Sweet Life (21 page)

While I disinfected the tub before my bath, I wondered how my boy felt while the water choked the life out of him. I climbed into the tub and slid under; pretending I was sinking in the middle of a lake, water pouring into my nostrils. I tried holding my breath to see if I could black out. But I couldn’t. I sat up and felt a complete emptiness. Like it was me who was poured out. Nothing left but skin.

If I told the nurses I tried to drown myself in the tub, would they remove my bathing privileges?

Tonight is Bingo night. Sarah said I won a prize last time, but I don’t remember.

I can’t find my doodle art. It’s bizarre because I’ve looked everywhere, asked the nurses.

Life is a non-event. A non-participation sport.

Sunday, January 16th

I phoned Jeffrey and asked him if he planned on visiting me today. He said no, because the psych ward makes him depressed. I told him he’s selfish. He said, “You only think of yourself and you’re not the only one suffering.”

I yelled, “What do you want from me?”

He hung up and I cried for an hour. I can’t understand why Jeffrey’s been angry with me ever since I died.

Monday, January 17th

Good news! They cut back on the Stelazine, and Nurse Sarah says if I keep improving, they’ll give me a room downstairs next week.

Sherry ran away yesterday and the police brought her back a few hours later.

When I asked her where she went, she said she tried hiding out at her brother’s. “Good idea,” I said. “Who’d think of looking for you there?” She almost laughed.

Today she and I were playing cards in her room when she had a visitor, a lady whose son had an accident and now he’s a quadriplegic. Because she can’t stand to see him suffer, she wishes he were dead. I couldn’t believe it. I told her death was worse. I’d be totally ecstatic if someone told me Mark was paralyzed. He’d be alive and I could see him.

My thoughts don’t bounce around any more. Although I still get mad whenever I think about Jeffrey yelling at me. Curtis hasn’t come. I would call him, but he’s not in the phone book.

I’m sick of this place. And I miss Mark. It doesn’t matter what kind of pills I take, he’ll still be dead. So now I’m wondering what the point is. Of anything.

Wednesday, January 18th

Yesterday when I tried to nap, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mark. I saw him in the park at night, saw him wade into Wascana Lake. Heard his drunken friends egg him on, tell him he could make it to the island.

Sometimes I’m with them on the shore. I can smell the dirty water. I stand and watch Mark’s head get smaller and smaller. Until he disappears. Other times I grab his arm and haul him away from the shore. Mark, I say, you’re drunk and I’m taking you home.

Or I swim next to him. When he gets tired, he puts his arms about my neck and I swim with him to shore as if he doesn’t outweigh me, as if he isn’t six inches taller.

Because that’s what a mother does. Keeps her son alive.

I decided to jump down from my window last night, walk to the cemetery and dig up Mark with the spoon I kept from supper. When the nurse looked in on me I pretended to be asleep. I was going to undo the screws on the window with the spoon, but I forgot about the metal screen.

Why hasn’t anyone invented a pill for disappointment? I can’t see my life. It’s gone.

Thursday, January 19th

I have to get out of here, so I took Curtis’s advice. I told Mrs. Shrink what she wants to hear, that the new antidepressant works. Tomorrow I’ll tell a nurse that I can see how wrong I was in trying to kill myself.

Waiting is like walking across a frozen lake. Slide one foot, slide the other. Avoid sudden moves.

Sunday, January 22nd

Mrs. Shrink says I’ll be released tomorrow and wrote me a prescription. I have to come back to the hospital for a day program until I feel ready to go back to work. I don’t see the point. But I’m not saying anything about it.

Monday, January 23rd

I’m all packed. Said goodbye to Sherry and Nurse Sarah. Jeffrey will be here soon to drive me home. I’m glad he’s working tonight. He won’t be around to ask questions when I go out.

Why did I think I could dig a hole with a spoon? I’ll take a shovel. I can’t wait to hold Mark again, to feel his hair against my cheek. And then everything will be all right.

Ackn
owledgements

“
Mrs. Kravitz’s Mood” and “Doves” each won prizes in the SWG Short Manuscript Awards. Previous versions of “Sweet Life” and “The Virgin In the Grotto” were published in
Grain Magazine
and
Room
, respectively. “The Madwoman Upstairs” was published in
Transition Magazine.
The unpublished, full-length manuscript of
Sweet Life
was the 2013 first place winner of the John V. Hicks Long Manuscript Award. My writers group, The Bees, provided critiques on earlier drafts. Ted Dyck provided editing suggestions. A tremendous thank you to my editor, Sandra Birdsell, for her amazing insight and her suggestions. Lastly, my gratitude to my husband, Mario, for his continuing support and for sharing his Manna stories with me.

Abo
ut the Author

Linda Biasotto
has published many short stories in
Grain, Room of
One's Own
and
Transitions
maga
zines. She’s also had poetry appear in a variety of publications.
Sweet Life
is her first book publication. Born in Winnipeg, Linda Biasotto grew up there and in Regina, where she lives to this day.