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With or Without Pockets

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I have the right to wear my own clothes, but not the right to have pockets in those clothes. What am I supposed to do with my hands without pockets? I hate when they swing at my sides, and crossing my arms over my chest is the wrong body language. So, I clasp my hands tighter and tighter, missing the bite of silver rings into my flesh, the pain that holds me to the present. But its absence saves me from explaining why I need the pain – how it eases the stress. That would only make things worse. I stretch my fingers apart, flexing out the tension, concentrating on breathing, and on the pungent mixture of antiseptic, cheap bleach, badly washed bodies, and Mick’s bargain basement aftershave.

Mick’s a nurse here and my escort on this trip down the hall. He scuffs along, a half step ahead of me, close enough to reach out and grab me if I go in the wrong direction, or do something equally stupid. His keys are on a chain, tucked neatly inside a pants pocket. No jingle jangle of spinning keys for him. He’s at least forty pounds heavier than me, but I won’t make him throw around that weight today. I want to get out of here, back to my life, back to Jenna.

What if Jenna isn’t there when I get out? My throat closes up when I try to swallow the thought down. Make no promises, tell no lies. I didn’t realize how awful that mantra was until she threw it back at me. She wouldn’t promise to stay, only that she would leave if I didn’t get help. She didn’t tell me to check myself in, but I knew what she meant.

“Hey.” Mick says.

I stumble to a halt. We’re in the room where I’ll wait for my exit interview. I’m a voluntary, but I can’t sign myself out. It’s not just the regulations. I feel more in control, but I have to prove to Jenna that I’m not a danger to myself. That’s why I’ve stuck with the program, and taken my meds like the good little girl I never was.

“Grab a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” Mick waves a hand in the direction of the orange vinyl chairs shoved against a wall. He berths himself against the plexiglas cage in the opposite corner, joining the muttered conversation between a cop and the nurse inside the cage.

“No!”

I stop halfway to sitting down, jump away from the swinging arm and the empty chair. The other chair is occupied by the guy who just tried to swat me.

“Taken. Can’t you see? That seat is taken.” He blocks my access to the seat.

Only two chairs in the room and he wants both of them? I don’t think so. I speak slowly, enunciating each word, “I would like to sit down.”

He shakes his head wildly, raises his voice. “Taken. Can’t sit there. What’s wrong with your eyes? Someone is sitting there.”

The cop shifts his weight, loosens the hand on his belt, and sights on me and the guy in the chair. Mick clears his throat, a scrape of harsh phlegm on sandpaper.

Damn. Damn. Damn. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Sorry.” I back away slowly. I don’t need this crap. Not today.

The guy subsides and stretches a protective arm across the back of the empty seat. The cop shifts his attention back to Mick and the nurse.

I let out a long breath, slowly, quietly. I pace towards Mick and the cop, getting as close as I dare.

“He shouldn’t be here.” The nurse’s sharp tones match her crisply starched uniform and scraped back hair. I shorten my strides, mimic interest in a framed poster that crams all of London’s tourist spots on top of each other.

“Dr. Callan’s orders.” Not Mick, so it must be the cop. “He said to bring this one here and wait for him.” The cop leans further over the counter, his mouth almost touching the plexiglas. He’s still talking, but I can’t hear anything more. Eventually, I give up trying and grab the three year old copy of People from the table. I take it over to a space against the wall. The floor beckons invitingly – gleaming white and clean enough to suit even my mother – but I ignore the siren call. Normal people don’t sit on the floor.

“Some people are just rude. You can’t take it personally.”

Oh god, he’s talking again. I peer at him over the top of the magazine. He’s completely unremarkable, with the kind of face that you forget moments after walking away. His only memorable feature is the dark hair that skims his shoulders and curls over the collar of his shirt.

“It won’t be that bad,” he continues. “We might have to share a room for a while, but Momma promised to get us a room all to ourselves.”

His shirt is fastened right to the top. The kind of shirt that a mother would buy her grown son to make sure he’s dressing properly. His neck has that red line that some guys get from wearing a tie too long and too tightly. No ties in this place though. Does he feel its absence like I miss my pockets?

“Well, fuck you.” Hands waving in intricate patterns, he twists around in his seat. “I’m doing my best. Fuck you.”

There is no-one in that seat. I know that. But he convinces me that someone is replying to him in the pauses between his comments. I wonder who it is.

“Melissa Goldschen.” The nurse has escaped her plexiglas cage. She’s got a file in her hands. My file.

*

“Melissa.” Dr. Malawa spreads a long fingered hand over my open file. He shuffles through the pages with quick delicate movements that send spidery shivers down my spine. His other hand rubs at his face, failing to erase either the dark circles that surround his eyes or the deepening lines that mar the smooth, dark skin of his forehead. Then, he leans back in his cushioned leather chair and watches me.

I squirm in my seat, crossing my legs in one direction, then the other. The only chair on this side of his desk is too rigidly upright for comfort.

He continues to watch me. What does he see? I’m conscious of everything. Long red hair that I keep in a ponytail to hide a desperate need for a cut. A nose that’s slightly too long, and is neither straight enough to be Roman, nor curved enough to be Jewish. Brown eyes with their own complement of dark circles and more lines than my thirty-five years would normally provide. And my body, square and boxy, that usually fails to bring the boys or the girls running.

Finally he says, “You are remarkably consistent.”

My carefully rehearsed words melt away. What am I supposed to say to that? I try for something non-committal but brilliant. “Oh?”

“Everyone’s reports include the same comments about you. The nurses, the orderlies, the counselors, even mine.” He taps a finger on the top sheet. “For the past seventy-two hours, you have done exactly what was required of you. You followed the rules, attended group session twice a day, and took your medication without complaints.”

“I guess.” My right thumb traces the edges of the nails on my left hand.

“You’ve shared just enough information to satisfy without really answering the questions. In fact, you’ve added very little to what was in your therapist’s report. Would you like to talk about that?”

“Not sure there’s anything to talk about.”

“You wouldn’t be here, if there was nothing for us to discuss.”

My thumb stops moving, digging into the nails instead. Did he just threaten me? I pull my eyes off my hands and look at him. “I guess not.”

“Thank you. I’d hate to think that we were wasting time here.” He meets my gaze, and relaxes his face into an expression that isn’t quite a smile.

Damn. That was a threat. I press my thumb down harder then let go. He might understand about the pain, and that couldn’t possibly be good. I take a deep, shaky breath. “Me too.”

“Good.” He breaks eye contact, leaving me pinned to the seat. “Why do you think you have such a hard time talking about yourself?”

“Early lessons? My parents didn’t talk much about themselves. Mom always said that no-one else could possibly understand.”

“Do you think she was right?”

“My mother was really good at excuses.” I blink back tears. I don’t want to cry in front of him. “She and my father hid behind them all my life. At home. At the office. Even on vacation.”

*

I was twelve when my parents decided to introduce me to the great outdoors. So, we spent a week at a cottage somewhere close to the middle of nowhere. The cottage was small, old, and musty. My bedroom wasn’t much bigger than my parents’ closet at home. The walls kept out the weather, but not the noise. We didn’t have any human neighbors, but there were enough rustles, hoots, and weird whuffing noises to keep me awake for hours.

My parents dropped right into their usual routines. My mother cooked and cleaned, then curled up in a battered wicker chair on the porch, reading magazines or playing endless games of chess and cards with my father. When he wasn’t playing with her, my father commandeered the living room to prepare for the next school year.

For the first couple of days, I wandered through the woods, along the lakeshore, skipping stones, talking to animals, and searching for interesting oddments. Then it rained, and rained, and rained – day after day – for four days straight. Streams of water hammered on the roof. We couldn’t open a window, because the wind blew rain inside, soaking everything. The porch was drenched. The only dry place was inside the cottage.

I’d been allowed to bring one doll and had chosen Rolande, a Barbie whose hair I had cropped short and always dressed in Ken’s clothes. The first rainy day, we rampaged around my tiny room, fighting and defeating the dragon that had made its lair beneath the bunk beds. The next day, Rolande watched while I finished reading my book. Then I told her stories about the people who had carved their initials in the wood paneling. The day after that, I started rereading my book and wishing I hadn’t left the three other books sitting on my bed at home.

And still it rained. The fourth day, tired of making my own fun, I wandered into the living room with a bucket full of things I’d picked up on my walks. I flopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace and started stacking the stones, clicking them noisily against each other. After a while, I pulled out an oddly-shaped piece of metal that I used to scrape pictures into a stone.

“It’s enough, Esther.” My father glared at my mother. “We came here to have the peace and quiet.”

I paused. My mother didn’t say anything, so I went back to carving the stone.

“Melissa, you’re giving your father a headache.” My mother sighed. “Be a good girl and play quietly.”

A headache? He hadn’t said anything about a headache. I shrugged and dug a little harder. The metal caught and then slid off, etching a broad white streak into the stone.

“Wilde chaya!” My father snatched the piece of metal out of my hand and strode out of the room.

“I am not a wild child, Mom,” I complained, stretching out the final syllable as far as I could. I opened my hand. Blood oozed from a tiny cut on my thumb.

My mother shook her head. “Oh Melissa, you know how bad your father’s nerves are from the war.”

Again with the war. Which war, I wanted to yell at her. It’s not like there’s only been one. But I didn’t. I bit my lip and slammed the stones back into my bucket.

“Honey, come over here.” My mother held out her arms and folded me into a hug.

I was just starting to relax in her arms, when a crash came from the next room. Glass was breaking and my father was yelling. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor and my mother was running out of the room.

“Sidney? Oh my god, Sidney.”

My mother’s scream dragged me to the kitchen door.

“An accident.” My father gestured at the open cupboard. “I opened the door, and the glasses they just fell on me.”

The floor was covered with shards of glass. They glinted in the light from the ceiling fixture. My father had made a real mess. I smiled, satisfied. I couldn’t have done a better job. He sat on a chair. My mother fluttered around him, crunching the fragments even smaller with her shoes. He’d taken off his shirt, exposing the pale flesh of his arms. It was the only time I ever saw him without fabric covering both arms from wrist to shoulder. A bruise turned the skin of his forearm black and blue. Blood dripped from a gash just below his elbow.

Graying, dark hair sprung everywhere, on his arms and shoulders, from beneath the undershirt covering his chest. As if the hair had wandered off his head onto the rest of his body. He sat still and silent, patiently putting up with my mother’s fussing, not even flinching when my mother poured hydrogen peroxide over his arm. It foamed up over the white skin, over a tattoo of faded blue numbers. When, he looked up and saw me, I ran before he could send me away.

Two years later, we reached World War II in history class. A black and white picture in the textbook answered the question I couldn’t ask that day. The tattooed numbers were enormous on the skeletal arm, framed against a backdrop of barbed wire and striped cloth.

How do I forgive him for not telling me?

*

“I never wanted to be like my parents.” I lean forward in the chair, rest my forearms on my thighs, focus on my clasped hands. “It’s funny. Jenna says that I don’t talk enough, and my parents always complained that I was too loud.”

“Were you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I look up at him. “They couldn’t be wrong about everything.”

“No-one ever is.” He has a good smile, but his teeth are too straight. I prefer Jenna’s smile, with her slightly crooked white teeth. “Do you talk to your therapist,” he consults my file, “Dr. Grayson?”

“I think so.” I’m trying to be careful. I have to give him the right answers. I wish I knew what they are.

“You’re not sure?”

“No.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

“An honest answer. Congratulations.” He gathers up the pages, taps them into alignment, and closes them away in the file. “Let’s try for another one. What made you decide that you needed to come here?”

Just my luck, he wants honesty. The truth will set me free, if it doesn’t get me locked up permanently. “I had to.” I swallow down the greasy, queasy feeling. “I want to be able to stop myself from walking in front of a bus. I want to be able to leave the house without worrying whether Jenna will leave me while I’m gone. I want my life back.”

“Jenna?”

“Isn’t that in there? She’s my partner. At least I hope she still is.” The ache I’ve been holding at bay expands a little further. “She keeps me honest, doesn’t let me get away with anything.”

“And what do you do for her?”

“Give her grief?” I try a smile. “I’m not sure. She says I bring her joy, although I haven’t been doing such a good job lately.”

“Why do you think she wants to leave you?”

Damn it. How much truth sets me free? How much keeps me here longer? “I’ve been pushing things, pushing her. I guess she got tired of my shit.” I curl my hands tight, jab my short fingernails into my palms, using the pain to hold the tears inside so I can continue. “I kept myself busy, accepted every temp job going, even at places I’d normally avoid, and went out for every role I heard about – plays, movies, TV shows – including some that were clearly wrong for me. I spent all my spare time in my office, studying lines, playing computer games, and chatting over the internet with anyone who came within range. I did everything except be with Jenna.”

He hums in acknowledgment – a safe, encouraging noise.

“I stopped paying attention. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t work so hard to stay alive. A couple of weeks ago, during that thunderstorm, Jenna and I got stuck across the road from our house. The power was out and no-one would stop to let us across. Just drove by as we got wetter and wetter. I finally lost my temper and took off across the road. The bus stopped in time, but that was just my dumb luck and the driver’s skill. When we finally got inside, Jenna let loose. I’ve never seen her that angry.” I stop to sniff, wipe my hand across my nose.

*

Neither of us got much sleep that night. Jenna holed up in the bedroom. I spent the night bumming around on the computer. The smell of coffee finally brought me into the kitchen. Jenna was sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window. I didn’t think she’d noticed me, until she spoke.

“Don’t go.”

I stopped in the doorway.

“We can’t go on this way.” Jenna’s eyes were grey this morning, rimmed with red. “I can’t go on this way.”

“What way?” I sounded like an asshole, even to myself. But after the accusations she’d thrown at me the night before, I didn’t feel like giving her a break.

“Do you really need me to explain?”

“I guess not.” Grudging, ungracious. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“You’ve been like that for months. Reckless. Not paying attention.” She ran fingers through her short brown hair, sending spikes out in every direction. “I’m tired of feeling alone when we’re in the same house. I’m tired of being afraid of what I’ll find when I come home.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Can you promise me that?”

I wanted to say no, tell her she was wrong, promise whatever she wanted. Instead, I shook my head. She held out her hand. I shook my head again. She just reached out further, and my resistance disappeared. I knelt beside her chair, coffee mug on the floor next to me. She leaned down and held me. We stayed there, comforting each other, until the thud of the newspaper against the front door jolted us apart.

“That kid’s going to be the death of me some day,” I said. A bad joke, but I had to say something.

She found a smile somewhere, shared it like a blessing, let it slip away. “You need help. More help than I can give you.”

“I’ve been seeing Tamara Grayson.”

“She called yesterday. She wanted to know why you’d missed your last two sessions, whether you were planning to be there today.”

I wrapped my arms around my legs, concentrated on the carving of the table legs. “I don’t know what to do any more. It’s all too hard. It’s easier not to do anything. It’s safer that way

“It’s never safer. Not for you or me. ” Jenna walked over to the coffee machine, picked up the coffee pot, put it back. “I don’t have anything left to give you. I want to be there for you, but I have to take care of myself. I feel so guilty, but I can’t keep doing this. It’s too much.”

“What can I do?” I bent my head, pushed my forehead into my knees. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to Dr. Grayson today. Or find someone else. I don’t know. Just get help.”

“Come with me today?” I asked. “Tell her what’s been happening. I’ll stay outside if you like.”

She was quiet for so long that it scared me. “Please?”

“Okay. I can do that,” she finally said. “But only if you do what she says. If you don’t, I’m leaving. I can’t watch you tear yourself apart any longer.”

“And if I do? If I get help? Will you stay?”

“I can’t promise you that. What is it you always say? Make no promises, tell no lies?”

“Yeah, that’s my line.” Tears ran down my face. She joined me on the floor, and we held each other. “I’m scared, Jenna.”

*

Dr. Malawa interrupts. “What are you scared of?”

“Not being there. Not being able to walk through our front door and find out what comes next. Not having a life.”

“You don’t want to die?”

“No.” Anger flared. I ground out each word, trying to impress truth in them. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Die.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I know what wanting to die feels like.” I thrust my arms at him, displaying thin vertical scars that run from wrist to mid-forearm. Then, I cover them with my shirt sleeves again.

He comes around from behind his desk, props himself against the front. He reaches for my left arm. “Do you mind?”

I want to say no, but I don’t. I try not to flinch when he traces the scar with his fingers. He says, “You were very lucky.”

“I didn’t think so at the time.”

*

In my last year of high school, I played Kate in The Taming of the Shrew. It was my first starring role. I kept peering around the edge of the curtains, looking for my parents. My mother arrived early. She sat with her legs crossed neatly, reading the program. The Reserved sign was still pinned to the faded red velvet of the empty seat next to her. I checked every intermission, but the sign was the only occupant of that seat. I got angrier and angrier.

Afterwards, the other students laughed and bragged, sharing their good scenes with people who’d been on stage with them. Mr. Thompson, the drama teacher, threw his arms around me briefly, and chattered on and on about how brilliant I was as Kate, how much better I’d been in front of a live audience than in rehearsals, how amazed and impressed he was. Maybe he wanted me to say that it was all due to him. He was out of luck. I just smiled and said thank you, then took off as soon as I could.

My mother had said that they couldn’t wait for me. She’d given me money for a cab, but I couldn’t stand around waiting. I marched home. All that pride and righteous indignation wrapped up in Kate’s costume. I ignored the traffic lights and honking horns. I was magic. Cars were going to stop for me. And if they didn’t, oh well.

The news was almost over when I got home. My father just sat there, like every other night, bolt upright in that old recliner, feet up, eyes fixed on the TV screen. My mother was in her corner of the couch, legs tucked neatly underneath her, a mug of tea in one hand. Like nothing was wrong.

Maybe if she’d said something, acknowledged my triumph, I would have gone upstairs. Maybe.

I clicked the button and turned the TV off. I stood in front of it, arms folded across my chest, willing him to look at me.

He said to my mother. “Turn back on the television.”

She glanced at me, pleaded, “Sweetheart?”

“I was brilliant tonight,” I aimed for a light, conversational tone, but couldn’t tell if I managed it. “Everyone said so, especially Mr. Thompson.”

“Esther. I was watching about the hockey game.”

My mother sighed. “Melissa, honey, your father–”

“No.” I raised my voice, deliberately cut across her words. “Tell me why you didn’t come to see my play. You promised.” I bit my lip. I wanted to take back the last two words, hide my weakness.

“I had the birds to feed, tests to mark for the university. I cannot drop all to see children play on a stage.” The vertical line between his eyebrows deepened.

“The tests could have waited one day. You could have fed the birds when you got home.”

“Why you do this?” His hands gripped the arms of his chair so tightly the knuckles turned white. “Esther?”

“Is it so hard to do something for me?” I dug my fingernails into my palms. I would not cry. “Everyone else’s fathers went. Even Davey Leeman’s father came with his mother, and they’re divorced.”

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

My father jumped to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

I looked up. He was so huge. When did he get that tall? Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him, but at least he was listening to me. I continued, “Was that so much to ask?”

His eyes bored into mine. The muscles of his jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

My mother broke the silence, “Sidney, she’s just a child. She doesn’t understand.”

She reached out, touched one of his hands, and he deflated. Just like that. He stroked her fingers, released them. He gestured once at me, a convulsive throwaway movement, then strode out of the room. “The birds will hunger.”

“Didn’t you feed the birds already? Or were you marking tests?” I clapped my hands over my mouth, trapping the rest of my words inside.

“Melissa.” My mother put down her mug, held out a hand. “He wanted to come. He really did.”

“If he’d wanted to see the play, he would have been there.”

“He did want to, sweetheart, but he needs his routines.” She held out her other hand. “Try to understand.”

“Understand what? About the war? The camps?” I was incredulous. “What do they have to do with me, with my school play?”

“You know about the …?” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s complicated, honey. He was hurt so badly. He lost everything – his home, his life, his family.”

“His family? What are we?” A sob caught in my throat. Ah shit. I was going to cry “Oh forget it. Just forget it.” I ran out of the room.

*

The next day, still in shock from discovering that there was a next day, the nurse told me what had happened. She made him sound like a hero, telling me how lucky I was. How my father had broken down the bathroom door. How he’d carried me into Emergency cradled in his arms, his shirt soaked with my blood. How he’d refused to leave my side until he knew I was going to live.

If she hadn’t told me, I would only have my mother’s excuses for why my father didn’t visit me in the hospital.

*

“And now?” Dr. Malawa asked.

“And now they’re dead, courtesy of a drunk driver.” I smile. One of those strange smiles that appears when you least expect it. “I’m glad they died together. I can’t imagine one without the other.”

“I was talking about you.”

“Oh.” I think for a while. “I’m not sure, but I’d like to find out.”

He nods his head, leans back until his chair squeaks in protest. “We’re almost out of time. I think that I’ve heard enough.”

Enough for what? I want to throw up, strangle him, get down on my knees and beg him to let me out. Instead, I sound like a bird dying.

“You have an appointment to see Dr. Grayson on Monday. The nurse will give you enough medication for the weekend.” He straightens up, feet hitting the floor with a thud. “Take care of yourself, Melissa.”

Just like that? I jump to my feet. “Thank you.” Our formal handshake feels strangely intimate, almost invasive.

Signing out is a whirlwind of forms and signatures that eventually leaves me in the lobby. I drop the duffel bag that I’d packed with unhopeful anticipation, and pull on my jacket. I caress the leather, reacquainting myself with every crack and seam. The zippers’ rough edges scrape my skin as I shove my fingers into the pockets. The silk lining soothes my hands, as I push them in deep enough to feel the grit and lint embedded in the seams.

The cavernous lobby no longer intimidates or impresses me. Now it’s just a worn out, grubby space, crowded with people sitting on benches and leaning against the walls.

I examine everyone, looking for Jenna and worrying that I won’t recognize her. I remember her spiky brown hair and the way she feels in my arms, but nothing else. A familiar panic spirals. What if she doesn’t come? What am I going to do? I can’t just stand here. I need to go home, but she’s not here. Was I supposed to call her?

I extricate a hand from its sheath and grab my bag. Concentrating, one foot then the other, I make it out the exit. The traffic light at the corner is turning yellow and I gather myself to run across. Then I stop. I do not need to do this again. I breathe, once, twice, in and out.

As I watch the lights, a hand tugs at my elbow. Jenna is smiling, out of breath from running. I drop my bag, and we hold on tight. I do not care who sees or knows where I have been. I am home.