The Lost Night

Tessa shakes my shoulder and it moves all of me like I’m a huge dead sleeping-bag pink slug.

There’s pain on the soft flesh of my upper inner arm, sharp and neon, she’s pinching me there it hurts if she doesn’t stop I’ll have to—

And then it stops. I’m so glad it stopped, thank you, Tessa, bye now.

She lets out air like a balloon deflating, pssshhhooo.

I hear the sound of her cocking the gun and suddenly I realize this is it and I’m Edie, I can’t remember if I’m Edie anymore and maybe it’s 2009 now and I’ve become her and this is the end and there’s pressure in my right hand and she’s folding it, molding my fingers carefully like it’s Claymation, like I’m in her stop-action film and right now she wants me to be—

The music hits a new hysterical triple-fortissimo as she slides my pointer finger into place and I don’t think because I don’t have time to. With every little atom of stardust left in me, I squeeze. Someone screams, Tessa or me or the music or Edie or inside my head, and there’s pain and hot sticky on my arm, and then—

Chapter 18

Someone’s saying something, but I’m so tired that before I can listen I need to close my eyes and let myself back into the cool deep pool, the deep end, just for a minute, maybe Lloyd will be there and he’ll do pull-ups on the diving board, if I can just

* * *

There’s something over my mouth, maybe I’m scuba diving in the deep black sea, but when I look around it’s not dark, it’s so bright it hurts, and there’s a man in white holding the mask over my mouth and I’m on my back on a table and my spine hurts and we’re moving and

* * *

I’m erupting. I’m on my left side and it’s bright and there are tubes shoved down my nose and someone’s turned a torch on in my stomach. I retch and try to scream and I rip away at whatever’s coming out of my face, but someone grabs my hand and starts saying something and it floats by, meaningless, a few times before I catch it: “You’re okay, just relax, you’re okay, keep your head down, that’s it, you’re safe, keep your head just like that, you’re fine.”

I keep erupting, my insides rushing out, a violent gush inward and then a big suck out, ocean waves swelling up my belly. Tears are pouring freely from my eyes. I try to ask what’s happening, but there’s something in my throat, something they need to remove, something keeping me from talking.

Someone reaches for my hand and I squeeze it. I breathe, my lungs struggling like I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me, and the voice keeps talking as I fight the mushrooming panic: “You’re okay, you’re fine, it’s gonna be okay.”

Finally the ocean stops and whatever’s stuck inside of me starts to move, pain in my nose and throat and entrails as it slithers upward, I retch and retch and try to yell out but I can’t, what’s in there, what’s in me? The hand around mine clasps tighter and someone touches my cheek tenderly, and then it’s not to be nice, it’s to grab the end of whatever’s coming out, the bottom scratching me as it curves out my nostril.

“It’s over, it’s over, you’re okay,” the voice finishes, and the panic doesn’t stop but it at least holds still as I gag and cough and roll farther onto my stomach. I look around and for the first time the shapes around me take on meaning: I’m in a hospital room, spotlit under bluish lights, with people in scrubs around me, busily doing things.

“What happened?” I ask, but it comes out like a croak. They’ve taken away my voice, I think wildly.

“You just had your stomach pumped. It’s gonna be hard to talk.” It’s the same voice, a woman’s, and I turn my head to look at her, pain grabbing my neck and torso. Someone’s helping me to sit up and then the bed is moving under me, hinging up into a chair.

“Here. We need you to drink this.” Someone else hands me a cup of something thick and black. It looks like the insides of a monster, whatever spits out when you cut its head off. I don’t move.

“It’s that or we put another tube down your throat,” the man says, waggling it, and I take it. “It’s activated charcoal. It’s going to help your body get rid of the last of the imipramine.”

Two fat tears roll down my cheeks. I nod and pull the cup up to my lips. The first sip tastes like cement, and I gag again. The rest I knock back in one long slug, chug chug chug. It works quickly and after a minute I grab around for a hand and am helped into the bathroom, my stomach creaking like an old wooden floor. Afterward I lie on the hospital bed, staring up at an ugly drop ceiling, realizing with sad resignation that, once again, I have no idea what happened the night before.

I must’ve fallen asleep because when I wake, Tessa’s sitting next to the bed, smiling, and she leans forward and coos, “Hey, look who’s up!” Softly, the tone you reserve for an infant.

“What happened?” My voice is still hoarse, like I’ve spent the night screaming.

She rests her hand on my arm. “You’re okay, that’s the important part.”

I squint. “Why is your arm like that?” It’s in a splint, midnight blue.

“I’m fine. More important, how are you feeling?”

I turn away and take in the ceiling again, the long rows of fluorescent lights. “I guess I mostly feel weak,” I tell her. “I don’t know what happened.” A thought blooms: “They said they pumped my stomach?”

She smiles again and rubs my arm. “You’re safe now, that’s what’s important,” she says again.

I blink at her. “What were they pumping? What happened?”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“No, I remember waking up here and they were fucking pumping my stomach.” Distress is roiling again, a pot of water on the stove.

“It’s okay, don’t get upset. Here, I’ll get the nurse.” She stands and finds a button, ignoring my protests. It’s an intercom; a crackly voice says someone will arrive shortly. She plops back into her seat.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she prompts.

“Not much,” I say. “I’m really confused. I remember being at home and feeling upset and sitting on my bed. Then not much else.” I have the feeling something bad happened, something very bad. I don’t recall pulling out the secret bottle of whiskey. Did I start drinking?

“So you don’t remember the antidepressants?” she asks, her eyes wide and blue.

I frown again. “I can’t remember if I took my Wellbutrin last night,” I say finally. This is hurting my throat, all this talking. “Why, what happened?”

“I mean, you’d just figured out—”

A doctor waltzes into the room, presumably a doctor with his white coat and cool, incurious eyes.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” he says, giving us both clammy handshakes. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. My throat hurts. And my stomach.” And strangely, something deep under my hip joints, little triangles of tender pain.

He nods, still towering over me. “Your stats all look good.”

“She doesn’t remember anything,” Tessa calls out. “From last night.”

He nods again. “Miss Bach, you’ll be scheduled for a psychiatric evaluation. I can get you a wheelchair if you’re unable to walk.”

I shake my head. “I really just want to go home. Can’t Tessa take me home?”

“We can’t discharge you until you’ve had a psychiatric evaluation.”

“Because I can’t remember anything?” I gasp. “Do they think I have a brain tumor or something? And it’s pushing on my…my hippocampus?” The memory center. I’m pleased with myself for remembering its name. Seems to bode well for my neurological health.

He glances at Tessa, then back at me. “No, we don’t have any reason to believe you have a brain tumor. Do you have any interest in eating or drinking? You’re well hydrated, but…”

I glance at the IV snaking into my arm. “I’m not really hungry, no.”

“When your appetite returns, just stick with bland stuff. Toast, crackers, tea. Okay?” I nod, but it’s Tessa who says okay.

“You’re in from the OR, right?” he finally says, like he’s been trying to work something out, and Tessa responds, as if they’re speaking their own language: “Yeah, but I was already discharged, I’m fine.”

“Would you like to speak to the psychiatrist as well?”

“I probably should, yeah.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Are they gonna tell her…what happened?”

“Most likely.” He grabs at his hip, like his phone has just buzzed. “Someone will be in shortly.” And with that, he’s gone.

We let the silence swell for a few seconds.

“Tessa, what’s happening?”

“I don’t want you to freak out. Okay? Everything’s fine, I need you to know that.”

“I’m calm. I’m, like, half dead, I don’t even have the energy to get worked up. But I need you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”