I wrap my arms around my rib cage. It occurs to me that I’ll be released soon. My body and I shrug inwardly, and with that comes a gush of something down below. Warm. It could be anything. Out of any opening. I can’t distinguish anything down there at the moment.
I feel around with a finger. My first thought is that it’s a fluid leaking out pussywise. I make my finger magically reappear from under the sheet and see that the fluid is red. Got it.
I forgot to put in a tampon. With all the unusual bleeding I completely forgot about the routine bleeding. The bed is covered. I’m covered. Smeared with blood.
Okay. This is my own problem. I’m not going to ring for Robin and ask him to run and bring me something again. I don’t want him to think I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m just sitting here thinking up reasons to ring. I am in pain and really did need the pills. It’s fine to ring for that. But this would be too much. I don’t want to get on his nerves.
Though it’s also all right if he thinks I’ve fallen in love with him. Because I have. So there’s no reason he can’t be the first to know. But I can handle menstrual blood by myself. I’ve always managed to in the past—except that one time at my aunt’s.
I grab the plastic container from the windowsill and pull out two squares of gauze and a piece of paper towel. I also take the opportunity to pull out my old tampon. Time for it to go. I’m sure it’s already spread enough bacteria. Into the trash it goes before anyone has noticed it.
I can see condensation in the plastic container. It’s warm on the windowsill. On the inside of the box, droplets of moisture have formed. When they get too big and can’t hold on to the sides of the container anymore, they drip down, pulling other droplets with them. The droplets running down the sides seek the easiest path and leave a tiny, zigzagging trail of destruction behind, the same way a river does on a bigger scale. Then the droplets can join to form a fetid, fermenting puddle and bubble up into new steam droplets to cling to the sides of the container. Whoever stays up longest…
I need to examine my gown. If there’s blood on it, I’ll flip out. There’s no way I’m asking for another one.
Lucky. All clean. I hadn’t pushed it under myself properly. Good. I shift to the side to have a look at the mess. Not as much has come out as I thought. Good.
I lay one piece of the padding down with the plastic side up and the other on top of it with the plastic side down. I can do it with my eyes closed now. Nice to have something to do again.
I rip the paper towel in half and with one half wipe all around the folds of my pussy, soaking up as much blood as possible.
The other half I fold lengthwise so I have a long, thin, flat piece of toweling. I roll this up into a short, thick sausage and shove it as far into my pussy as I can. Take that, American tampon industry!
Then I sit on the soft gauze pads.
Ta-dah!
Done.
How well you take care of yourself, Helen.
I’m proud of myself. That doesn’t happen very often, and it makes me smile warmly inside.
If I’m in such a good mood and thinking such nice thoughts, that must mean the pain medication has kicked in.
I concentrate on trying to feel my wounded ass and realize nothing hurts. I just veer back and forth from pain to no pain in here.
I want to get up and walk around.
I’ve perfected my method of slowly getting out of bed so well that it would be a shame if I were pronounced healed and released.
I lie on my stomach and scoot my body, feet first, sideways toward the edge of the bed until I’m in the shape of a right angle with just my upper body on the bed and my feet on the ground. I call this gymnastics position “Helen kicks herself out of bed.”
The best view of it is from the doorway. Open tree-top angel gown, naked, wounded ass spread open to the door. I snap my upper body up and stand.
I stretch my right arm high in the air the way we were taught to after a tumbling routine. Smile wide and stretch your body so far out in the direction of your hand that your heels briefly leave the mat. I snap my right hand down to the side of my thigh. Nod my head, curtsy, and wait for applause. Silence. Wipe the smile off my face. What can you do, Helen, you always give your best performances when nobody’s watching. It’s just the way you are.
I’m not in any pain and want to move my body. Where should I go? Not outside. Don’t feel like running into other people. And besides, I’d either have to put on an ass parade in the hallway or put on underwear.
Do I even have any underwear here? I can’t remember what mom brought me.
There’s the first thing I can do on my tour of the room. Have a look. I go to the wardrobe. Open the door. It’s true. Pajama pants and T-shirts. Untouched. I’ve used hospital gowns right from the start. Haven’t put on any of my own things.
Robin said I might be released as soon as tomorrow.
Time to pack my bag if it’s going to go according to that plan.
I’m not going to be able to make it work with my parents. It was a good plan. But they haven’t even shown up despite the emergency operation. I would love to continue trying to make my plan work. But it’s not going to happen here. They don’t visit often enough, and I’d have to have something much worse to be able to stay any longer. They won’t let me stay here long enough to pull it off. It’s nice here. Nicer than at home, at least.
Maybe I can go somewhere else beside home if I’m going to get kicked out of here so soon?
I pick up the empty bag on the bottom of the wardrobe and ball it up as small as I can. I stick it into the chrome trash can on the metal nightstand. Now my things will just have to stay in the wardrobe—they don’t have a bag to travel in.
Come on, Helen, that’s absolutely ridiculous. You can think of somewhere to go.
I have an idea. I take the bag back out of the trash can.
Move around some more. As long as I can’t feel my ass, it’s almost as if I’m here on vacation. On drugs.
From the nightstand I move along the edge of the bed to the corner that sticks out into the room. Then around the short side of the bed to the windowsill.
And back. Once. Faster. Twice. With ever-faster steps I go back and forth five times until I’m winded.
All this walking strains my legs. My muscles have already atrophied in the few days I’ve been lying around.
Still standing, I hike up the gown so I can look at my legs. I stretch one leg out onto the bed, then I take it back down and stretch out the other one to have a look. They’re thinner. They look funny. A bit like granny legs—hardly any muscle, white skin, and long hair. Ugh.
I hadn’t thought about that at all during the entire time here in the hospital. When you’re in pain, you don’t necessarily feel like shaving.
Now, though.
I throw myself onto the bed. Too hard. Despite the pills I feel pain rise from my ass up through my back. Take it easy, Helen, don’t flip out.
It’s nice not to have any pain and you want to keep it that way for a while. So watch it with the jerky movements.
I grab the phone and dial mom’s number. Answering machine again. Have they all gone on vacation in my absence? When was the last time I saw one of them?
It’s been days.
It’s difficult to figure out exactly how long it’s been. Or how long I’ve been here. Probably has something to do with the painkillers and the pain and with my general drug consumption. These gaps in my memory.
“It’s me again. Did you get my other message? If either of you is still even thinking of visiting me, do it fast. Tony, you haven’t come to see me at all. If you do come, can you bring one of mom’s dresses and a pair of her shoes? Thanks. See you soon. It’s already evening.”
Oh, man. It sucks when you have to depend on blood relatives. Now I have to wait until somebody brings me those things.
I get out of bed in slow motion and walk to the door. I open it a crack and peek out. There was some kind of noise coming from out there. Something’s going on.
Dinner service. They’re pushing around multilevel towers stacked with trays and stopping in front of each door. Maybe I’ll get some normal food tonight. Not the usual granola and whole-grain bread. If I were to tell them I’ve long since had a bowel movement, I’d get something better to eat. But I’m not saying anything.
I slowly go back to bed and get in to wait for feeding time.
There’s a knock at the door.
I offer a very friendly “Good evening.” It’s some female nurse. I can’t tell them apart. All of them unfuckable.
“Good evening. In a good mood, are we, Miss Memel? How are you—had a bowel movement yet?”
“Not yet, but thanks for asking. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Unfortunately just whole-grain bread for you. You know that’s the situation until your first bowel movement.”
I already have everything I need for that right here.
“What are the other patients having tonight?”
“The meat dish is a roast with peas, potatoes, and gravy. The vegetable dish is a cabbage stew.”
That sounds like paradise to me. For one thing because it’s warm. I only get cold food, and after awhile it leaves you cold inside, too. I’m on the verge of telling this nanny that I shat ages ago.
But then, although I’d get one warm meal, I’d just be sent home. That’s too high a price to pay.
I need some more time to figure out where I’m going when I leave.
“Thanks. I can mix it up myself.”
With slouched shoulders, I shovel three spoonfuls of granola into the bowl then pull the trail mix bag out of the drawer and put three grape creations on top. Tonight Helen’s having granola with tears.
When I can’t feel the pain, life is fun. I pop the aluminum cherry of the little milk container by sticking a hole in it with the plastic tube stuck to the side of the box. I turn the box upside down and squeeze the milk into the bowl until the box is empty. Dad used to lecture us about not using the word “straw” because the things weren’t made of straw anymore. But I can’t believe they were ever made out of straw. How could you pop the cherry on a drink box with a piece of straw? It would buckle immediately. Surely they were always made out of plastic and are called straws just because somebody thought they looked like stalks of straw.
I eat my cold dinner fast.
There’s a soft knock on the door as I’m downing the last bite.
That’s not a nurse. They always knock louder and more confidently. And nobody walks in. Definitely not a nurse. I’m betting it’s my father. He also has a weak handshake. Everyone complains about it. Guess he doesn’t have muscular hands. Not strong enough to knock solidly on doors, either.
“Come in.”
The door opens slowly. Man, oh, man, so gingerly compared to the nurses.
It’s my brother’s head. Must be genetic. Inherited weak hand muscles from our father.
“Tony.”
“Helen?”
“Come on in. You just missed dinner. Thanks for visiting me.”
He has a bag in his hand.
“Did you bring the things I wanted?”
“Of course. But what are they for?”
“It’s a secret.”
He looks at me. I look at him. Is that all the conversation we’re going to manage?
“Tony, you don’t like hospitals, do you? That’s why you haven’t visited me up to now.”
“Yeah, but you know that. I’m sorry, Helen.”
“Do you want me to tell you why you don’t like it here?”
He chuckles. “As long as it’s not bad.”
“It is.”
His smile disappears. He looks at me anxiously.
Go ahead, Helen, out with it.
“When you were really small, mom tried to kill herself. She wanted to take you with her. She put sleeping pills down your throat and took a bunch herself. When nice little Helen came home, you two were lying unconscious on the kitchen floor and gas was streaming out of the oven. Against mom’s will, I saved you guys before the house blew up or you suffocated to death. At the hospital they pumped your stomachs and you guys had to stay here a long time.”
He looks at me sadly. I think he already suspected it. His eyelids take on a light-blue hue. Handsome boy. But the muscles around his eyes are weak, too.
He’s silent for a long time. Doesn’t move an inch.
Then he stands up and slowly makes his way to the door. He opens it and, as he’s walking out, he says, “That’s why I always have those fucked-up dreams. She’s going to get hers.”
My family is even farther up shit’s creek than it already was.
Just because I told Tony the truth?
You can’t be silent forever. Lies. For the sake of keeping the peace in the family? Peace through lies. We’ll see what happens. With a lot of things I do, I only think about the consequences after I’ve already done them.
The plan to get my parents back together is now completely out the window.
This is driving me slowly crazy. I’m confined here and everyone else just comes and goes as they please. And I’m sure they’re all doing things out there I don’t know about. I’d love to be doing things with them, I think for a second. But that’s bullshit. Out there our family’s even more torn apart, each of us only out for ourselves. At least with my ass bound to this bed my relatives’ paths cross mine every once in a while.