Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [19]
The next time she dropped into a funk, it was March, and my brother Brad was there. He had just graduated from law school, and was on his first trip to New York for his firm. He had met Lori before when he came to visit us at Tufts, and at first he acted as if she were the old Lori, joking and laughing. But I could see that he thought there was something a bit odd. For one thing, she wouldn't look him in the eye. And when she did, she seemed so angry.
“I hope it's not an inconvenience my staying here tonight,” he said.
Lori twisted her face up into a grimace. “Life is horrible,” she said. “It wouldn't matter if it ended tomorrow. What's a little inconvenience?”
He laughed. I think he thought she was joking. I didn't. She was dead serious.
Lori began to pace. Down the hall to the bedroom. Back through the living room. Out into the hall. Brad began to realize something serious was up.
“Have I come at a bad time?” he said, during one of her swings out of the room.
“Brad,” I said, exasperated. “She's talking about killing herself.”
“Killing herself?” he asked. “What do you mean killing herself?”
I was so frantic I was almost rude myself. “I mean killing herself like in killing herself.”
He turned worried. “Is she violent?”
“I don't know anymore,” I said.
He took me seriously. The next morning, he told me that he had hidden all our big knives and heavy objects. He didn't sleep though. He was out on our big sleeper sofa, and all through the night, Lori had walked back and forth past the bed, pacing from room to room.
I was getting more and more worried, but not that Lori would hurt me. I was worried she was going to hurt herself. Her highs were getting higher, her lows lower. I asked her how she was doing with her psychiatrist.
“I just talk to him,” she said. “And he gives me medication. But it doesn't help.” We never talked about what it was that needed helping. I never knew. I don't think she knew. And it was beginning to seem to me that the psychiatrist didn't know either.
A few days after my brother left, Lori came in from work. She was upset.
“What's wrong?” I asked. “Did something happen at work?”
She looked different. She was agitated, but at the same time she seemed down, defeated. She pushed by me and went into the bedroom. Leaving the door open, she made for the telephone. She began talking in a loud voice. She was clearly distraught, but at the same time, I couldn't help thinking that she wanted me to hear. After a minute or two I realized she was talking to her psychiatrist.
“I have to see you,” she said. “I'm really, really bad.” It was the first time I had ever heard her talk like that. I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation of course, but it was clear he was trying to reassure her. It wasn't working.
“Please, you have to help me.” She was begging this guy, but he didn't seem to be responding. Her voice got higher, and more and more strident. “You don't understand,” she said. “I'm telling you I'm really bad. I'm not going to make it through the night. Please help me. Please.”
I don't know what he said, but he clearly wasn't going to see her. She was in tears when she hung up. She walked out in the living room where I was standing, and she mumbled something I thought was goodbye.
“I have to go take my pills now,” she said dully. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.
What should I do? I stood outside frozen with indecision. “Lori? Lori?” I shouted through the door. I could hear her moving around inside, and water running. Was she going to slash her wrists? What was she going to do? Then the door opened, and she walked out.
I looked into the bathroom. For weeks I had been keeping my eye on the bottles of pills that her psychiatrist had given her, just checking their levels every day. I didn't know what they were, but I was pretty sure they were tranquilizers, and pretty powerful ones. Up until yesterday, the bottles were nearly full. Now as I looked past her, I saw