Suicide Kills, part 9

                The next morning, I showered and went to breakfast. I knew the others would be anxious to hear about Maria Rosa. Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Marigold sat at the table and I joined them, dropping into a seat like my ass had an anchor.  I still had a migraine, but after finally exhausting myself the night before through lack of sleep, I had dozed just enough to make the pain manageable.

                "She’s fine, just fine. She’d gotten home from a movie right before I called." I told them, filling them in on Maria Rosa's day after her departure.

                Something was wrong with this picture, I thought as I finished. "Where's Ike?'

                Veronica and Marigold dressed themselves in apprehensive expressions, before looking at Jerrilyn. Fuck me, Amadeus. I am not going to like this. I know it.

                Finally, Jerrilyn told me. "He’s in Big Spring. Yesterday was the last day on his insurance."

                For a second, the information did not register. He was gone? I swallowed painfully, feeling like I had been thumped in the throat. Once I trusted my voice to speak, I asked, "Did he at least get to leave his number?"

                They each shook their heads.

                I sucked in a loud lungful of air and looked up to the ceiling. Left, just like that. Not a good bye or last name, just poof went the egg in the cuckoo’s nest.
                Jerrilyn slid a tray over to me. I waved it away. The food wasn’t enjoyable or even tolerable to begin with, and for damn sure would have been worse after Ike's sudden departure. I have enough issues as it is with my shabby digestion system. Eating what they called food when I was upset was just asking for two hours in the bathroom, and here, two hours in the bathroom would cause all kinds of alarms to go off. No, thanks.

                When I finally returned my gaze to the table, I met three concerned faces. I laughed lightly, "I’m okay, y’all. I just…wish he hadn’t disappeared. I’d grown kinda fond of the quiet old fucker."

                "When you get out, you can always go see ‘im." Jerrilyn said, encouragingly.

                "Yeah, that’d be a great idea. I could just walk up and say, ‘Hey! I was in the psych ward with a guy named Ike. He’s supposed to be here, because his insurance wouldn‘t pay for his hospital stay any more. I don’t know his last name, but he should be easy to find. He's got liver spots and grey hair. For y’alls sake I hope he’s bathing regularly, these days. Can you take me to him?’" Shaking my head, I said, "No. I don’t think that would work. Nice thought, though."

                Jerrilyn let a grin emerge around the corners of her mouth, as though not entirely sure of whether I was joking.

                I stood. It was time to get back to my room. Today was visiting day, and their families would be coming, soon. Laughter and enjoyment was not something I was in the mood for, so I decided to go be a pussy somewhere else.  I also decided to stop by the nurses station and get something to take for my head.

                Walking around to Veronica’s chair, I leaned over her shoulder. "You okay, after last night?"

                She nodded, flashing a smile. At first, I thought it meant she was feeling better, but then I saw how she struggled to maintain the facade, how her expression flickered between sad and brave. She was still shell shocked from being manhandled and drugged. And manipulated. Her eyes began to shine as she held back whatever turbulent emotions sloshed about inside.

                I could feel Marigold’s eyes on me, their heat like a slap to my face. I can take a hint, bitch. Thanks. Next time, I’ll leave the comforting to women with soft, expansive bosoms and gentle, clucking voices. Or practice on animals, first.

                "Um…good. If you, you know, need anything, just let me know." I said, the words feeling foreign. Crossing the room, I paused at the door. "Come down and get me later, when your families arrive. I‘d like to meet them."

                "I didn’t know cowboys were your type." Marigold said from the doorway to my room later that evening.

                I looked over at her from the window seat. "They aren‘t."

                She raised an over-sculpted eyebrow, "Well, you got one here to see you." With a nod toward the hall, she left.

                I wracked my brain, trying to figure out who it could be. I mean, I lived in Texas. I knew cowboys, but they aren’t really the hospital type. Real cowboys typically stay far and away from hospitals, believing it to be an unspoken jinx on their health.

                And no, I am absolutely not kidding about that.

                Hurrying down the hall, I rounded the corner and came face to face with Avery. He was a country boy to his core. We'd been good friends a little over a year, hanging out at various times and getting lost on dirt roads trying to find bonfires.

                What, you thought hicks hadn’t tamed fire, yet?

                Bonfires are a Texas tradition, held way out yonder with piles and piles of wood and a river of beer. And occasionally, somebody’s swiped wicker lawn furniture or garish Halloween display is the starter. Like the Montel Jordan song, this is how we do it, at least down Texas way.

                I never would have expected Avery to come see me, particularly since visiting hours had long been over. But at that moment, he looked like an orange push pop on a hot summer day; a little messy, but so god damn refreshing my mouth nearly watered.

                He had on a blue shirt  un-tucked over tight wranglers, and his boots peaked out from beneath the bottom hem of his jeans. Unlike some, Avery wasn't a weekend cowboy. He had lived on a farm, ridden horses, corralled cattle, and mended fences for much of his life. He was the real deal. As he saw me, he took of his cap and held it aloft, used to wearing straw cowboy hats so much he handled caps in the same way. Oh yes, Avery was every inch a real shitkicking, picklebutt.

                The way you separate real cowboys from fake is quite simple. Real cowboys wear boots with scars and scratches when they're dressed down, because they always have to be ready. Fake cowboys wear tennis shoes or designer shoes, because they like the nifty hats. Hand 'em a sack of feed or the keys to a tractor, and they will ruin their professionally pressed jeans by laying a brick in their Calvins’. That’s just science. We’re real scientified down these parts.

                Avery hurried toward me and lifted me off my feet in a big hug.  The touch of his lips was a shock that did not come from left field, but clear the fuck out of parking lot F.  This place must do things to people. Weird, illogical things. I could not remember having once ever felt attracted to him in that way, but when he kissed me, I kissed him back.

                Wait, I kissed back?

                Avery? Part of the hodge-podge group I occasionally ran with, but did not date? And hadn’t he gone out with my roommate for two days?

                He kept kissing.

                Well, it’s not like two days broke her heart, right? I mean, she did have somebody else, now...

                No, no, no. Brittni, are you forgetting where the hell you are? Pulling away from him, my mouth continued working, though not to his advantage, "How the hell did you get in here?"

                He grabbed my hand and grinned, completely unruffled by his welcome.

                I pulled away, even though we had just played tongue wars. I was still very fucking ruffled.

                "My mom. She used to work in here, but she started working on another part of the floor. Everybody in the ward knows me. So, I asked Debra to let me in." He explained, quite pleased with his dimpled self.

                Hold on just a moment. The Debra let him in? To see me? The Debra?

                "Debra did?" I repeated, flatly. Being a friend of his mothers, I could now no more bash the woman than I could his dog, Lilboy. Not if I wanted him to stay and chat with me. And I really, hornily, wanted.

                Skank of Satan. I swear, that woman had it coming. After Avery left, of course.

                The confusion on my face must have been apparent. Avery gripped my shoulders lightly, his expression gentle, "Relax. It’s just me."

                I shook my head, "Yeah, well, ‘just me’ doesn’t normally kiss me. I mean, ‘just me’ doesn’t normally kiss you. Wait, that’s not right, either damn it. You know what I‘m trying to say."

                "So?" He asked, a smile twitching on his upper lip.

                "So? I’m in a psych ward-"

                "I noticed," he said, innocently.

                "-after trying to kill myself. Does this not seem like really bad fucking timing to you?" I spat, crossing my arms.

                I had to give him credit. The boyish gleam never left his eyes, even when he registered my very pissed off question.
                He took a step away, giving me much needed space, and bent down to pick up something. "Your roommate wanted me to bring you this. Your CD’s. I didn’t know you liked Reggae music. Pretty decent collection, here."

                "Did you not just hear me?"

                "Yep. Sure did." He said, opening the bag of items he had brought. "Also brought some more clothes, and cigarettes. She thought you might run out."

                "Avery…"

                "Brittni, I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend. I just wanted to come visit you. I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. Let’s just see what happens, okay?" He said, looking at me as he stood, the open vulnerability on his face endearing.

                I did not know who was crazier; him for asking, or me for considering. I decided it did not matter, given the locale.

                "Fine. But if this ends badly, it’s your fucking fault." I told him, taking the cap and tucking my hand in his free one. It felt warm and rough, like stucco in the sun.  He wrapped his fingers around mine. With a squeeze, he walked me toward the room used for group counseling.

                "What do you say we put on some of this music and you reintroduce me to UB40?" He suggested, lifting the bag in his other hand.

                I smiled, resigned and slightly happy about being so. "Sounds like a plan."

                It was a few hours later that I finally walked him to the big double doors. An eerie feeling of déjà vu came over me, like this was some freakishly warped re-enactment of the dates in junior high and high school when a boyfriend came to watch a movie and I walked them to their car after midnight. I almost expected my father to be on the other side as the dull metal doors swung outward, his mustache pushed to the left side of his face above a frowning mouth, while looking at his watch and peering over the tops of his glasses to let me know I was pushing it.

                At the door, I let Avery kiss me, again. What the hell, right? Might as well take advantage while I’m in here and can plead lunacy. In the middle of the kiss, my arms up around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, I opened my eyes and saw the peeping security camera stuck in a corner of the ceiling. I guess I’d gotten a little caught up in the nostalgic feeling of new romance, and really had forgotten just exactly where I was. Damn, and I had almost felt normal, again. Thanks for the reminder. Flipping off the camera, I closed my eyes.

                After he left, I went in the common room and got a coke from the vending machine, and went looking for the other patients.  The Debra was already gone. The nurses were watching a TV behind the nurses station, sharing smiles and raising eyebrows over Brad Pitt. Well, that’s certainly professional.  I passed the desk and made a left. From the smoking room, I could hear who I was looking for. When the cat’s away, I guess…