him, the staff just ask him to stop and then pick up the food. But of course he keeps going and going until everyone in the room is paying attention to him. I try to return to my Jell-O eating, but he does it again. “Yahhhh … oooohhhiiii … ha … ha … ha!”
“Fuckin’ crazy,” I mutter under my breath, and put down my Jell-O bowl. I push away my chair, get up, put my hands on my waist, and stare him down, the words filling my mouth like the Jell-O I just shoved in it. Hey, cuckoo bird, why don’t you shut the fuck up so we can eat our shit food in peace, will ya? But I don’t say it, because they’d probably put me in a straitjacket or something, so instead I head toward the room, my shadow Alexis following me.
As we walk down the hall, Alexis speaks to me in a bitchy tone that sounds strange coming from her. “Listen, I know you’re upset, but next time you can’t just pick up and leave like that. You need to tell me where you’re going.”
“He should be responsible for his own behaviour. He can’t poison the whole room like that.” I raise my voice as we pass the nurses’ station so they can all hear me. “You should not let him in there. It’s so selfish. I mean, if you’re nuts, you shouldn’t impose it on others.”
“I see your point,” Alexis says calmly, “but this is a hospital. This is where he should be to get help. It’s not like he’s in a restaurant and interrupting a fine meal. This is where he belongs, Melissa.”
I stop outside my door and turn to her. “If that belongs here, then I don’t belong here.”
And I realize right then that I’m coming back—that angry, agitated, unrested me has returned from the dead like one of those psycho killers in movies who keep getting up after being stabbed a thousand times. It’s as if someone has turned the tap and released the hot water that’s now filling me back up. I feel the heat inside. I feel the pressure. I feel something creaking and groaning.
And for some reason, I get all scared, because part of me wants to remain a zombie. I go into my room, lie down on my bed, and stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to dumb down my mood and return to my coma state. But it’s like that whispery, smoky ghost is slipping away and I can’t reach out and grab her—my fingers just run right through.
Fifty-Four
My mom and I meet again with the social worker in her nondescript, spacious office on the fifth floor. She sits behind her big, empty desk while we swivel on black upholstered chairs that look like ice cream cones. Perfect for an ice queen, I suppose. The walls are painted a sedating eggplant purple, and a large painting of an ocean sunset threatens to put us all into hypnotic sleep.
“I’d like to talk to you about you going home, Melissa,” she says.
“I’m getting out?” Which is only a thrilling idea because I’m so goddamn bored in here.
“That’s correct,” she says, void of expression. It’s not as if her face, like some people’s, is too tight to smile. Her absence of smile seems forced, as if she believes the mere parting of her lips would be a crack in her authority. “The psychiatrist thinks that we can go ahead and discuss a discharge plan. As long as we have the proper care in place and you’re on board, then we think you’ll be ready and a Form won’t be necessary. That means you don’t need to go to a residential care facility. Your mom has been participating in several sessions with me and she’s prepared to take you back under certain conditions. We have lots of support in place for you and your mom, but you are a major player on the team, Melissa. You are the quarterback. We can’t do it unless we have your full commitment.”
“Okay.” There’s something really unfair about all of this. I’m almost naked under a thin hospital gown, braless, and grounded by flimsy paper slippers. My brain is doped up with some kind of medication and my body is still shaky from withdrawal.
“You already have some good supports in place. You see your counsellor Eric each week, and I hear you’re doing really well at the day treatment school program. I’ll be honest and tell