Driving to work one particularly foggy and drizzly morning, I noticed three crows perched on the power lines as I passed the pharmacy. What’s that rhyme again? One for sorrow, two for joy…I lifted my index finger from the steering wheel and drew an X three times in the air, over each individual crow.
Arriving at my office, I parked the car and entered the building, repeating in my head: Three for a what? Three for a what? Three for a what?
“How was your weekend?” the receptionist asked as I walked by her desk.
“Oh fine, thanks.” I stopped, tilting my head to the side. “How about you?”
“Great.” She grinned. “Just great.”
“Greeeaaat,” I repeated, dragging the word on for slightly too long. It sounded sarcastic. What the hell is wrong with me?
Continuing down the hallway, past the closed doors and dark offices, the left side of my body seemed heavier than the right. I dragged it along, lopsided, attempting to appear natural. It was as if something was holding my hand, pulling me downward.
Three for a what?
I unlocked my door, sat at my desk, and checked my reflection in the black computer monitor. I smiled, making sure both corners of my mouth turned upward. They did. Then, opening my mouth unnecessarily wide, I repeated, “the sssk-hiiiigh is bl-ooo in Ssssiiinn-cinnati, the sssk-hiiiigh is bl-ooo in Ssssiiinn-cinnati.”
Deciding I wasn’t having a stroke, I jerked my computer mouse from left to right to find the icon on my screen and opened my inbox. Jack’s name appeared at the top. My chest tightened.
I lifted my hand from the mouse and began making small circles with my wrist before moving each finger, one at a time: pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, thumb. My limbs were still working.
I clicked the email, looking away at first, my fingers trembling over the keyboard.
Raising my eyes to the screen, I read each word carefully.
Grace,
I wanted to tell you first before you heard it from anyone else. Jessica and I are getting married.
I hope you are well,
Jack
I was sure that I was disappearing, fading, each fragment of my body semiopaque. I checked my hand, touching the arm of the chair to make sure I was still made up of solid matter, that it didn’t pass through me. I staggered from my office down the hallway, hitting each closed door with my fist as I passed.
“Grace, are you okay?” the receptionist asked as I rounded the corner, craning her neck to peer at me. “You don’t look so good.”
Translucent holes were shining through my hands. I braced myself on her desk and began muttering, “It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“What’s your fault?” she asked, her eyebrows knotted.
“I killed him. He’s getting married. I killed us.” The holes in my hands were getting bigger. I could see the wood of her desk through them.
“Grace, what are you talking about?”
Watching her mouth move, I heard the words, but couldn’t make sense of them. Shaking my head, my body wavered. I heard a soft cry and followed the sound with my eyes. Standing in the corner was a little boy with curly black hair and fat, freckled cheeks. He was sobbing, rubbing his eyes with the flats of his fists, repeating “Mother. Mother. Mother. Mother. Mother.”
I leaned forward to comfort him, and then the darkness came.
I was confined by something. Strapped down. The smell of illness and antiseptic. The white ceiling burned my irises. I blinked my eyes.
I was in a hospital bed. A small window to my left with no curtains. A faded red chair next to me. Absolutely nothing else in the room.
A tall man with thinning hair and a strong jawline entered the room carrying a glass of water and a file folder. He leaned over the bed, peering down at me.
“Hi Grace, I’m Dr. Hurley,” he said softly. “Do you know where you are?”
My throat was dry and itchy. I shook my head.
“You’re at the psychiatric hospital,” he explained. “You had an episode of psychosis.” His eyes were so darkly brown, I could almost see my reflection in them. “I spoke with your doctor; she says you have a bit of a history of mental illness and insomnia. Is that correct?”
I cleared my throat. “I suppose.” Lifting my head, I looked down at myself. My hands, chest, and legs were strapped to the bed.
“We had to confine you.” Dr. Hurley leaned down and began unstrapping me. “For your own safety.”
I sat up as he passed me the glass of water. Sipping it cautiously, I examined his face. He must have been in his forties.
“Do you have any kids?”
The doctor’s face scrunched in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you have any kids? Children?”
He pushed my file into his chest and crossed his arms over it. “No, I do not.”
“Oh.” I stared out the window. All I could see was blue. “Do my parents know where I am?”
“We called your brother when you arrived. I’m not sure if he was in contact with your parents or not.”
Dr. Hurley was silent for a couple of minutes, thumbing through the pages of my ever-thickening file. “So, based on your records, and your most recent episode, I’m recommending you stay here for a little while.” He shut the file, glancing up at me. “I think the quiet will do you good.”