Chuck Palahniuk - Diary

You flushed down the toilet. By accident, you said.

After that, student health services wouldn’t refill her prescription for another thirty days. They got her fitted for a diaphragm, and a week later Misty found a little hole poked through the center of it. She held it up to the window to show Peter, and he said, “Those things don’t last forever.”

Misty said she just got it.

“They wear out,” he said.

Misty said his penis wasn’t so big it hit her cervix and punched a hole in her diaphragm.

Yourpenis isn’t that big.

After that, Misty kept running out of spermicidal foam. This was costing her a fortune. Each can, Misty used maybe one time and then she’d find it empty. After a few cans, Misty came out of the bathroom one day and asked Peter, was he messing with her foam?

Peter was watching his Spanish soap operas, where all the women had waists so small they could be wet rags wrung dry. They lugged around giant breasts behind spaghetti straps. Their eyes smeared with glitter makeup, they were supposed to be doctors and lawyers.

Peter said, “Here,” and he reached around behind his neck with both hands. He pulled something from inside the collar of his black T-shirt and held it out. This was a shimmering necklace of pink rhinestones, strands of ice-cold pink, all pink flash and sparkle. And he said, “You want this?”

And Misty was struck stupid as his Spanish bimbos. All she could do was reach out and take one end of the necklace in each hand. In the bathroom mirror, it sparkled against her skin. Looking at the necklace in the mirror, touching it, Misty heard the prattle of Spanish from the other room.

Misty yelled, “Just don’t touch my foam anymore. Okay?”

All Misty heard was Spanish.

Of course, her next period never came. After the first couple days, Peter brought her a box of pregnancy test sticks. These were the kind you pee on. They’d show a yes or no if you’re knocked up. The sticks weren’t sealed in any paper wrappers. They all smelled like pee. They already showed a “no” for not pregnant.

Then Misty saw how the bottom of the box had been pulled open and then taped shut. To Peter, standing, waiting outside the bathroom door, Misty said, “You just bought these today?”

Peter said, “What?”

Misty could hear Spanish.

When they’d fuck, Peter kept his eyes shut, panting and heaving. When he came, his eyes squeezed shut, he’d shout, “Te amo!”

Through the bathroom door, Misty shouted, “Did you pee on these?”

The doorknob turned, but Misty had it locked. Then, through the door, Peter’s voice said, “You don’t need those. You’re not pregnant.”

And Misty asked, so where was her monthly visit from dot?

“Right here,” his voice said. Then fingers poked through the crack under the door. They were shoving something white and soft. “You dropped these on the floor,” he said. “Take a good look at them.”

It was her panties, spotted with fresh blood.

July 29— The New Moon

JUST FOR THE RECORD, the weather today is heavy and scratchy and it hurts every time your wife tries to move.

Dr. Touchet’s just left. He’s spent the past two hours wrapping her leg in strips of sterile cloth and clear acrylic resin. Her leg, from the ankle to the crotch, is one straight fiberglass cast. It’s her knee, the doctor said.

Peter, your wife is a klutz.

Misty is the klutz.

She’s carrying a tray of Waldorf salads from the kitchen into the dining room when she trips. Right in the kitchen doorway, her feet go out from under her, and Misty, the tray, the plates of Waldorf salad, it all goes headfirst onto table eight.

Of course, the whole dining room gets up to come look at her covered in mayonnaise. Her knee looks fine, and Raymon comes out of the kitchen and helps her to her feet. Still, the knee is sprained, says Dr. Touchet. He comes an hour later, after Raymon and Paulette help her up the stairs to her room. The doctor holds an ice pack on the knee, then offers Misty a cast in neon yellow, neon pink, or plain white.

Dr. Touchet’s squatting at her feet while Misty sits in a straight chair with her leg propped on a footstool. He’s moving the ice pack, looking for signs of swelling.

And Misty asks him, did he fill out Harrow’s death certificate?

Misty asks, did he prescribe sleeping pills for Peter?

The doctor looks at her for a moment, then goes back to icing her leg. He says, “If you don’t relax, you may never walk again.”

Her leg, it already feels fine. It looks fine. Just for the record, her knee doesn’t even hurt.

“You’re in shock,” Touchet says. He brings a briefcase, not a black doctor’s bag. It’s the kind of briefcase a lawyer would carry. Or a banker. “For you, a cast would be prophylactic,” he says. “Without it, you’ll be running around with that police detective, and your leg will never heal.”

Such a small town, the whole Waytansea Island wax museum is spying on her.

Somebody knocks at the door, and then Grace and Tabbi come into the room. Tabbi says, “Mom, we brought you more paints,” and she holds a plastic shopping bag in each hand.

Grace says, “How is she?”

And Dr. Touchet says, “If she stays in this room the next three weeks, she’ll be fine.” He starts winding gauze around the knee, layers and layers of gauze, thicker and thicker.

Just so you know, the moment Misty found herself on the floor, when people came to help her, as they carried her upstairs, even while the doctor squeezed and flexed her knee, Misty kept saying, “What did I trip over?”

There’s nothing there. There’s really nothing near that doorway to trip over.

After that, Misty thanked God this happened at work. No way could the hotel beef about her missing work.

Grace says, “Can you wiggle your toes?”

Yes, Misty can. She just can’t reach them.

Next, the doctor wraps the leg in strips of fiberglass.

Tabbi comes over and touches the huge fiberglass log with her mother’s leg lost somewhere inside it, and she says, “Can I sign my name on it?”

“Give it a day to dry,” the doctor says.

Misty’s leg straight out in front of her, it must weigh eighty pounds. She feels fossilized. Embedded in amber. An ancient mummy. This is going to be a real ball and chain.

It’s funny, the way your mind tries to make sense out of chaos. Misty feels terrible about it now, but the moment Raymon came out of the kitchen, as he put his arm under her and lifted, she said, “Did you just trip me?”

He brushed the Waldorf salad, the apple chunks and chopped walnuts, out of her hair, and he said, “Como?”

What you don’t understand you can make mean anything.

Even then, the kitchen door was propped open and the floor there was clean and dry.

Misty said, “How did I fall?”

And Raymon shrugged and said, “On your culo .”

All the kitchen guys standing around, they laughed.

Now, up in her room, her leg cocooned in a heavy white pinata, Grace and Dr. Touchet lift Misty under each arm and steer her over to the bed. Tabbi gets her green algae pills out of her purse and sets them on the bedside table. Grace unplugs the telephone and loops the cord, saying, “You need peace and quiet.” Grace says, “There’s nothing wrong with you that a little art therapy won’t cure,” and she starts taking things out of the shopping bags, tubes of paint and brushes, and setting them in piles on the dresser.

Out of his briefcase, the doctor takes a syringe. He wipes Misty’s arm with cold alcohol. Better her arm than her nipple.

Can you feel this?

The doctor fills the syringe from a bottle and sticks the needle in her arm. He pulls it out and gives her a wad of cotton to stop any blood. “It’s to help you sleep,” he says.