Suicide Kills, part 12

Before I could get to Sandra Joe’s room, Dr. Rathbone intercepted me in the hall for more of his fantastic therapy.  I suspected he also wanted to show off his new chair, which was bigger and nicer than the one I had commandeered from him.  A bit passive aggressive, are we Doc? Eh, at least I could still spin. 

I took a seat.  After a ten second game of Furniture Simon (you should know me by now, take an educated guess), he asked how I felt and why I was not happy. 

Happy, happy, happy, I was sick to death of happy.  I told him so. 

“Everyone wants happiness, Brittni.  Why don’t you?  Isn’t that what most people plan for and try to achieve, some measurement of happiness?” He countered.

“I don't think constant happiness is a natural state.  To me, constant happiness is a warning sign, because at some point it becomes exhausting, at some point you realize you were happy five months ago and have been forcing it ever since.  Then what happens?  You crash.” 

“And you’re afraid of crashing?’

“Are you sure your degree isn’t actually a lick and stick tattoo?  You didn‘t get it out of the gumball or candy machines in front of supermarkets, did you?”  

“Ever the pessimist.  You’re rudeness is a defense mechanism, Brittni.  Why do you think you rely on it so much?  Why aren’t you more cheerful?  Why can’t you be more cheerful?  Thinking positively and feeling positively has been shown to achieve positives, which can be argued leads to happiness.”

Again with the happiness, you’re obsessed, Doc.  You really should see someone about that. “Cheerfulness and happiness aren't the same thing.  I think being in emotional balance is the most natural state.  Balance varies in degrees during the struggle to build your own life.  And the ultimate version comes with achievement or acceptance of an alternate path, having reached your goals or decided upon another goal, and feeling perfectly at ease in the outcome.  Veer to the left and you can reach for anger, veer to the right and you can reach for happiness, both at hand equally, and both to fulfill needs we have in ourselves, needs of venting emotion.  Constant happiness is unnatural and a fucking bitch to try and maintain.  I think balance, being at…or trying to …I don’t know, reach, I guess, an ideal place in life is confused for happiness, when it‘s really being at peace with your achievements or progress.”

“Don’t you think depression is exhausting, too?  Not just happiness?” He asked.  I noticed the notebook on his lap had slid from the top of his thigh and was pressed against the side of his new chair, and he had dropped his lead pencil on the desk. 

Is that bad?  When a shrink quits taking notes?  I wondered, then answered, “Of course it is exhausting.  Weren’t you listening?  If it wasn’t exhausting, why would I be here?”

“Brittni, being this antagonistic does not help you get better.’ 

A fuck I give, Doc.  Really.  “Oh!  So, it’s kind of like you, then?”

He frowned at me in a paternal way, “I would like to you help you, but if you won’t let me, you’ll be the one who suffers for it.”

I popped my neck and tapped my feet on the ground, considering to spin away.  Spinny chairs must bring out the petulant child in me, but this grown man was about to bring out far worse. 

“You need to open up and let me help you make sense of things.’

That fucking does it.  I went rigid in my seat, then slid over towards him – all two feet – and lifted my legs off the ground, crossing them in the seat of the chair.  Leaning forward, I dropped my chin and glared at him, my voice sinking low, “How are you going to help me when I’ve seen you twice in four days?  This little dance we’re doing is bullshit.  The first session was the hokey pokey and now you’re trying to get me to do an interpretive dance of my life, like I’m some kind of coin operated, symbol-banging monkey ready to be wound up at your convenience. 

“You want deep, Dr. Rathbone?  A week ago, I wanted to die.  Not to forget my pain, but to end it.  Not to numb it with pot and alcohol like most of my generation, but to erase everything permanently, because drugs filter out, so I tried to just destroy the filter entirely.  I wanted everything to just quit.  But, right now all I want is for you to get the hell out of my face, because you’re forgetful and negligent at best and intentionally avoiding us at worst, and I cannot decide which is the most damaging to a patient for their goddamn doctor to be.  Is that deep enough for you?”

After my voice faded, the silence was encompassing.  I realized I hated the quiet, and waited for him to react.  I don’t know what I expected.  To be ordered from his office, I suppose.  Heat fluttered and faded in my chest as I awaited his reaction.

He simply sat, hands splayed in a temple over his nose, and said, “That’s the first time I’ve seen real passion and not sarcasm from you.”  There was a tinge of pride in his voice. 

I snapped, “It’s the first fucking time you’ve tried.”

“Anger is vital, but it will only get you so far in your recovery.”

I’ve heard a chide like this before.  With a snicker, I asked, “You’re not going to start talking about angry logs, are you?” 

“Logs?  What do you mean?” He asked, and shifted forward.  The curiosity in his eyes caught me off guard.

I faltered for a second.  His sudden interest was putting me off-balance, the careful balance I had just expounded upon.  To put it plainly, he was pissing me off with his swinging therapy, like he was playing good doc/bad doc with himself.  He did know that tactic only worked with two people, right?  “I had a shrink tell me being angry was like stoking a fire; we can control how hot it gets, because we’re the ones who add the logs.”

He removed his glasses, pinched his nose, and slowly shook his head. Suddenly, he won a few points from me, because I had the same ‘you have got to be kidding me’ expression when the log analogy was first explained.  Rathbone began waving a hand by his face as though he were clearing away a cobweb.  “A bit rudimentary, but accurate.  Now, let me ask you something.  Would you agree fire is to produce warmth and comfort, or to cook?”

“Yes.” Holy shit, shrinks stick together.  He’s trying to salvage this crap.

“Okay, good.  What happens when you add too many logs to a fire?”

I see where you are going.  And I will fight you, fight you, I tell you, every step of the way!

That’s not an angry log, is it? 

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, “Hmm.  That’s a tough one.  You burn down your grandparents house?”

“You make a destructive mess, Brittni.  Each ‘log’ increases your anger until it has control over you, instead of the other way around.”

I get it, Rathbone.  Quotation marks with your hands--just not necessary.

“Yeah, okay.  I see your point.” I conceded, and got up.  “We through?”

“For now.” He said. 

“Good.  Bill me.“ I left his office.

And immediately ran into Sandra Joe.

Suicide Kills, part 11

              Two hours later, we were still in the smoking room.  We had put the CD player on the floor and set it on a radio station.  Juvenile’s song Back That Azz Up came on, and before I knew it, Jerrilyn and Veronica had pulled me from my seat.  Rolling my eyes, I let them pull me about the room, but it wasn’t enough.  No, for women it is never enough.  We’re never satisfied unless we’ve formed a train and spanked each other’s asses. 

                Whatever.  Let me show y’all how it’s done! 

                I busted out my best dance moves, causing Veronica and Jerrilyn to stop and watch me.  I shook my hips and rolled my ribcage, waiting for the opportune moment.  When the end of the song neared, I unleashed my super power. 

                I did the Carlton Banks.

                Marigold, Jerrilyn, and Veronica erupted in laughter.  Smiling, I turned the music back down and we sat at the table, again. 

                 “Your father must be proud.” Marigold said with mock solemnity. 

                 “He’s probably more proud I didn’t take that job at the strip club.” I told her, reaching for the coke bottle I had re-filled earlier with water. 

                 “Wait, you were going to be a stripper?”  Jerrilyn asked, lighting another cigarette. 

                 “Yeah, my stage name was going to be Anita Dikenmi.” 

                 “Really?”  Ah, gullibility, you‘ve got a hot sister named Jerrilyn.

                I laughed.  “No, that wasn’t going to be my stage name.  I did checkout a strip club when I first moved here, though.” 

                 “Which one?” Veronica asked. 

                 “Pandora’s Boxx, you know?  The one on Knickerbocker by the church Jenny Jones got strippers from last year?  I went in and I swear it looked like a pimp exploded in there.  There was zebra striped carpet, waist-high strobe lights like somebody blinged out was spinning in front of a flashlight, and vanilla smoke from a smoke machine.  I asked the manager about hiring procedure and he said I’d need to perform a private audition in his office.  I left.  I don‘t care what he calls it, a private audition is way too close to prostitution.”  I explained, lighting another cigarette, as well. 

                 “Ew.  Was he at least cute?”  Jerrilyn asked. 

                 “No.  He was fifty-ish and balding, with greasy skin and a comb over.  I think it was more like a test to see if I could gyrate on him without puking.” 

                 “Your Mom would’ve had every right to kick your ass if you’d taken it.” Said the crackhead...  Oh wait, she bought me dinner.  That should’ve read ‘Said the rich crackhead…’                                                                       

                 “Yeah, well, Mari, that’s why I didn’t.  That and I love dancing, just not on fat slobs with halitosis and dirty fingernails.” I took a swig of my water, then wiped my mouth on the back of my hand as un-ladylike as possible. 

                Chumbawumba came on and Jerrilyn turned the music back up.  We talked for another hour or two, lost in a cozy cocoon of Crazy Bitches Just Bein’.  We were finally sent back to our rooms after complaints from the floor below during a particularly raucous rendition of The Roof is On Fire.  I’d tell you more about it, but you’re not worthy.  Some things are just too good to taint by description.

Anyways, I considered the night a roaring success to end on that note. 

Aaron did not agree, but the enormous, romance novel loving orderly still smiled as he led us, giggling, to our rooms. 

The next morning we had a new patient.    Her name was Sandra Joe, and she was so similar to my biological mother I blanched at the sight of her.  By biological, I mean the woman who shot me out, not raised me.  The woman who raised me is my Mom. Having met my biological mother only recently and been half-raped on my visit to see her in Las Vegas (half-raped, held hostage four hours, then miraculously loved; I don’t know who penned Murphy’s law, but you are one sick, but oddly not heartless, bastard), I wasn’t happy seeing such a close resemblance to her sitting on the couch chatting it up with my friends.  Barely taller than I, she had long dark brown wavy hair hanging just passed the middle of her back.  She could have been my biological Aunt, having small eyes with laugh lines curving over high, rounded cheekbones above a narrow, but full mouth and blunted chin. 

She was odd, to say the least.  When she spoke, her voice was tinged with an almost ethereal quality.  Her fluttery little movements had an unexpected grace.  How her delicate hands seemed to glide as she entertained the other women made me think of floating in water. 

The other patients were wrapped securely in a web of comfort she exuded, probably without even realizing it.  Shit, tell me she’s not a holy roller or bible beater, I thought.  I’ve gone to church my whole life.  God can leave me alone for a week while I go crazy. 

“Brittni?  Come sit down.” Jerrilyn urged, seeing me at the door. 

Sandra Joe looked at me and smiled serenely. 

Veronica finished her lip liner.  Ah, Vanity, thy name is Woman.  Makeup before eight AM is a sin and is chiseled on a tablet somewhere, I know it.  Possibly Egypt.

                I sat down next to Sandra Joe and leaned against the arm of the couch.  “So, what’d you do?  Or more importantly, what’d you do it with?” I asked, taking a long strand of my hair and twirling it in my fingers.  I’d wanted to say that since Jerrilyn asked me my first day here.                                    

                Yeah…buddy.

                The color drained from Sandra Joe’s face. 

                Oh, shit.  Bad Brittni. 

                Her mouth opened and closed, then she got up and left the room just as breakfast arrived. 

The other women looked at me, and I suddenly felt small, like a child who was about to get in trouble and desperately needed a good excuse.  But I had none.  Let’s go with sincerity, instead.

                 “I wasn‘t trying to make her leave, you know?”  I said, staying on the couch as the other residents walked into the hall to get their food off of the caddy. 

                 “Don’t worry about it.  It’s not really what you said; it’s that she’s not ready to talk about it.” Jerrilyn explained, sitting down and using her fork to inspect the condition of the food, testing density, dryness, and composition before mixing all of the foods into one atrocious mixture and hoovering the contents.  I’m all for mixing food in certain instances, but those runny eggs oozing between the shredded, undercooked hash browns topped with salsa and grape jelly?  My God, woman, that is plain foul. 

                I decided I‘d apologize to Sandra Joe--and eat---later. 

By the evening, Sandra Joe was still in her room, so I decided to visit her after watching X-Files and having a quick smoke.  I was a late-comer to The X-Files, but I actually prefer it this way, because when you’re hooked from the beginning you have to wait for each episode.  Get hooked near the end and you have a plethora of episodes to choose from.  Luckily for me, Veronica tried not to give away too much as we watched. 

When the episode was over, we made our way to the smoking room, Marigold, Jerrilyn, Veronica and I.  Walking by the desk, I noticed a diarrhea brown, perhaps formerly orange, beat-up duffle bag sitting on the floor.  I glanced at the humility closet and saw it was shut.  Two in one day, really?  Who do they think we are?  Porn stars? 

Crazy never takes a number. 

It was only a few minutes before the latest patient joined us in the smoking room.  We all have vices we placate our lives with, be they platitudes, tits, or tobacco.  I guess the depressed and suicidal opt for tobacco when nothing else is within reach and platitudes run dry.  The newest patient was no exception. 

She walked in, a tiny, wraithlike woman with empty, heavy eyes and a mouth that when pursed looked sewn shut by the many wrinkles framing the lips.  If only we had been so lucky… No, really.  You have no idea.

The cigarette in her hand was already lit.  She sat next to me and promptly dropped ashes on my shirt, one my grandmother gave me after my grandfather’s death.  It had been his favorite. 

The woman switched the cigarette to her other hand and ground the ashes securely in with the heel of her palm, squeaking like an ancient cog in need of a thorough oiling, “Oh, I’m so sorry!  Well, at least it’s not a new shirt.”

Woman, you could not sell enough of your organs on the black market to make up for the sentimental value in this shirt.  Ice, very thin.  You, right the fuck on it.

“No, that’s great.  Just rub it in instead of blowing the ashes off.  Perfect.”  I muttered, and shoved her hand away.  Looking down, I appraised the damage.  There was a hole the size of the tip of a pen right next to the second to last button, a streak of grey arcing out behind it like a comet.  I slowly raised my eyes without lifting my head and glared at her.  Fuck the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.  I went straight to Friday the 13, the faithful chuh chuh chuh, kah kah kah playing menacingly in my head.  My life has a soundtrack.  Yes.  The people who do not are the weird ones in my book.  Yeah, baby.  Wrap your mind around that. 

Anyways, back to the one about to die.  First she burns my shirt, then she tries to dismiss her action as unimportant by saying it was an old shirt, which negated her apology.  This daffy broad and I were not going to play well together. 

“You don’t have to get rude about it.” She scolded. 

Her comment brought my chin up, and I narrowed my eyes.  Touch me or scold me one more time, and you will be smoking that tobacco out of the same hole you are talking from, you primordial hag of Hades. 

She finally looked away. 

Satisfied, I swiveled in the opposite direction to pick up the conversation where the others and I left off, not including the sack of shit beside me.  Awful?  Perhaps.  But she’d desecrated my grandfather’s shirt, the one I saw him in regularly before he died, and had therefore automatically gone right to the top of my shit list.  Fuck fair.  I’m Crazy, remember? 

Behind me, she went on as if I still faced her.  “My name is Nettie.  The doctor said I really shouldn’t be at this ward, because there’s a better one about two hundred miles east, but my husband has to make the arrangements first, so I’m stuck here.  At least until he gets me a reservation.  You know they’re even supposed to have these big ol’ therapy rooms with massooges-”

Marigold interrupted her, “What’s a massooge?”

Turning, I cut my eyes back around to her to watch her answer. 

Nettie glowed, thrilled to have knowledge of something Marigold did not.  “They’re people who, they all… massage, like, your back and shoulders and stuff.  I get ‘em all the time.” 

“So, shouldn’t you know the word is ‘masseuse’?”

The pink flush of joy in Nettie’s grey cheeks faded, only to return brighter and redder, “O-Of course.  Massooges is just what I call ‘em.” 

“Oh, like a nickname, then.” Jerrilyn stated, her sarcasm almost undetectable.  Almost.  I glanced at her and saw both eyebrows raised.  Her expression was very cool, almost detached.  I frowned. 

“Yeah. “ Nettie said, eagerly. “Yeah, like a nickname.  I mean, I know they’re really called massue-” She paused, and I could hear her brain working furiously to replay the way Marigold had pronounced ‘masseuse’. 

“Sss.  There’s an ‘s’ sound on the end.”  Marigold corrected. 

“I know!” Nettie snapped, “You just didn’t give me enough time to say it!  Garshdangit!“ The whine in her voice made all of the muscles in my neck contract and my jaw clench.  Her voice had a quality to it, a raspy screech, which brought to mind the owls of midnight outside of my grandparents home, nesting in the ancient windmill by the house and seeking out late-night snacks.  The only difference was the owls also made hooting noises that were soothing in the moonlight, whereas I’m sure Nettie had nothing soothing or even close to it which could come from her mouth or any other orifice capable of sound.    

I turned one more time, just enough to give her my profile, but not enough to give her my full attention.  “Just, uh, how much time did you need, Nettie?  Our insurance only pays for so long.”

“I-”

“Her question was rhetorical, Nettie.” Jerrilyn said, quietly but sharply. 

“I-“

“No, that means no answer is really required, Nettie.” Jerrilyn interrupted, again.  Jerrilyn was never mean, but tonight her patience was even thinner than mine.  I decided to corner Jerrilyn after speaking with Sandra Joe and find out what was going on.   

“I’ll meet y’all back in the common room in a little bit,” I told the others, ignoring Nettie and rising. 

“Where you going, Britt?” Jerrilyn asked. 

“See Sandra Joe.  About earlier.” I explained, watching her.  I saw the light dawn in her eyes.  Jerrilyn had completely forgotten Sandra Joe was even here.  “I’ll just meet y’all in a little bit and we’ll wa-“

“Your name is Britt? That’s my middle name!”

Brakes slammed in my head and I nearly wheeled into reverse.  What the hell is this daffy damn woman jawing about, now?  I know she is not saying her name is Nettie Britt.  Swallow it, ignore it, and roll on, Brittni.  “Like I was saying, we’ll watch a shitty movie, or something.”

Jerrilyn, Veronica, and Marigold nodded, all three watching me struggle not to snap at Nettie on my way out the door.   

“See ya later!  Isn’t that just so cool?  We both have the same name!  How tall is she?  Is she married?  You know, I think I'm shorter than she is.” Nettie continued after I left.  I could still hear her after I passed the elevator and walked in front of the nurses desk. 

Great. 

A fucking life-mimic.  She sees what cards you’ve been dealt in life, then claims to have the exact same set, only one step higher or lower depending on what you value. 

I chuckled as I walked into the hall, Thin Lizzy’s Don’t Believe a Word beginning to play in my head.  She may think she’s creative or quick, coming up with near identical situations with slight deviations, but she’s never gone up against someone whose life is stranger than fiction.  The woman was about to get a lesson in here she would never forget.

Suicide Kills, part 10

                Walking in, knowing smiles lit up all three faces waiting for me. I twisted the bottle cap of the coke I was holding and felt my cheeks burn.  "So, uh, how’d the visits go after I left?"

                Veronica snorted, "Who cares? We’re married. How did your visit go?"

                "We’re friends." I said dismissively, hoping they would drop it.

                "I’m not married, woman!" Jerrilyn laughed, pushing Veronica’s shoulder.

                "Four years, and you’ve had your finger up his butt. You’re married." Veronica replied, joining her.

                Up his…never mind, I do not want to know. I’m not ready for that level of friendship, because once you know whose ass somebody has had their finger up, it‘s only a matter of time before you‘re checking a questionable growth between the cheeks or between the lips, neither of which are above the belly button.

                Ah, hell. She’d seen my ‘what the fuck’ expression at the comment Veronica made. I looked back at the door, wondering if I could make it before she went into detail.

                "I used to work in an old folks’ home. They’d get constipated, and sometimes laxatives were too harsh. You’d have to put gloves on and fish the dingle berries out so they could shit. My boyfriend got constipated one night and I offered to help him, but he wouldn’t let me. I told him, It’s natural. You don’t have to be embarrassed. But he kept repeating, Jerrilyn, you’re not sticking your finger up my ass." Jerrilyn explained, with absolutely no shame.

                "I hope you wore less rings, then." Veronica said, ambivalent to the story.  "Just friends, huh, Midget? Friends sneak in to a mental ward? Opposite sex friends?" she prodded, not intending to let me play this off.

                I picked up my drink to take a sip.  Ugh, can’t do it. Damn you, Jerrilyn. I’ll have the mental image of you finger bowling your boyfriend stuck in my head for at least three days.  "He is just a friend. He brought some stuff up here my roommate wanted me to have." I said, trying to act as though I were not completely full of shit. "Where’s Aaron?"

                "Don’t change the subject." Veronica teased, her lipstick a shade of faded passion fruit. She sucked on a cigarette and leaned forward, blowing the smoke up toward the vent.
                "Your roommate could’ve dropped the stuff off at the nurses station outside, or even on the first floor."

                "Are we supposed to be back here? I mean, I wouldn’t want anybody to get in trouble…" I started, then shut my mouth before it could give me away entirely.

                Too late.

                The expressions on their faces, the glee and mischief, told me I had just corner-fucked myself with considerable aplomb. I dedicate that linguistic combination to my high school English teacher, who once famously said, ‘Never say with simplicity what you can enliven with flare.’ Ha, I’m pretty sure she never saw that one coming!

                "Holy shit." Marigold snickered, "Something did happen!"

                "Are y’all together, now?" Jerrilyn squealed, her comment overlapping Marigolds.

                "What happened?" Veronica persisted.

                I scowled. "Okay, I give. He bent me over the stack of Chicken Soup for the Starving Soul in the group room and hit it from behind."

                Every jaw dropped.

                "Who the hell do y’all think you’re asking for details, ya heffas?" I said, trying to control the smirk on my lips.

                Jerrilyn began shaking. Marigold looked like she’d contracted a deadly hiccupping disease, bobbing backwards every few seconds as the laughter in her built. But it was Veronica who broke the silence by guffawing.

                Her cawing finally teased the laughter from the other two women, and they dissolved into giggles.

                I closed my eyes and shook my head, a smile playing on my lips as I set my drink on the back table. When they quieted a bit, I said, "We’re just friends, but we talked about maybe trying to be something more. He kissed me and shit. It was nice. Too bad he can’t dance to save his life."

                "Aww, that is so sweet. Our baby is growing up!" Marigold said, with a glitter of Debra’s insane cheer in her eyes. She put her arms around me and planted a big, wet one on my cheek.

I jerked away, though not as roughly as I might have two days previous, and wiped at the spot.

                "Hands off the merchandise, lady. I told you; this pays the bills."

                "You must be on unemployment often, then." She quirked an eyebrow at me.

                Jerrilyn and Veronica, having just quieted, sunk back in to the giggles. I tried my best to send Marigold a dirty look, but was largely unsuccessful. Oh well, I can crush her spirit some other time.

                The dinging of the elevator caused every one of us to freeze. Nobody came up the back elevator. It was off-limits and had no buttons which could be operated from inside of the ward. Any time we went outside, Aaron first went downstairs and rode up in the elevator to operate the buttons on the inside.

                I raced out of the smoking room, leaving my cigarette burning in an ash tray, and skidded to a stop around the corner. My mouth began to water and my nose twitched. I don’t know what kind of mix up this is, but I’m takin’ it!

                A pizza delivery guy stood before the closed elevator doors, quite confused. He held a stack of pizza boxes and three Styrofoam containers in his hand.

                Marigold called behind me, "Is it here?"

                "The pizza? Or the penis?" I yelled back, eyeing the young man from the top of his pizza cap to the bottom of his Nike’s. I suddenly had another of my brilliant-but-probably-already-exists ideas; Stripping Pizza Delivery! I tucked the lucrative concept away in the ‘to be patented’ corner of my brain.

                "The pizza." Marigold’s voice came from behind me. "The penis is a bonus."

                "Yeah, I’m sure it’s not to him. He’s trapped on a floor with a bunch of sex-starved female whack jobs." I said, my eyebrow raising wickedly and my mouth forming the crooked half smile I get when contemplating sin.

                "Trapped?" He repeated quietly, wetting his lips and cocking his head to the side, rather like a puppy trying to figure out if he should play or run for his life. I think he’s outnumbered. Running would just be foreplay.

                Marigold walked over to him and took the receipt, signing it and giving him a tip. Guess she’s a regular. She put her finger to her lips to signal him to be quiet, and took two boxes of pizza, leaving two more and the three containers on top. "Stay here, okay?"

                She walked toward the entryway separating the elevators from the rest of the floor and disappeared around it. I’m not sure, but it’s quite possible she and I would make beautiful babies together. She’d be the guy, of course. She’s got the mustache and the nuts for it.

                "Uh, hey guys? My family ordered a ton of food to be sent up here, and we’re not going to be able to eat it, all. Why don’t y’all take these two pizzas? One’s cheese and one is pepperoni, and since my cousin owns the shop, I can guarantee you they are delicious. What do y’all say?" Her tone was encouraging and friendly, with not a trace of apology or guilt.

                I waited impatiently, praying her plot worked. After a muffled exchange of voices, which I desperately hoped were due to the nurses mouths being full of cheese, bread, and sauce, Marigold said, "The delivery guy came up the back elevator by mistake. You’ll have to let him out the front. The bill is all on me, though. Y’all just enjoy!"

                I like rich people.  Who knew?

                She walked back to the elevators grinning and empty handed. At the sight of her, I spun and almost snatched the food from the frightened delivery guy’s hands. He very wisely backed up. I flipped open the lids on the containers.

                An anticipatory groan bubbled up from my chest, temptation stroking me like a seasoned courtesan. Lasagna, spaghetti, and my guiltiest pleasure, blackened chicken Alfredo.

                I looked to Marigold, prepared to butter her muffin if need be. I rarely ate the food in the hospital, the after effects of such risky behavior being significant motivation not to. But I was starving, and this was identifiable ingredients. Big difference.

                She chuckled, "Take whichever one you want. I got all three for you, because you never eat. The pizzas are for the rest of us."

                "Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me that! I’ll take all three. I can't believe they're open this late." I slobbered, gazing lovingly down at the still smoking pastas, already plotting to sample a third of each.

                "The restaurant's right across from the dorm. Go on." Marigold urged, taking one of the pizza boxes and walking back into the smoking room.

                "But," I began, following, "what about-"

                "There’s utensils in the boxes. Sit down and shut up, for once."

                Can your tongue have an orgasm? I’m pretty sure that’s what mine did. As I twirled long, fettuccine noodles and lifted the fork from the plate, one of the noodles dared to come unraveled and tease me as it swished back and forth. My lower lip quivered and extended from my mouth to catch the dangling promise. Hey, noodle! Yo’ mama! Oh, but damn you’re delicious.

                The tongue orgasm began, starting from the tip of my tongue as the buttery, creamy Alfredo sauce coated the inside of my mouth with it’s rich, cheesy flavor. I could not dare insult it by chewing too much. These noodles deserved a lengthy digestion fitting a very satisfied meal, which I sighed to acknowledge because I knew that was precisely what I was in for. Swallowing, the taste disappeared and danced hotly down my throat, but it was okay. I had three entire containers of more.

Opening my eyes, I snapped back to reality. Okay, you just had mouth sex. Let’s not make this complicated, okay? Let’s not make this weird. Pretend like nothing happened.

                I innocently twirled more pasta on the fork, attempting to look as normal as possible. My three friends simply stared at me.

                "Brittni, don‘t take this the wrong way." Jerrilyn started, her voice dripping with sincere amusement, "Next time you see a stack of Chicken Soup for the Soul, you really need to use it."

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…