happy log, folks, I’m thinking positively), but once those orderlies came in, there was no rewind.  The atmosphere was broken.  We had each been reminded, and harshly, exactly where we were and what we were, crazy and tainted.   

Sandra Joe had pulled the hair bobber from my hair as soon as I got back and taken it all down, beginning again.  After finishing my braid, she secured it, fingering the end before finally easing back into the couch. 

I could not follow the last of the movie.  There was still a part of me which did not want the night to end.  The brief feeling of being regular stuck in my mind.  The more I thought about it, how shortly we’d enjoyed it, the angrier I grew at its loss.  I would be damned if some prune faced ancient alley cat wankstress was going to ruin it.  Why can’t there be do-overs?

Just before the infamous cliff scene, I crawled forward on the floor, ass to the couch without a drop of shame, and pressed rewind on the VCR.  Skimming the video, I finally found the scene I was looking for.  Brad Pitt popped back up on the screen in his skivvies.  I hit play and scooched back to the couch.  Pulling the hair bobber from my hair, I undid the braid.  After shaking out my hair, I held the hair bobber up behind my head.  Cotton tipped fingers took it and began braiding, again. 

Tonight we were getting our do-over, and Debra could pogo an umbrella dick if she didn’t like it.  We were patients in a psychiatric ward.  We had just been reminded of that, and by God, the staff could damn well act like it was about us for an extra half hour tonight.  Because that was exactly what we were going to do, whether they liked it or not.

By the time I crawled into bed, I felt emotionally exhausted in the whine-and-slobber-on-a-shoulder-all-night kind of way.  I was trying to learn when to bite my tongue and let someone else handle a situation.  It wasn’t easy.  Handing over control never is, because I know what I can do, but I know alla’ fucknada about what you can do. 

I was working on it.  Or trying to.  If you say it's a process, I will cut you. 
                In High School, I was in the geek elite, otherwise known as Academic Decathlon.  We got to know each other fairly well on the first trip, but everyone learned the type of person I was by one freak occurrence.  A country singer visited a mall in Dallas, and we were at said mall.  I still remember how one of the guys in Ac/Dec ran up, excited, “She signed my checkbook!”  Instantly, everyone wanted to meet her, but when we got to the store, nobody would go in. 

I snorted. 

At the time, I didn’t know the store had literally posted employees at the entrance to block any fans from approaching this starlet, but it would not have mattered.  I had a secret weapon. 

I’m really short.

“I’ll be back,” I said, seeing their jaws drop and shaking my head.  Chickens, I thought.  The worst she could do was say no. 

At my height, I did not have to sneak through the aisles.  The aisles were over my head.  I simply

walked in.  Since the employees were manning the entrances, none of them saw me.  I walked straight up to the starlet and her parents. 
               The minute she saw me, her eyes dulled.  Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging to the shoulders of her grey t-shirt, which she’d bottomed off with baggy sweat pants.  If she didn't want to be rushed by fans, why choose the high-end Galleria mall and wear trucker apparel?  Get off my nipples, bitch.  They are better than yours, anyways.
               She glared at me, and I felt my hackles rise.

“We’re from West Texas.  Our school is here competing in the Academic Decathlon.  I don’t really listen to your music, but the rest of the team is here and they are dying to meet you.  Would you mind?”  I sugar-coated the tiny barb I tossed in so it sounded like nothing of the sort.  She did not answer me. 

More glaring.

It’s okay.  I don’t like you, either, cupcake.

Her father beamed, “Of course she wouldn’t mind!  Bring them over!” 

I returned to my teammates and, after smirking at a store employee anxious to toss me out on my ear, or ass then ear if I bounced, led them back to the country princess.  They stared, they stammered, they got autographs.  They asked what CD’s she’d bought (yes, this was 1998 or 1999, pre-Ipod; I know, completely troglodytic )—Lenny Kravitz and Smashing Pumpkins—and we left.

And I’m not ashamed to say the smiles on their faces made the trouble I could have gotten into entirely worth it, trouble I learned about only after leaving the store. 

Yes, I was glad it made them smile.  I do have a heart in here somewhere, you know.  I just don’t show it off because it’s hidden under very impressive boobs, and those aren’t getting displayed just to prove to the world I have one.     

It’s my excuse, anyways.  It works, too.  Nobody argues about boobs.  Their power is just mystifying in general. 

Sometimes being the one to take action works.  Other times, not so much.  I have another super power some know about, but no stranger guesses upon meeting me.  I speak Tex-Mex, similar to Spanglish but with a southern drawl and more chanclas.  You can never have enough chanclas.  Anyways, my friend Stephanie and I went to the park one day and met an entire baseball team from a neighboring town.  We were fourteen, so we were in Heaven.  We were also Stucking Fupid.  The team was Hispanic and they lavished Steph with compliments, speaking to each other in whispering asides in Spanish. 

“…eyes are so pretty!”

…y la chica....chichis grandes….

“You live here?”

…y la otra, tambien…

“What other one?  We both have big boobs.” I said quietly to one of the guys.  His eyes widened and he blushed, realizing I knew what was being said. 

“What’s your number?”

…la panoche-

“Steph, we gotta go.  Now.” I said, the suggestive words and phrases still filtering through their polite conversation. 

“No!  But why?  We’re having fun.”  She smiled coyly up at the boy she had been talking to. 

I grabbed her arm and pulled her. “Trust me.  We’re leaving.” 

“Ay!  Ay, where you goin’, uh?” One of the guys yelled, and for all the intelligence I posses, at that moment I dialed in Dumb. 

I turned back and yelled, “Yo hablo Espanol, estupido.  No chinges conmigo, cabron.”

And those eight words were how we got chased back to my house two blocks away by an entire baseball team. 

Go Clams!  No, go, as in r-u-n!

And boy, did we ever.  I don’t think I’ve ever kicked up so much dust running down a road as I did that day.

Those guys were pissed.  Never caught us, though.  I smiled.

Lost in thought, I almost jumped when Jerrilyn climbed in bed with me.  I caught myself before the bed dumped me.  Smirking, I scooted to make room in the narrow, bloated cot.  She snuggled up to my back and whispered, “Brittni?  What’s the worst situation you’ve ever been drug into?” 

I could have answered, I suppose.  Here I’d been thinking about all the times I’d jumped into a situation, but I could have told her how my parents never made me choose sides, yet I was always the mediator between them.  I could have told her how my brother once was chased by a pack of boys in my grade; how he had hidden at a friend’s house and she finally opened the door when the boys threatened to bust in the windows.  Once inside, they tried to corner my brother and I jumped in front of the boys.  Smallie Garcia told me to get out of the way, or he would punch me. 

“If you want to get to my brother, you’ll have to go through me.  And honestly, I don‘t think you have the balls.” I told him.

He actually grinned, then drew his fist back and let the punch fly, stopping right at my nose.  I did not flinch. 

“I’ve been hit by people bigger and stronger than you.  You might knock me down, but I will get back up, and I will kick you so hard you’ll taste a new kind of nut.” I said, putting my hand on my hip and cocking my head to the side. 

The boys seemed shocked.  Snapping out of it, they tried to recover by cracking jokes at my brother’s expense.  Then Cody said, “You better leave my sister the fuck alone, you asshole.” 

They left. 

I whipped around to stare at my brother.  “His sister?  She’s eleven years old, Lalo!” 

“Nobody asked you to defend me.”  He snarled, peeking over the top of a beat up sofa chair.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time somebody tries to shove you in a dumpster.” I said, and slammed the front door on my way out. 

I could have told Jerrilyn all of this, but the question was not about me.  Any time someone asks a question of the kind she did, they already have their own answer and want to share it.  So, I simply answered, “Not that I can think of right now.  You?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, resting her chin on the top of my shoulder, ”last year my sister was pregnant.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to have kids, so I was really excited for her, you know?  And her boyfriend?  Hell!  My momma joked we’d of had to strap his ass down to keep him from floating away!  He was on cloud nine.  But then my sister called one day and told me she miscarried.  She was crying and asking me to come over, so I hopped in the car and drove over.” 

For a few minutes, she grew quiet. 
                I waited. 
               Finally, she continued.

“When she calmed down, she asked if I’d stick around for when he came home from work.  I told her I would.  I mean, I couldn't imagine having to do that, you know?  Tell somebody something like that.  He came in, all happy, and kissed her, but then he saw she was upset and got all worried.  She took him in the bedroom and I just sat in the living room, waiting to, like, help her help him after she told him.  About ten minutes later he comes flying out into the living room, shouting at me.  ‘You told her it was okay to take five pills?  The shit the Doctor told her to be careful with?  How could you?’ ” Jerrilyn said, her voice coming from somewhere deep inside of her, some play track full of painful memories and the easiest ways to explain them.  She was on auto-pilot. 

“He didn’t even slow down as he ran through the house, just yelled at me as he went out the door.  I was shocked.  It didn’t register.  I took off into the bedroom to talk to my sister and she was sitting on the bed, crying.  I asked her, you know, why she would tell him that.  I mean, didn’t she understand what five of those pills would do?  What five of them…and then I knew.    She’d done it on purpose.  She’d miscarried on purpose and she blamed me so her boyfriend wouldn’t know.” 

No wonder she crawled in my bed.  She’d lost a sister in addition to herself this year.  I don't care what anyone says.  A violation of that magnitude between siblings is a loss, because there are simply some bridges which can be mended, but will never again be capable of supporting the weight they once were able.  This was one of those bridges. 

“It wasn’t just that she lied.  I mean, that was enough of a betrayal, but--I don’t know.  I don’t know how to explain it.”  She murmured, curling into a ball behind my back. 

She fell silent, and I considered her story.  She’d mentioned she might not be able to have children, but why?  Her sister could have kids.  But Jerrilyn? 

“She could have kids and you might not be able to.  She knows you want them, and she still pretty much told people you killed their child.  It’s completely against who you are, and that…” I tried to find the right words, because these tender moments can be so easy in the breaking, “that really makes it worse, because your sister knows that.” 

“Yes!” She whispered, fidgeting a little, unfolding a little.  “She’s my sister.  She knows better than anybody.  Like, she knows how much I want kids, she knows how I feel about abortion.  I mean, I wouldn’t stop her if that was what she wanted, but it’s not something I would ever do.  And to have her blame me to everybody, all of our friends and family, it was like being punched in…in…”

“In the womb and the heart at the same time?” I asked lightly, not really joking. 

“Yes!  Yes.” Her voice caught, “That’s exactly what it was like.”

“What a cunt.” I said, testing the water.

Jerrilyn did not disagree.

“Go on, Jerrilyn.” I rolled onto my back and almost knocked her off the bed in the process.  You trying being graceful in a bed built for one ass cheek at a time.  My left arm flailed out to grab her.  She latched on to me and quickly recovered, scooting closer to curl up on my left side. Without putting further pressure on her by looking at her, I reiterated. “Say it.  You can still love your sister, but what she did was beyond cruel.  Say it.  Let it out.”    

“She’s…a bitch.” 

“No, she’s a cunt.” I said.  Bitch was too easy a word.  She needed something vile, because I’m sure she had called her sister a bitch before.  Bitch would not cut it, not this time.  She needed to call her something new. 

After five or ten minutes passed, I thought she might have fallen asleep.  “She is a cunt,” Jerrilyn finally whispered, tremors beginning to rock her lithe form in sobs. “She’s a cunt and I hate her for what she did; she’s a cunt.” 

I rested the left side of my head on the crown of hers and let her cry, “Good girl.” 

                Once her tears subsided, I asked the last question, knowing now why she’d crawled in my bed.  “You spoke to your mom tonight, didn’t you?  While I was seeing Rathbone?”

                She nodded against my shoulder. 

                “Your sister’s pregnant again, isn’t she?”

                She nodded again, but lighter. 

                “Well, I guess now you can call her a fucking cunt.” 

Silence.  Well, can’t say I didn’t see that one com-

Jerrilyn began laughing-- a surprised laugh, as if she had not expected such a response-- but still laughter.  It's funny how often hysterical laughter and angry tears substitute for each other.  I slapped my hand over her mouth, trying to stem the giggling in myself.  "Shhh! You think I want Debra in bed with us?  She's been giving you the 'pink' eye all week.  You better get out of here lickety split before she gets you to knuckle under with her camel toe."

She dissolved into the giggles, the hysterical tone in her laughter gone.  I dropped my guard and we both acted like foolish girls at a bizarre, state-sanctioned slumber party.  By the time we came down from our fit, it was hard not to smile at each other.

  A wave of sleepiness swept over me.  I gave her an awkward hug, reaching across with my right arm and pulling her in tight, “You okay, now?  Want to talk some more?” 

Even though I was exhausted, I tried to keep the get-the-fuck-out-of-my-room tone from seeping into my voice.  At least for Jerrilyn.  She could stay for the rest of the night if she wanted.  I would Elmer’s Glue my lids open if need be.  No stick glue or rubber cement, so at most I would only lose a few eyebrows when she finally let me sleep.

Her call. 

She sat up, which the bed did not like.  I adjusted, flipping over onto my left side so she had more room.  “No, I think I’m okay, now.  I just…wanted….needed to get it out.” 

“Okay.’ 

“Thanks, Brittni.” 

I think I mumbled something inarticulate which passed for you’re welcome, but she knew what I meant. 

Any time, Jerrilyn. 

Just say the word.  I’ll be there with a cot, two hots, and a pot.  It’ll be just like old times on the ward.  I’ve even got a few new words to call your sister. 

Really, any time…at all.