Surreal Ecstasy Page 5

  "Hi, Morgan! How are we feeling today?" Erica was a curvy, petite platinum blonde with blue eyes. If nurses still wore those short, white, old-school uniforms, she'd have patients and doctors following her around everywhere. Hell, she probably already did, despite the ugly scrubs modern nurses had to wear. Erica was perky. Erica was happy. And Erica was annoying. Despite all that, however, I liked her. Sort of.

  I let her know that 'we' were feeling fine and that I had just been sleeping, and wanted to continue that activity. I thought that was a pretty obvious hint, but apparently being perky and happy doesn't come with an abundance of brain cells, because she just continued rattling on and on. She checked my IV and chart, saying, "Remember how we talked about you getting released soon?" I started to nod but saw that she was already continuing without any further sign from me, so I stayed silent and still. "Well, great news! We will probably release you in a few days because you're doing very, very well. I do wish you decided to eat more of your dinner last night, but I'll let that slide, because everything else about your body is saying it wants to get better."

  I did wish she would be quiet for 30 seconds so that I could tell her that unseasoned slices of turkey topped with mushy croutons served atop gel-like gravy do not a dinner make. She was already moving onto her next topic, however.

  "Morgan, Dr. Hirsch is here to see you for a moment." I peered toward the door and saw a man standing in the hallway. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie. Erica followed my eyes and nodded. "He just wants to talk to you. He's a clinical psychiatrist," she added apologetically.

  Just great.

  "Don't be too concerned," Erica reassured me after seeing my expression. "Dr. Hirsch is a nice guy. And fun to party with," she added with a mischievous grin.

  I really didn't need to know that.

  Erica let the doctor in, closing the door behind her as she left. Groaning inwardly, I faced him with as much guilt as a delinquent teen at the principal's office.

  "Hi, Morgan," he said gently. He was in his late forties and had dark, close-cropped hair. Not bad looking, actually.

  Wow. I really had to finish that sexy dream before I attacked the next man I saw. I mean, the psychiatrist was decent-looking but not gorgeous, or even unique in a way that would made him stand out. Erica parties with him? Out of all the choices she undoubtedly had? This was a strange, strange world.

  "Ms. Constantina—Morgan. May I call you Morgan? My name is Dr. Drake Hirsch. I'm just here to talk to you and make sure you're all right, okay?"

  He stopped, and after a couple seconds I realized he was waiting for me to answer. That was weird, especially after 'conversing' with a Ms. Talk-a-lot like Erica. I tried to imagine Erica sprawled on her back with this guy lounged on top of her, thrusting his hips in and out of her.

  Ew.

  "Sure," I heard myself say. The sound of my own voice was odd to me. I thought back to Friday night when I'd laughed and didn't recognize that sound, either. These things were probably significant for some reason, but I currently didn't know or care why.

  He clasped his hands together in front of him. "Morgan, you lost a lot of blood. They say it was from a kitchen knife." He paused, his eyes shifting a bit, and I wondered if he was uncomfortable discussing this. Well, if he was, he shouldn't have become a psychiatrist. "Would you like to tell me why you cut yourself?"

  I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding. I looked up at the ceiling and tried to figure out two things. First, did I want to go into gory detail about my pathetic life? And two, supposing I did, how would I even begin telling him about it, with its complexities and long explanations of my stupid life?

  He tried again. "Morgan, I know you're not a child, and I don't want to make you feel like you are. But I know there is something that's bothering you, and I would like to help you with that. You and I may have to spend a lot of time together, because many people are worried about you."

  "There isn't anybody worried about me," I said before I could think. Damn. Stupid headshrinkers and their psychology bullshit.

  To my surprise, he didn't wear a satisfied 'gotcha' grin. He didn't even miss a beat. "Why would you say that, Morgan?"

  I bit my lip and decided that, since I was an idiot and talked already, I had to continue full-force. "Because… because it's true. Don't get me started about my mother."

  "Is your mother the reason you cut yourself?"

  A cynical laugh escaped my throat. "No, not even close. It was-" I cut myself off, not wanting to sound stupid in front of this man I'd just met, doc or no. Then, not knowing what else I could say, I continued. "It was my ex-boyfriend, Adim. I mean, he didn't do this to me," I added hastily. "I've been going through this cycle with him… and…"

  "Were you trying to get away from his abuse?"

  I looked up sharply, immediately confused. How did he know?

  My expression must have said it all, because he gestured toward my chart, saying gently, "Morgan, the staff that treated you for your blood loss contacted me. You have bruising in various areas of your body, some months old, some weeks old—the type of bruising that's consistent with domestic abuse. And you have an old third-degree burn on your arm that's over a year old."

  I was silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond to this direct inquiry. Then I decided to ignore the abuse reference and finish what I'd been saying. "I have been going through a whole thing of getting together with him, breaking up…" I made little circles with my hands to illustrate my point; I'm not entirely confident it clarified anything for him. Part of me felt like I was being featured on a talk show. Their stories were the same every time. We started going out, and everything was great at first, but then out of nowhere he just started acting crazy. "And then something else happened-"

  "What happened?"

  I looked at the color of his shirt instead of his eyes. "Someone out there is spreading rumors about me." I didn't have the energy to explain about the fake picture. Spreading rumors was the same thing in my book. "I just couldn't take it anymore. I have too much shit to think about." I closed my eyes and rubbed them, hoping he would get the hint and walk away. Was it even legal to swear in front of a psychiatrist? I wasn't sure. I felt tired and really wanted to go back to sleep.

  "Morgan, I know this is hard. But these are important things to talk about. I need to understand how you're feeling, and whether-"

  "-whether or not I'm going to try to kill myself again, right?" I finished, craning my neck to peer over to the hallway. Was there anyone who could come in and save me from this quack? I was almost desperate enough to see if Erica was available. Almost.

  He sighed so quietly, it was barely audible. "Yes," he said simply. "Talk to me. Tell me what's on your mind. Why do the rumors bother you so much?"

  I was growing more and more impatient with him for reasons I did not understand. "I don't mean to be rude or anything, Dr. Hearse, but do you mind coming back later? I kind of want to sleep now. I'm feeling… tired."

  A moment passed, and I dared to look back at him to see his reaction. He pursed his lips, thinking, and then nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. I'll come back when you're feeling better. If you feel like talking to me before then, let one of the nurses know, and they'll get me, okay?" He didn't wait for my reply before heading towards my door. He opened it, started to walk through, then paused and turned to face me briefly. "And it's Dr. Hirsch, not Hearse, just in case you weren't sure."

  I chuckled briefly, which surprised me. "Hearse is better."

  He smiled to himself before walking out the door.

  Chapter 5

  I didn't and wouldn't accept that Friend would never appear to me again, never again encourage me and listen to my words of sadness.

  I had never intended to create him, but he filled in the gaps of the worn-out road of my life.

  An older memory—my fifth and last hospital dream—reminded me of this.

  * * *

  I'm 7 years old. On TV, I see a little story. A girl
climbs on the couch with her mommy. The mommy smiles and gets out a mug of hot chocolate. She gives it to the girl. They both laugh and hug. The girl drinks her hot chocolate.

  I run to the room where my mommy is sitting. I would also like to hug Mommy and drink hot chocolate. If she does not have hot chocolate, that would be OK. Maybe we could make some together. That might even be funner! I might make a mess or get some chocolate on my nose. She would laugh and take a picture of me before cleaning it all up. That way she could show the picture to Daddy later on. Now I really hope she won't have hot chocolate ready. We can make a whole day of it.

  I try two times to get up on the couch. I am small for my age. I am not very good at climbing. I look up at Mommy and smile. I hope she would see me, get happy, and sit with me for a while.

  Mommy looks down at me and pats me on the head. Then she says, "Move, before you mess up my blanket."

  I don't say anything as I get off the couch and walk to my room. I close the door and sit in the corner of my room and then cry. I cry for a long time. The only thing that stops me is falling asleep.

  Then I see Friend. He wipes my tears (I guess I am crying in my dreams too) and squats next to me. He is very nice, like always.

  He never asks me what's wrong. He knows I don't like that question. People ask you that when they really don't want you to be sad, 'cause it makes problems for them. That's how they tell you to be nice and not embarrass your parents. People never ask you that question 'cause they really want to help you.

  Friend puts his big arms around me, and I hug him back, sobbing as loud as I can. We talk in my head so that I don't have to talk out loud. He knows I hate talking out loud.

  Friend: It's okay, Morggie.

  Me: I feel sad.

  Friend: I know you do. It will be okay.

  Me: I wish I was special or loved.

  Friend: You are VERY special and more loved than you realize. Don't ever be sad.

  I sob until I don't feel like crying anymore. I smile. He laughs and takes my hand. We walk for a very long time next to a river.

  When I open my eyes and find myself back in the corner of my room, I don't feel like crying anymore.

  * * *

  I hated waking up at age 23, in the hospital of all places, thinking of the little girl inside me that wanted affection that was always denied.

  I was a sensitive child, and all my life growing up, I was taught to believe being this way was a sin, and that it was wrong of me to have feelings that were easily hurt. My loneliness over the years was obvious and tangible; I'm surprised I couldn't cut it with a knife. If I had never created Friend, there would be a huge void in my life.

  I could feel more tears building up behind my eyes. A very clear emotion ran through my body, ravaging it and rendering my heart even more useless than it was before.

  First, I was annoyed at myself. All I seemed to do lately was cry, cry, and cry. I was forever whining about my hurt feelings and always running away to take shelter from the cruel, cruel world.

  Secondly, at the same time, I was tired. I was tired emotionally, spiritually, and now, thanks to my blood-loss episode, even physically. I realized then that my wanting to die came not from the misery brought on by others, but by the ennui I inevitably experienced from enduring the same misery for years. I'd try feebly to stand up on my own and be happy. Someone would take me down a notch with words or actions. I'd retreat and cry, and then the whole cycle would start again.

  I was tired of this song of mine, so sick of hearing these lyrics, and yet I did not have the strength to move beyond it. I yanked my hair angrily, hoping for a brief distraction in pain.

  Suddenly, a deafening alarm went off, making me jump. In fact, if it weren't for those bed rails, I would have fallen on the floor. After a second, I realized it wasn't an alarm, but the in-room telephone that sat on the little table to my right.

  I was getting a call? Are telemarketers doing their thing in hospitals now?

  Remembering to take a deep breath to slow my speeding heartbeats, I reached over, grunting as I did so. I needed to get up and practice using my legs—or any of my muscles, for that matter.

  "H-hello?" I asked the phone. I groaned inwardly when it responded.

  "Morgan. WHAT or should I say WHO has gotten to you now?!"

  Mommie Dearest.

  "Mom? How did you–?"

  "You put down your father and me as emergency contacts with your apartment building manager, I'm afraid. So yes, we know how you overdosed on drugs and cut yourself open while high, or tripping, or whatever you kids call it. BUT, I know your gentleman caller is nowhere to be seen. You're a goodtime girl, but no one wants to be anywhere near you when things get serious, because you've already spread your legs!"

  "No, Mom, you don't understand. That's not even close to the truth! I was–"

  "Were you or were you not naked when the ambulance came?"

  I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. God, that really did look bad, didn't it? "No, well, yes, but I was naked because I was going to take a shower but…" I didn't know how to finish that explanation. I was on my way to taking a shower and she called me, telling me about the picture or, should I say, accusing me of prostitution.

  I had so much bottled up inside of me, so many comments about her hurtful words and emotionless demeanor that I had accumulated over the years. More than anything I wished to express everything to her, but I couldn't find the corkscrew to release it all and tell her what I thought. I lacked the guts to do it, to tell her what I think and how I feel about her. My current job consisted of cutting yards of cloth, ribbon and string. My past jobs consisted of ringing up cheeseburgers and putting clothes back on hangers. It had never even occurred to me to ever sell myself or dance exotically.

  But how could I begin to explain myself to someone who already decided I was guilty?

  She interpreted my sudden silence as guilt. "Well, Morgan, I don't know how to deal with you anymore. You're an embarrassment. But I'm an optimist, you see. I hope one day you'll come to your senses. Do you want me to send you clothes to wear home?"

  "Thanks, but I don't like how my face looks in a nun's habit," I blurted out before I could think.

  My mom choked on a couple words. I couldn't help but laugh to myself even though she would never send me a nun's habit and wasn't even the right religion for it. That's what I get for watching my Sister Act DVD so many times in a row.

  Muttering so fast and low that I could only catch the words "devil-girl" and "eternal punishment," she promptly hung up.

  I laughed quietly and slowly, and then as I re-lived my moment of temporary triumph, my laughing got harsher and louder. Good thing Dr. Hearse wasn't nearby, or I'm sure he would have some 'interesting' notes to add to my file.

  I stopped laughing after several minutes, and then sighed contentedly. That was great. I supposed I should have thanked her for offering to send me clothes to wear home, since I didn't have anything besides that butt-baring hospital gown.

  But it also would have been nice if she had given me a chance to explain or, even better, not jumped to conclusions when Ethan called her. It would have been nice if she had thought, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for what she did. My daughter does not whore herself for drugs and does not cut herself up because she's high." Or even better: If she had even asked me once how I was feeling. Did she even know I was in a long-term relationship, and had just gotten out of it? I doubted it but sadly, I couldn't say for sure.

  Why did she always assume everything was my fault? I sighed and shook the thoughts out of my head. I was barking up a tree long dead. If the answer to that was inside my brain somewhere, I would have found it already. Lord knows I'd tried.

  "Morgan?" asked a polite, unsure voice.

  My breath caught. What the hell? Was someone here to visit me? That would be inconceivable. My eyes followed the sound toward the partially-open door.

  Dess—the girl from work who'd taken away
the most beautiful man in the universe—stood there looking timid, which directly conflicted with the way she presented herself. She had a unique look about her. She seemed to be of some kind of Asian descent, about four or five inches taller than I but appeared to be younger, about 18 or so. Her long, curly black hair had alternating purple and green highlights at the ends. On her legs she wore things that seemed to be a cross between leggings and tights: cotton, black, and resembled exaggerated fishnet-style stockings. She wore a red jean skirt over that, and a red, see-through mesh top over a black t-shirt. She had a big red circular tattoo that covered the inside of the crook of her slim, light brown right arm.

  "Dess," I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. Where the hell was that sitting-up bed remote thing?

  She understood immediately what I was looking for and, after a moment's hesitation, came in and found the remote-looking device that was attached to my bed with a short cord. "Here you go," she said, still shy and polite, my cardboard bed bending so that I could sit comfortably. Once I sat up, she took a step back after putting a small green vase of orchids next to my telephone.

  Her voice was gentle and respectful. "I heard you were in the hospital."

  "From who? Anny?"

  "Yeah," she admitted with a short, apologetic chuckle. "Our illustrious boss was on the phone, telling someone about it. I don't know who." Dess rolled her eyes and bit down on her lip.

  "Are you freaking kidding me?" I didn't know whether to burst out crying or laugh crazily. "I could get her ass fired." Despite the negativity of my words, I suddenly felt comfortable around her. At work I was never in her direct presence for more than a minute, but right now, it felt like I've known her for years. Like I could be rude, polite, talk about art history, or pass gas and it would all be equally acceptable to her. I instantly felt a pang of guilt for thinking evil thoughts about her, especially without bothering to get to know her.