Chapter 7

 

THE THREE OF us sat in the dining room pushing the bland food around on our plates. Dinner tonight was concocted of shades of brown with lumps of overcooked vegetables tossed in as an afterthought. I’m not sure how anyone ever recovered from anything on hospital food.

“So, Banjo, you know how Dylan and I got in here, but how’d you end up here?” Pru asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“If you haven’t noticed we have some spare time on our hands,” Pru said.

I stabbed a limp stalk of broccoli with my fork and stuffed it into my mouth. “I had a dream and then sort of didn’t wake up from it,” I said with my mouth full, ignoring all the manners that Mom had drilled into my head.

I remembered that night so clearly. I was spun out, trying to figure out what to do about the kid and fell asleep crying after putting a few fresh gashes in my arm. The next thing I knew I was standing in our hallway and looked up to see Gray. I couldn’t believe it. They were alive! You’re back! You’re back! You came back! Gray, you’re back. We have a baby. It’s inside of me.

I held Rags in my arms.

Gray didn’t smile. I’ve come for the baby. I will take her now.

Gray, no. I tried to smile. This is Rags. Our baby isn’t born yet.

Gray repeated, I’ve come for the baby. I will take her now. My mother is waiting for us. Now, Banjo. My mom is waiting. Give me the baby.

Gray, this is Rags. I lifted Rags toward them, but when I looked down it wasn’t Rags that I was holding. It was my baby. Gray reached for the baby just as I heard a train whistle blow.

I woke myself up screaming, soaked in sweat. It was light out. Rags was there, but my baby was gone. I threw off the covers and ran through my room searching for my baby. I pulled out my dresser drawers and knocked over my nightstand as I stumbled around in a frenzy. I ran to my closet and pulled out the old board games, the boxes of childhood toys, the stuffed animals, the clothes, but she was nowhere. My baby was gone. I ran from the room. “My baby! Mom! Mom! Please Mom, come help me! Help me!”

I crashed into Mom as I ran into the living room.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Banjo? Slow down. What’s wrong?” Mom grabbed my arm. “Banjo, I’m here, what’s wrong?”

“Gray. Gray came and took my baby. They took the baby. Mom, Gray took the baby. We have to find them. We have to find my baby. Where’s my baby? Mom. Mom, help me. Mom, please. My baby! My baby!”

“Sweetie, it was a dream. You’re okay. Your baby is safe. She’s still tucked away inside you. See?” Mom touched my belly.

Slowly the room started to change. The morning sun through the thin curtains was too bright. The edges were too sharp. The colors of the house shimmered. I stood frozen, watching the house come alive, fierce and violent. My brain became electric. I could feel the charge bouncing off the shimmering walls and tearing through my brain. My thoughts were lightning, surfacing in brilliant illumination, but before I could grab hold of them, before I could fully see what they were, they were gone.

Memories of Gray swirled through my brain, brilliant and brief memories rising up and then vanishing, rising up and then vanishing like night scenes lit up by a camera flash.

Flash: Gray and I barefoot in the summer eating mini-mart hotdogs on the dusty curb, grit in our teeth and between our bare toes.

Flash: Gray making coffee at midnight while passionately telling me about how I must read Octavia Butler and Neil Gaiman because they were THE BEST EVER, spilling water and grounds everywhere in their excitement.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: Gray making up sappy country music songs and slow dancing around the apartment in their grimy socks.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: Gray playing tug-o-war with Rags on the bed.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: Gray telling me they loved me.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: Gray walking in front of the truck.

Flash: The truck.

Flash: The truck.

Flash: The truck.

Flash: Gray broken.

Flash: Gone.

Mom wrapped her arms around me and pulled me down onto the floor. She held me while my mind kept flashing. Flashing. Flashing. Each flash taking me deeper and darker.

Gray walked onto the freeway. Gray was dead. Gray committed suicide. Gray was never coming back.

I heard Henry’s footsteps behind us and felt Mom turn and look. I hated that Henry was seeing me like this, but I couldn’t stop it. My life was completely out of control and now I was too. I was disappearing. Sinking.

I felt Mom wave Henry away, but he didn’t move. Mom whispered, “Henry, honey, go to your room and play with your Legos.”

I heard his socks flopping on the floor as he came closer. He stood in front of me, staring with big eyes. I was watching all of this from somewhere far away.

“Henry, I told you to go your room.” Mom’s voice had an edge to it, the same edge she used to use on me when I was Henry and would stand and stare as my sister fell apart.

Deep inside I knew I needed to go. To be with Gray. They had come to my dream to tell me to bring the baby to them. I knew I needed to go. I had to get to the freeway.

“I need to go. Gray needs me.” I tried to get up. It was my turn to walk in front of a truck.

Mom pulled me to her. She held me tight. “No, Banjo, you don’t need to go. Gray doesn’t need you. Gray is dead. You’re here and you have a baby inside of you. Banjo? Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

I felt the panic gaining strength. “I need to go, Mom. I need to go. Gray needs me. Mom, let me go. I need to go.”

Mom’s arms were tight around me. I pushed against her without making a sound. The violence of that moment combined with the absolute silence made it all even more unreal. Was I still dreaming? My whole life was a dream. Everyone’s life was only a dream. What was reality? How did I know if Gray even existed? How did I know if I had just imagined them?

It occurred to me that maybe my life was some sort of terrible pre-scripted movie, like The Truman Show. That was it, I thought, my life is a movie. Everyone was in on it but me. Gray was an actor. Mom was an actor. I was not really pregnant. I needed to get out. I needed to get out and find Gray. If I could only find Gray I could prove that this was all just a movie. Not real.

I curled my hand into a fist and swung at Mom. I had to get free, but she only held me tighter and still it was silent. Henry was silent. Mom was silent. I was silent. The sound reel on my movie had gone out. Rags came up and sniffed at my knee and I kicked at her hard. I hated her and I wanted to feel my foot smash through her chest. She yelped and jumped back.

Rags’ yelp brought the sound back on.

“Banjo, stop. Stop it now.” Mom’s voice was quiet and hard. “Henry, go to your room now. Do you hear my words? Go now.”

Then I was still. I was done acting in this dumb movie. I realized that if I just stopped participating then there would be no movie and it would all stop. This nightmare would stop, but for that to happen I had to stop. My mind had to stop. I had to make it stop.

Stop.

My body was rigid. I felt my mind shatter. The shimmering luminescence of the house began to fade. The colors muted, the harsh edges went soft. The violence slid into a quiet gentleness. It was working. If I stayed still, if I didn’t participate, then the movie couldn’t play.

I could see Henry, but he seemed far away. He stared at me, frozen. And then he turned and ran, little whimpers trailing behind him. He didn’t like to see the movie end.

I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t seem to control any part of my body. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I gave up. The more I gave up the easier it was. The world morphed out of Violent Nightmare and into Benign Dream. I went limp and as I did Mom’s grip loosened. I slid out of her lap and curled up on the worn living room floor.

I could see and I could hear, but I wasn’t there. I heard Mom start to cry and yell for my sister, but her voice was coming through a tunnel stuffed with cotton. I could hear her calling my name through her tears, but I stayed where I was. Mom shook me as she called my name, but I didn’t respond. I couldn’t move. I was watching my life unfold from somewhere far away, and now it was unfolding in slow motion. The rapid flashing lightning slid into a soft gray fog.

My sister came running in from the back porch. “Oh, God, what happened?”

“I think she’s having some sort of breakdown. Help me lift her,” Mom said, her voice shaking.

I felt Sam and Mom lift me. They carried me to my room, both of them crying softly. They put me down on the bed. Mom knelt on the floor, smoothing my hair.

Her words drifted through the soft cotton of my brain. “Baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. Banj, talk to me. Sweetie? Can you hear me?” And then it all went silent again.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke up alone in my room, cold and wet. I had peed my pants. I felt Rags curled up against my back, sucking her feet. Still I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t care. I felt like I was with my baby inside my own womb. Warm and safe.

I was unborn.

Mom came in and through the soft membrane I could hear, “Banjo, you need to talk to me. Now. Honey, this is important. Talk to me. Can you hear me? Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

I did hear her, but I couldn’t respond. I didn’t want to. I was done feeling so sad. I was done trying to deal with this stupid baby thing. I was done spending my days thinking about train tracks and freeways and splattered bodies. I was done spending my nights dragging razor blades across my arms.

“Banjo? Amanda? Amanda, do you hear me? Amanda, this is important, answer me. You need to look at me. You need to talk to me,” she said.

The use of my birth named spelled serious.

I opened my eyes and looked into Mom’s face, blinked, closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn’t let her trick me into restarting the movie. I was Truman and I was no longer participating.

I heard Mom leave the room. A minute later a muffled one-sided conversation drifted in from the living room. She was on the phone.

I opened my eyes. Everything was quiet in my head. The world had slowed down. A soft muted calm replaced the neon jagged of the real world. I had frozen time. I was safe. I had stopped the movie. I was Truman and I had escaped from the show. In my head I reminded myself, I am Truman I am Truman I am Truman, as I floated back into sleep.

When I woke again James and Sam were with Mom. Sam knelt at the side of my bed. Her face red and swollen from crying.

“Banj, can you hear me?” She rubbed slow circles on my back.

I had to stay quiet. If I kept my brain hidden behind the soft blanket of silence, then I could stay safe. The movie was over and if I didn’t move, if I didn’t participate, they would all realize that it was over too and Gray would be alive again.

Sam stood, and I felt the blankets being lifted from the bed. I felt my mom and Sam pull my cold, wet pants off, roll me over to the dry side of the bed, and wrestle clean pants on as if I were a baby. I didn’t care that they were seeing me naked. I no longer lived in the same world that they did.

I felt James’ hands on me. As he lifted me from the bed. And I could see my sister leaning against the wall holding Henry, his face buried in her neck. Their acting was believable, but I no longer believed. I turned my head into my brother’s chest. I had no idea where they were taking me and I didn’t care.

James carried me out to the car. He maneuvered me through the open door, slid in beside me, and leaned over me to switch on the child lock. I curled up against the door, pressing my face against the cool glass of the window as he reached across and pulled the seat belt over my chest and buckled it.

Mom got in the driver’s seat mumbling under her breath, “This can’t be happening. It just can’t be happening.” She seemed so sad that I had stopped acting in the movie.

We backed out of the driveway in silence. The only sound was the car engine and even that was muffled by the blanket I had constructed to smother my senses. I closed my eyes again.

I felt the car stop and the cool air wrap around me as James pulled me from the back seat and carried me toward the Emergency Room doors. Still not a word was spoken. For a second I felt afraid. For a second I wanted to tell them to stop, I wanted to say that I was just kidding and that I would resume acting in the movie. My heart exploded in my chest, but then I went back under the soft blanket I had put on my brain and I was safe again. Safe and quiet. I was Truman. I was ending the movie.

I don’t remember a lot from the time we left the car until the time I woke up on my bed in the mental ward. They told me later that I was “disassociating.” I remember seeing the bright lights through my eyelids and hearing bits and pieces of conversations. Things like: “Do you know how many of these pills she ingested?” and “Has she threatened suicide before?”

“I found these pills in the bottom of her backpack, but she hasn’t taken any. I brought them in because clearly she’s falling . . .” A sob cut Mom’s words short.

I opened my eyes for a minute, but the lights were too bright and the nurse’s happy smock was too ridiculous with its scattered pattern of smiling Garfield the Cat. Did anyone in an emergency situation feel comforted by someone wearing a Garfield the Cat smock?

I slipped back down under my brain blanket again and let myself drift away. I was Truman, I reminded myself. I was no longer acting in this movie.

The nurse left the room and Mom changed me into a gown as if I were an infant. I heard the nurse return and say, as if she were reading the script—which of course she was—“Ma’am, you need to take her clothes or we will keep them for her. She isn’t allowed to leave this room without a nurse. If she attempts to leave this hospital, or if you attempt to remove her, the police will be called and she will be returned.” There was no compassion in her voice.

A doctor came in and introduced himself to Mom. I heard words like catatonic and psychotic and suicidal ideation (all of which I was familiar with as the sister of a crazy person) and then I heard him talk about giving me a shot. I heard my Mom tell him that I was pregnant and that drugs were not acceptable.

The doctor raised his voice. “Ma’am, I’m afraid this is out of your hands at the moment. Your daughter is a danger to herself and medication is necessary.” And then he turned his voice into that of a patient dad talking to their preschool daughter and said, “Mrs. Logan . . .”

“I am not a Mrs.,” Mom said, her voice cracking.

The doctor sighed. “Ms. Logan, you must understand that your daughter needs help. She tried to take her own life tonight.”

My mom lost it. “What are you even talking about? Listen to me, my daughter didn’t try to commit suicide tonight. My daughter didn’t try to hurt me or anyone else. She poses no harm to anyone. My daughter is having some sort of psychotic break. We just need some help. I don’t want her medicated. She’s pregnant. You can’t give her medication. Please. I just want . . . I want . . .. I just want help,” she whispered and she sunk into the chair. Mom was a good actor.

“Mrs. . . . Ms. Logan, we’ll give her a pregnancy test, don’t worry, but regardless of the outcome of that test this is out of your hands at the moment. Your daughter may not have actively tried to take her own life tonight, but it’s clear she had a plan and the means to do so as evidenced by this bottle of pills. I’ve put in a request for the psychiatric social worker to evaluate your daughter, but that may be a few hours. I can tell you that in all likelihood your daughter will be admitted on what we call a 71.05, which is a temp . . .”

“I know what that is,” Mom hissed. “You’re involuntarily committing her, but you need the psych worker to sign off on it.”

The doctor ignored her. “In the meantime, I’m going to give her a shot of Haldol. This drug poses minimal fetal risk if she is less than six months pregnant, and it’s still within an acceptable range if over six months.” I felt his voice turn toward me. “A little young to be getting pregnant, aren’t you, sweetie?”

I heard mom suck in her breath. He had no idea who he was talking to or what Mom had already been through. Even from deep under my hazy brain blanket I braced myself for Mom’s explosion. I had seen her explode on doctors before, but to my surprise I heard her whisper, “Okay. Okay. Okay . . .” and then the sound of her soft crying. “Okay.”

And at the moment I knew I had taken this too far. I wanted to undo it. I had broken my mom. All those years with my sister, Mom was strong and never left her side and now here I was breaking her. I wanted to say, Stop. Forget it. I was just kidding. I’m okay. I’ll keep acting, but I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. My words were stuck deep in my guts.

I felt Mom’s arms around me and felt her dry lips on my forehead. Her cheeks were wet as she pressed her face against mine. “I’m sorry. So sorry, baby. So sorry . . .” And then she was gone. I was left alone at the hospital. She had never left my sister alone in the hospital. I pulled the blanket tighter around my brain.

The last thing I remember was getting a shot in my butt and pain searing through my body.

 

“DUDE, YOU THERE?” Pru said, bringing me back to reality. She and Dylan were looking at me with worried expressions. I had zoned out climbing into my memories.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I got sort of lost in remembering how I ended up in this place.” I hesitated. “But I don’t think I want to talk about it.” For some reason this made me feel guilty. “I just had this nightmare and I couldn’t wake up. Next thing I knew I was here.”

“From one nightmare into another?” Pru said.

“Yeah, exactly.”