That’s not the epiphany.
I re-enter the hospital compound. The meds in lots of E R areas are in a special cabinet containing medication bins and refrigerators that store limited quantities of medications in single-unit containers. You’d be surprised how often those cabinets and fridges are unattended. I mean it’s a busy place, the ER. So hijacking Vicodin is a piece of cake. Particularly if you have a Swiss Army knife special edition. One thing I’m good at.
After pocketing the velvet, I go into my father’s room. He looks dead. But he doesn’t sound dead. His breathing is what they call shallow and labored. Goddamn it, why are dads such a big fucking deal?
Me and my father in a room that smells like hand sanitizer and plastic barf bags. Before I realize what I’m doing I pull out my Zoom H4n outta my Dora purse. Before I can stop myself I place it close to his face. Turn it on. Adjust the levels.
“Dad?” I go.
Just the sound of him breathing, amplified, recorded. Sounds … kind of like a horse. Some kinda fist swells up in my throat and my eyes itch. I stare at the H4n. Its glowing LCD display. Its two silver criss-crossing mics. The only other thing I know how to do. Way more than knowing how to be a daughter. I walk away. Why the hell am I holding my breath?
I can still hear Christianmouth going. I look down the hall to the right. No one. I look to the left. Nothing. Everything smells like day old Lysol and medicine.
My ass vibrates again. Obsidian. She texts: “wnt 2 c u.” My throat constricts. I close my eyes. Then and only then do I cry. Like a pussy. I hold the phone of her against my cheek. Some jackass in scrubs asks me if I’m OK and I nearly backhand him with the H4n and snarl at him with my chimp face.
The idiotic fluorescent lights buzz down on my head. I feel alone and retarded. I want to sprint down one of these fucked up hallways, find smiley. I want to put my face in Obsidian’s hair. I want to press all of my skin onto all of her skin. But I’d just pass out. Wouldn’t I.
This is the epiphany: there’s no mother here. She’s not there to say, hey Christian fuck, that’s my daughter. She doesn’t want to hear about your shitty-ass parenting skills. Her father just had a massive coronary and open heart surgery. Shove yourself up your own ass.
She’s not here to tell Mrs. K., that’s my husband, ho bag. Step back before I irradiate you with my voice.
She’s not here to make chimp faces with me.
I run as hard and loud as I can all the way down to the big red letter exit sign. I look up. I open my mouth. “Are you my mother?” is what I try to say out loud. But nothing comes out.
I cough. An odd sound strangles my throat.
It’s my voice.
She’s gone.
15
I’M GROUNDED AGAIN. IT’S A LITTLE ABSTRACT AS TO why. Whatever.
At home, in my room, I write on the walls with my purple Sharpie underneath my Nico poster: “Dear Francis Bacon: I don’t want to talk anymore since that’s not what mouths are for. I know a mouth is not a mouth. In your paintings? All the mouths are smeared senseless.” I cap my pen. I put it in my backpack.
I have a Swiss Army Knife. The “Elite,” custom-made. It even has a cigar cutter. I stole it from Mr. K. a year ago. I pull it out of my backpack. I open up two of the blades. I lie on my bed as still as a dead girl. I close my eyes. I run the blades over my stomach slowly and softly. It’s relaxing. I can cut a new mouth anywhere on my body I want. My gut. My collarbone. My bicep. My thigh.
I pull out the cigar cutter. All I see is Sig.
Approximately one quarter of all myocardial infarctions are silent, without chest pain or other symptoms. Apparently that’s what happened with my dad. My mom says he came home from work that night, mixed a highball, loosened his tie, greeted her, walked into the living room, put on some Thelonious Monk, and in slow motion, “like he deflated,” sunk to the floor. They say his attack happened earlier in the day. That was just his body finally answering.
They moved my dad to a normal room, though he’s still hooked up to creepy shit. My dad is in and out. When he sees my mom, he stares at her face, then looks away and goes to sleep. When he sees me, his eyes are all glassy. I can see two Ida heads in his peepers. It’s creepy and usually it makes me have to pee. We don’t stay long.
Earlier today at the hospital I heard Mrs. K.’s laughter coming out of his room. So I guess he’s getting better. Her laugh sounds like … happy opera. It makes me happy and sad and pissed off all at the same time.
My bed smells like teen spirit. I open my eyes. I look at the cracks in my ceiling. Then I pull up my shirt and look down at my belly. Stretched between my hipbones my belly looks like an awesome skateboard bowl. I lift my shirt up more and I cut a very straight line just under my rib cage on the right side. I can feel the crimson line of it coming to life under my fingertips. It’s not smiling.
Now that I’m thinking about it, my mother didn’t actually say, “You are grounded.” What she said was, “The trauma of the current situation trumps your little shenanigans and your hoodlum friends.” It sounded icy. I think that voice kills hair and skin cells — like radiation. Because we rarely speak? She’s totally indifferent to my voice situation. Actually I don’t even think she knows. Isn’t that something? I suppose I could text her, but really, why? My silence? It’s what’s kept the house in order.
I’m a little concerned however. All the times before, I was faking it. Using losing a voice when I needed it. Mostly anyway. Except for that time at the lake with Mr. K. when he jammed his cow tongue down my throat and I had to knee him in the nads. It’s been five days since my voice left. There isn’t really anything to “do” about it.
Well, OK, that’s a lie. It might be that there is someone who could help me get it back … I have a new empathy for that little stuck cuckoo in Sig’s clock. Fat chance now though, huh?
By now he’s figured out I’m the one who pumped him up with Viagra and cocaine. He’s a smart old guy. Probably it’s over between us, is my guess. Probably that matters but all I feel is a welcoming sting under my rib. I suck my fingers and taste metal.
At ten o’clock my iPhone vibrates. Everyone’s meeting at Marlene’s. I pack my backpack and climb out of my window and down the fire escape as the last little tinkling sounds of ice cubes in a drink fade out. Mother’s self-medicating big time. As am I. Mostly Xanax.
You know the first uses of Xanax were for panic disorders. The first pharmaceutical company to produce Xanax was Upjohn. Upjohn — isn’t that a hoot? Upjohn? I mean, did no one think of the connotations? The real name is Alprazolam. Which sounds like Flash Gordon or some superhero name. You know who told me all that? Sig. Why do I keep thinking of him? Is this weird hole in my throat me missing him? Fuck. Just shoot me.
At the bottom of the fire escape I try to clear my head with dumb thoughts. My favorite idiotic drug name is Aciphex. Say it out loud few times. Endless fun.
I can’t tell you how much better I feel when I’m not in the Nazi daughter box — our so-called home. Ten o’clock at night in downtown Seattle is über cool. Everything looks the color of a bruise. The storefronts and restaurants are rows of little well-lit caves. Every alley smells like pee, but it’s a familiar smell. A downtown smell. Smells like life. Sometimes you can hear the clopping of horse cop hooves. I hustle it down a few blocks to the 7-Eleven and buy a Pez dispenser with the head of Ernie from Ernie and Bert. You know, Sesame Street. When I leave the store I chuck the Pez and fill the dispenser with the Vicodin I lifted from the ER. They fit perfectly. It’s awesome. Obsidian showed me that. I put the Ernie headed Pez in my Dora purse.