Clown Girl - Monica Drake [85]
People can hear my thoughts.
Nobody understands me.
I worry about my health—sometimes, always, or never.
At the bottom of the page there was a handwritten prompt: What does the following mean to you: EKG = Nazis? Please explain. Also: Christ is a Clown? Explain.
“Hey,” I said, out loud. “What is this? Who else read my napkin?” I tried the door. The door was locked. I was locked in. I tapped on the window. Tap, tap, tap. And again I was the lobster in an aquarium, a prisoner in the tidy side of hell. I hit the chrome knob to call a nurse.
The door swung open, knocked into me, and threw me back, and the sweaty doctor fell fast into the room, backed by a nurse. He said, “You have a right to request a lawyer. Would you like a lawyer at this time?”
I said, “Lawyer? What, am I being sued?”
He said, “We think you should stay here for a while. We’d like to keep an eye on you. We’ve decided you’ll be admitted.”
“Admitted?” Like a hospital was a club I’d been hoping to join.
Admitted, detained, arrested. Murmur, palpitate, flutter. Language was a thin line being drawn, the deciding factor, nothing more than a name.
“We’ll treat the burns, see that you’re OK,” he added. “You’ll get a few nights rest.”
“A few nights?”
They didn’t care about my burns. Superficial, they called them. Minor. First-degree blisters. But what this new language changed was the name of my ward. Now ER became not ICU, but Psych. Psych at the top of my folder. Psych on my record. Psych would be the place keeping me from going back to Baloneytown, to the house I’d rather not be living in anyway.
I saw it now: L-Ward. Those big purple letters over the doors. L stood for Loony Bin. The Mental Motel. L was for that barely audible click of somebody else controlling when the doors opened.
In the made-for-TV version of my life this is when I’d start swinging. I’d fling an arm back to push the guard’s hand from my shoulder, lift a knee to his crotch as he lunged my way, and run down the hall, robe flapping, slippered feet slick against the shine of the linoleum. I’d kick and scream until Prozac or its next of kin showed me how much I needed the hospital’s help.
Instead, I felt tiny. My shoulders were small. My arms were sick with the grip of burns. The IV gear in my hand was only a plastic tube and tape, but it felt like a needle under the skin and that thin line of plastic gave the hospital control.
I said, “No no no. No thank you.” I couldn’t run if I had to, with the boob suit heavy around my neck. I could only waddle; the Ass slapped my butt with each step.
“It’s in your best interest.”
“Interest? Lock-up? I have zero interest in being locked up.” I said, “A hospital’s a terrific institution—”
A nurse said, “I know, I know…and you’re not ready to be institutionalized yet. That’s what they all say.”
Shit. I needed new material. It was a variation on a line from Mae West. “You beat me to the punch.”
She said, “Punch?” and made a fast note.
I said, “You beat me to it.”
She stepped back. “Beat?” She made another note.
“Rather aggressive language,” the doctor said.
“I mean, you stole my lines.” I peeled the Pendulous Breasts off my neck and dropped them to my hand. They reached the floor; I bent an elbow and lifted the boobs far enough to dangle.
The doctor and the nurse both jumped back. “Armed,” the doctor called out. “She’s armed. Security! Somebody call security.”
The nurse ducked out the door. The doctor stayed between me and the exit.
“Armed?” I said. “What’re you talking about? You’re crazy.”
The doctor said, “Just stay calm. Stay…calm.” He pulled an amber vial from a deep shirt pocket and shook pills into his palm. My Chinese BBs? He swallowed the pills without water, like a bird choking down an unwilling minnow. Security came up behind him. The nurse hid behind Security.
“What’s the problem?” the guard asked.
The doctor, suddenly brave with backup, cleared his throat, deepened his voice, and, like a line from a favorite old movie, growled, “Drop the weapon.”
“The weapon?” I held one thing. “This?” I swung the boobs.