Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [65]
“You mean lock her in a nuthouse?”
“No, not a nuthouse. A psychiatric facility with trained professionals who can help her.”
“Well, for how long? How long would she have to stay?”
“That all depends on your wife.”
John pictured his wife upstairs on the bed like an embryo. A time-lapse movie played out in his mind, a movie in which his wife’s position on the bed did not change, but her fingernails grew long and her hair went gray. In the movie, nobody ate and the house was a mess.
He had phoned Sellevision to let them know that Peggy Jean would be unable to come to work for an unspecified amount of time. He had found the Amanda person he spoke with to be extremely compassionate and understanding. She sounded very young. He had also spoken with the police, who had no leads whatsoever.
But now, with his wife showing no improvement, John was left with no other option than to follow the psychiatrist’s advice and somehow have his wife admitted to a hospital.
“Peggy, c’mon, I need you to get out of bed and get dressed. We’re going to go for a little ride.”
No response.
“Peggy, please, you need help, you need to be with people who can help you.”
More moans.
“Jesus, Peggy, please. You’ve got to get up out of this bed. Life has to go on. No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. You’re being ridiculous.”
When nothing he said got a response, John decided he would call in sick, take a quick shower, and literally carry Peggy Jean into the car and deliver her to the hospital himself.
Stripping down to his boxer shorts, he stepped into the bathroom and examined his face in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, three days of beard, hair a mess. If he ever got his hands on this Zoe person that Tina said was responsible for all of this, he swore he’d strangle her.
Where was his shaver? The vanity was so crowded with Peggy Jean’s toiletries, it was impossible to see even a square inch of surface area. Then, hidden behind a collection of Joyce’s Choice bottles, he saw the Norelco GlideFlex his wife had stuffed into his Christmas stocking last year. Powered by a rechargeable battery, the electric shaver did not need to be plugged in, allowing modern fathers to shave while they poured coffee, chose a necktie, or visited an Adult Check site on the Internet.
When he switched the shaver on it immediately made a steady buzzing sound. The sound caused Peggy Jean to gasp, cry out “Shave shave shave,” and leap from the bed, ripping the electric shaver from his hands.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Peggy Jean, what the hell?” Too stunned at first to even move, John watched as his wife crazily ran the shaver back and forth across her forearms with frantic speed while she screamed, “Hairy bitch, hairy bitch, hairy bitch!”
He wrestled the cordless shaver from her and tossed it on the floor behind him where it buzzed into the thick pile carpeting. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, holding her, trying to stop her from thrashing. And then just as suddenly as she had exploded, she collapsed, unblinking eyes focused on the white ceiling above her.
“S
he tried to slash her wrists with my razor,” John Smythe told the admitting psychiatrist of the Anne Sexton Center.
“But Mr. Smythe, we didn’t find any lacerations on your wife’s wrists during the physical examination,” the doctor said, peering over the tops of his round, wire-framed eyeglasses.
“No, I mean it wasn’t a razor, it was a cordless shaver. But still, she grabbed it right out of my hands and started going at her wrists like she was insane, just like this.” He made a fist and rubbed it hard and fast across his forearm.
The doctor made a note on the pad that sat on his lap. “I understand,” he said. “She had the intention, but not the means. Does your wife have a history of mental illness?”
“Not at all. Up until three days ago, she was perfectly normal. She’s one of the top hosts on Sellevision, you know?” John said, as though this somehow provided evidence of her psychological stability.
“What about drug or alcohol abuse?” the doctor asked.
John opened his mouth to answer,