As I lay in my bed that morning six months ago, I knew I had stumbled on a plan that would work.
Alex Morel
Survive
Chapter 3
“Hi, my name is Jane Solis. I’m flying home.”
I’m standing at the nurses’ station at Life House. I have a couple of things I need to do before I can get on my flight. Five hours and thirty-seven minutes.
Every time I look at my father’s watch, my stomach flip-flops, but I can’t help myself. My body is in a state of perpetual contradiction, alive with anticipation and simultaneously dead of all other emotion. The desire to see this through is propelling me forward, but inside I am cold and dead like a slow-breathing fish hoping somebody cuts my head off. Stay upbeat and positive, Jane. Upbeat and positive, all day long. That’s what I keep telling myself over and over.
First, I need to pick up my pass to leave campus. Hence, my stop at the nurses’ station. Second, I need to have one last session with Old Doctor, who never misses a damn appointment. His unflagging punctuality and reliability bug me even though I think that’s why he gets me so well. I’m sure he counts the minutes too. (He wears two watches; what’s that about?) As usual, I’m dreading our conversation. What if he figures me out? What if he’s been waiting this whole time to expose me? Stop the thoughts, Jane. Upbeat and positive.
“What a pretty name,” says the nurse, a ragged-looking woman in a white uniform. She’s new, or substituting over the holidays. Her name tag says Nancy C. That’s common around here; it makes me think the staff don’t want any of us to know their full names. I don’t blame them. No telling what some of us might do when we get out.
Nancy C. is overweight, with an inch of gray roots showing at the part of her blond hair, but she has warm green eyes and is trying hard to connect with me.
“Jane Solis,” she tries again, “that’s a name that belongs in lights.”
She spins in her chair and types my name into her computer. I look above her at a glass-covered print of Cezanne’s Apples and I see my reflection hovering there like a ghost. My brown hair hangs ragged over my shoulders. It was shaved short when I arrived. Now it’s an unkempt mess of waves and half curls. My slate-gray eyes are barely visible against their pearly backdrop, but they are haunting nonetheless. I never look in mirrors anymore, so my reflection seems much older than what I remember. That’s such a weird thing to think. I am worn thin around the cheeks, like death is creeping up from inside me. It spooks me, and I let out a tiny yelp.
Nancy wheels her chair around to the filing cabinets and pulls out a pass. She gives me a long stare. I look down, annoyed by how much I’m slipping in these last few hours. Pull it together, Jane.
The printer spits out a card with my name and a thousand different numbers and symbols, and she signs her name on the back and then tucks it into a laminated pocket that has a lanyard attached to it. She hands it to me and tells me not to lose it.
“Thanks.”
“Have you left campus before? Do you need a review about how to get to the airport bus? Do you need any special assistance, Jane?”
“Yes, I mean no, I don’t.”
“You know the rules, right? Until you reach Newark Airport, and are in your mother’s care, you are still under our supervision. You have a pass to use the hospital bus to and from town. From there you will take the airport bus at Grove and Main Street in town to the airport. You don’t need to take any other transportation, and your supervisor will place you on that airport bus. If for any reason you miss the bus or get separated or even just get nervous, there’s a number on the back of the card. Don’t hesitate to use it.”
I have had all of this explained to me at least three times, but I nod pleasantly.
“While you’re in town, you need to adhere to the rules of your sobriety pledge, obviously, and check in with your supervisor about your plans.”
I nod again. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looks me up and down for a second. She’s assessing my state of mind, like I’m poised to freak out or something. She’ll never see that in me. I’m pure ice. Planners are that way. If we have time-and I’ve had six months-we can pretty much fool anybody. Sure, I have my tics too, minor personal habits the docs like to label and acronym to death. Christ, I think everybody here has them. But that’s just my anxiety run wild, like my constant watch-watching and my time obsession and all. If I let it, it could grind everything to a halt. But my plan keeps it all in check.
“Will I have time to shop for a present for my mother before I get on the bus to the airport?”
For example, a little talk is always the bow on top of the present when it comes to deceiving a nurse or attendant. They get wrapped up in the chatty minutia and become blind to what is standing before them. In this case, a patient who is planning to hit the switch. The nurse studies a sheet on her desk.
“Yes, it looks like you should have about a half hour, but just make sure you check in with your supervisor and carry your pass with you wherever you go.” She reaches into a drawer.
“And here’s a cell phone.”
I already knew this drill, but she told me anyway.
“It only calls this number, and you are to use it if something goes wrong or you need some help. See, just press this button. We’ll be right here. You enjoy yourself, Jane. Merry Christmas shopping!” she says with a big smile.
“You too,” I say inanely, and she smiles, a little too hard for my liking. I wonder if she suspects something. Did I give something away?
Chapter 4
I walk back to my room, head down as I pass Old Doctor’s morning Group session. It’s nearly ten-fifty and I only have ten minutes to get everything ready before my final session with him.
As I approach my room, I feel my lungs seize up. My breath rushes out. It feels like all my blood has dropped to my toes and suddenly I’m a little dizzy, enough so that I put my hand on the wall for a second. If I hyperventilate, and it wouldn’t be the first time, they will never let me get on that airplane. Steady, Jane.
I look back over to Group, which is breaking up, and watch Old Doctor, who is giving his full attention to a private discussion he’s having with BS. I close my eyes and concentrate on taking one very deep breath. Then another: in through the nose, out through the mouth. And I feel my body settle down and the dizziness dissipate.
I pull my hand from the wall and slip into my room and stuff my travel bag with the essentials. Obviously I have no need for a travel bag, but I don’t want to be found out by a nosy nurse: “If she’s going home for a week, why’d she leave all her stuff here? Doesn’t she need a bag? Red alert, put out an APB!” They are trained to spot that kind of shit, but I’ve trained myself not to give them anything to spin their wheels about. In five hours and seven minutes, I’ll have won that battle.
I look around my room and nausea swirls in my stomach. The pink comforter my mother gave me for the winters lies wrinkled and wasted on my bed, full of old sweat and sad energy. Why does every depressive bed always look the same?
I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back. Nerves, I tell myself. Buck up and buckle down, Jane.
I look at my window, where I have spent endless hours in manic thoughts about the time I was wasting here at Life House. I walk over to the night table and pull open the drawer and take out a photo of me and my father at Christmastime.
Nobody knows I have this photo. I took it from one of my mother’s photo albums. She has millions of photos all over the house, and mostly I hate them all. I’ve told her this, and during check-in at the hospital I made a point to tell Old Doctor this in front of her. It made her sniffle, which made me feel sad inside but smile on the outside.