Karma Brown - Come Away With Me

“Lucky me,” I said. “So what’s the bad news?”

“You’ll have to put up with my terrible guitar playing for a long time yet. Don’t they say you need to put in ten thousand hours to get good at something?”

“Something like that. Which reminds me, I just thought of something you can get me for Christmas.”

“What?”

“Earplugs.”

Gabe gave a “Ha-ha, you’re funny,” and then gently pushed me back against the couch cushions. His hands roamed my body, pulling the blanket off me as they traveled across my skin. My belly was noticeable now and my breasts were fuller than they’d ever been.

Pregnancy suited me, which surprised me. Before, I would have described myself as semi-body-confident, meaning I would wear a bikini to the beach but I’d spend a lot of time worrying about the padding in my bikini top and the small spare tire I carried around my narrow hips. Now I felt beautiful in my roundness, with the softness of my body. Especially when Gabe looked at me in that way. Like a goddess, about to be worshipped.

“I’d like to collect part two of my birthday present, please.” Gabe carefully held his body over mine, and I shifted to the side so he could lie beside me.

“Part two?” I asked, my hand tickling over his hip bone, reaching lower...

Gabe groaned and closed his eyes. “This is the best birthday ever.”

10

Today I have one thing to do. One task; I promised Gabe before he left for work. To call the travel agent and book flights. I told myself “first thing” in the morning, but it’s almost noon and I’m still in bed.

It’s amazing how one-dimensional my grief is. I am only capable of feeling numb. Even the pain, which used to be so sharp, has gone dull.

Mom’s set to arrive in about an hour for her daily visit, which means fresh sheets and towels, and because it’s Monday, a restocked refrigerator. She’s turned Sundays into cooking marathons—as much for her freezer as ours, she claims, though I know how much she hates to cook. I’m subsisting mostly on Ritz crackers and peanut butter, but am appreciative of her effort, even if I barely touch the shepherd’s pie, chicken à la king or barbecue chili—Gabe’s favorite—she regularly brings over.

Anna will stop by not long after Mom, once school’s out, to bring me a coffee and some gossip from work. Gabe usually leaves us alone for these visits, knowing if I’m going to confide in anyone, it will be Anna. And the phone will ring a lot. My in-laws, checking in; Dad, wondering if anything in the apartment needs fixing. He lives for a leaky tap or squeaking door these days, because those are things he can do something about, even though Gabe is pretty good with his hands, and we have a landlord who deals with such things.

I prop myself up in bed, at least considering getting up. My phone is right beside me, on my nightstand, so it’s not like I have much of an excuse.

It was another crappy night of sleep. I’m sure my family and friends think all I do is sleep, which is fair enough based on how many hours of each day I spend in bed. But I’m asleep very little of that time—the nightmares make sure of it. And when I’m not lucky enough to be unconscious and dreamless, I usually lie in the dark, crying softly so Gabe doesn’t hear me, and wonder what I did to deserve such suffering.

I long for small problems, like not having the money to take a five-star vacation, or not getting two seats together at a sold-out movie, or waking up with a giant pimple on my nose the day of staff photos.

Reaching for my phone, determined to complete one thing today, I jerk my hand back when it rings. A normal person would just answer it, but I’m far from normal these days. It rings five times and then goes to voice mail. I recognize the number—Rosa, Gabe’s mom. I decide to listen to the message because if I don’t respond there will be another call soon.

“Tegan, amore , I wanted to... I saw the calendar this morning.” Rosa sounds strange. Like her words are strangling her. “This was supposed to be the happiest day for all of us...a blessing...” Her voice trails, and for a moment I wonder if she’s hung up. “I’ll try you later tonight, okay? Ti penso, bella. ”

I frown, tapping the phone’s calendar icon. What’s the date? It pops up right away, big and bold across my screen. March 27th. I stare at it, and for a moment nothing happens, even though I now know exactly why Rosa called.

Then I stand so quickly I’m light-headed, and my phone drops softly to the carpet under my feet. A moan escapes me, and I claw for things to keep me upright as I stumble clumsily toward the bathroom like I’ve had one too many. My hand finds Gabe’s guitar, and a layer of dust transfers from it to my hand. It hasn’t been touched since before the accident; now just another piece of furniture in our bedroom.

Today was my due date.

I can’t breathe or see through my tears. The guilt of losing track of the days, of this day, socks me in the stomach like a punch. Gagging, I fall heavily to my knees in front of the toilet and vomit violently, though there’s little to leave my stomach. After I’m done, I sit on the bathroom mat and rock back and forth. My hands clutch my now concave belly, which will never swell with a child again.

All I want is to sleep, to escape all this for even a few hours. I lean against the toilet’s lid and get to my feet, shaky from the purging. Opening the medicine cabinet, I scan the bottles until I find what I’m looking for. The sleeping pills. I am one of those people who will suffer through a blinding migraine rather than take a pill, so the bottle is still full.

Wrapping my fingers around the small narrow bottle, I use the other hand to fill a glass with water from the bathroom sink. Staring into the mirror, I see a woman who used to care about how she looked, who others might have called pretty, whose stringy hair now hangs in front of vacant eyes, her face full of dark shadows and hollows. I don’t want to be this woman anymore.

I open the cabinet again and take out another bottle, then make my way back to bed with the glass of water in one hand and two pill bottles clutched in the other.

First, I swallow the morphine left over from my surgery. The bottle is nearly half-full, so it takes a while to get them all down. I don’t rush, because I don’t want to throw up again. Then I put the empty morphine bottle in my nightstand drawer, tucked deeply into a box of tissues, and pop the lid of the other bottle. The label says to take one pill at bedtime, and not if pregnant or breastfeeding. No problem there. I shake out two little white pills, which I swallow easily with a sip of water. Then I take out two more, and do the same. And then, just to be sure they work, shake out the last one and down it goes. Sleep will not elude me today.

They say it was good my mom showed up when she did.

11

As strange as it sounds, I like being here. It’s busy, which means plenty of distractions. And unless I have a visitor, there are no reminders of what has put me here in the first place.

Like any other floor on the hospital, the linoleum tiles carry black scuff marks; the beeps and bells work tirelessly to disturb even the deepest, most pharmaceutically induced sleep; and the smells of rubbing alcohol and cafeteria food permeate the air. The only difference on this floor is how one gets in, or out of, the unit: through windowless doors, with high security locks. While some might feel captive here, I feel safe.

Welcome to the psychiatric ward.

It has been just over a week since I swallowed the pills. I wasn’t really trying to kill myself, despite what it says on my chart. I was simply searching for a moment of peace from the grief. I wanted to sleep without having nightmares. I was tired of the pain that lives in my chest. That’s all it was. But when you end up in the ER, rushed by ambulance and barely breathing because of a bellyful of painkillers and sleeping pills, you get a good old-fashioned stomach pumping, a charcoal chaser and two weeks in the psych ward.