Blackout

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

My new room feels empty and incredibly lonely. I can think of nothing else but Clarisa. There has been no news on her condition, and since the shift change, the nurses here in the evening have politely requested that I stop asking. They say that when they get news that they can share, they will let me know.

So I sit in my bed, fiddling with my sheets, neglecting to personalize my room or even put my things away. My clothes are still in paper bags on the cart, and the outfit stained with Clarisa’s blood is thrown carelessly on the floor, demanding my attention every few minutes like an eye magnet. I can’t seem to force myself to get up to dispose of the clothes, or do anything else, for that matter. My mind is still full of the gruesome scene I encountered this morning.

I try to distract myself by learning the subtle differences between this room and my old room. They are almost identical in size and layout, but I see small variations in the materials used to make the room. The walls in here are off white, almost ivory, while the walls in the old room were light beige. The wood on the cupboards in the wall is slightly darker in here, and the bathroom door is black instead of gray. The lights in the ceiling seem older and dimmer. The doorknobs are shaped differently, and the tiles have a different pattern. The tiles, the hard, cold tiles, coated in deep red blood…

Snap out of it! I say to myself, but I can’t get the image out of my head.

A knock on the door distracts me, and I’m thankful for the interruption. It’s Coraline, giving me this pitying look that I instantly despise. Regardless of the events of this morning, I refuse to be pitied. “Hey, Coraline, what’s up?” a say with a brave attempt at nonchalance. She winces slightly as if she can see the effort it is taking for me to pretend to be “okay” right now.

“We are having a meeting in the game room, and we would like you to join us,” says Coraline.

This must be the news about Clarisa I’ve been waiting for! I quickly jump out of bed and hurdle over the bundle of bloody clothes on the floor, through the door, and down the hall to the game room, where all of the other patients in the wing are already seated. Thinking that hopefully no one will notice my entrance, I stand in the back of the room so people can’t stare at me, but they notice me and they all find a way to turn their heads, and most of them aren’t even sneaky about it; they strain their necks to look back at me curiously, whispering with their friends about what must have happened. I hear one woman say in a slurred voice, “I bet the b***h stabbed her, we all know she kills people…” I try my best to ignore the commotion while I wait for one of the nurses to speak.

Dr. Dillinger walks in, which somewhat surprises me, since she’s usually gone in the early afternoon after the evening doctor gets here. She must have had to do paperwork related to Clarisa’s attempted suicide, I think to myself. Finally, the muttering in the room dies down and everyone turns their attention on to the doctor.

“Hello, everyone.” begins Dr. Dillinger. “As I’m sure you all know, Clarisa Tucker was found by her roommate today with self-inflicted injuries to her wrists. We could clearly see her external injuries, but we had no idea of the extent of her internal injuries.” She pauses and looks down, and I could see her eyes beginning to water. “Clarisa had been hoarding her medicine, and before she cut herself, she took ten pills.”

There is a collective gasp around the room, and everyone is probably thinking the same thing I am: how did she hoard her medicine?

“Thankfully, Clarisa has been stabilized and her stomach was pumped of the drugs. She will be in intensive care for a while because she lost so much blood, but she may be back in a week or two.” I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s okay, she’s alive! “Thanks to the quick actions of Iris Kilpatrick, and the lifesaving attention given to her by the nurses, medical care was administered before she could lose too much blood. So let’s give a big round of applause for Iris and the nursing staff.” And suddenly it is as if there is a bright spotlight trained on my face. I can feel the blood rushing to my face from both surprise and anger; why in the world is she making me out to be some sort of hero? If it wasn’t for me, Clarisa wouldn’t have even attempted suicide! I don’t smile or even acknowledge the polite applause; instead, I sit there stony-faced, staring at the wall behind Dr. Dillinger. Finally, the applause ends, and Dr. Dillinger continues, “The staff here will call another meeting before Clarisa returns to let you all know so we can all support her as she continues her recovery. Thanks, everyone.”

As the other patients file out, I continue to stare daggers at Dr. Dillinger, and in my mind I know that my anger towards her is irrational, but I can’t stop the stabbing thoughts. She smiles sadly when she notices my glare and motions me toward her. I can see the curious looks from the last few stragglers in the room as I approach the Dr. Dillinger, my hands curled into fists, and say, “Betsy, why in the world would you tell these people that I helped save her? Hell, it’s my fault she was damn-near on her death bed!”

Dr. Dillinger sighs. “Iris, I wish you would stop blaming yourself. You could have panicked, but instead you called for help, which really did save her life. A few more minutes and she would have bled out!”

“Hmph,” I grunt, crossing my arms like some pathetic attempt at a childish temper tantrum. “I don’t see it that way. There is no way that you can convince me that my words weren’t the reason she tried to kill herself in the first place.”

“And you won’t convince me that it was your fault, so I guess we are at what is called an impasse.”

I try to glare at her more, but her calm yet quirky demeanor is wearing down on me. I can’t smile, though. So I just sigh dejectedly and say, “Whatever, Doc. Whatever you say.”

“Trust me, Iris. By the time she returns, she’ll be good as new and she’ll be thanking you for saving her life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Doc. She’ll probably try to kill me next.”

Dr. Dillinger laughs a breathy, nervous laughs as she walks out of the room.

A week passes by with no news regarding Clarisa or my possible release. I have stopped asking about Clarisa, but Dr. Dillinger is just going to have to be annoyed with me, because I won’t stop asking her about getting out of here. Before every session, at the end of every session, during breakfast and lunch, whenever I see her in the hallways; no matter how long ago I last asked her, I always ask again. And each time, she gets a little snippier when she says she hasn’t gotten anything back yet.

After two weeks, we get the news that Clarisa will be returning to our wing. Dr. Dillinger calls another meeting to inform us that we are to support her as much as possible and that we should not ask her any questions related to her attempted suicide. I have no intention of asking her anything, but I can see some of the other patients’ shoulders and heads drop as if they are disappointed. Of course, the people here are extremely nosy, so it doesn’t surprise me that they dislike the direct order not to badger her about her experience. But I have a feeling that some of the nosiest ones will certainly ignore the request to leave her alone.

The day after the meeting, Clarisa returns to the wing looking almost like her normal self. She moves a little more slowly, and she seems a little out of it, but I’m sure that’s because of the medication they had to have put her on. They always overmedicate people who attempt suicide here. But other than that, she seems to be generally happy and carefree like she always was.

She doesn’t exactly avoid me, which makes things a little awkward. We don’t speak besides a simple greeting, but she’s always near me whenever possible; during group therapy, at meal times, and whenever we have down time. I’m sure she’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m definitely not going to open my mouth and give her something else to overreact about.

After a week, as I’m getting used to the awkwardness, Dr. Dillinger starts trying to make conversation with us, probably trying to get us to talk to each other. I, of course, speak politely with the doctor, and surprisingly, Clarisa does too, but we stop short of actually talking to each other. That makes things even weirder.

In individual sessions, Dr. Dillinger often tries to convince me that I need to talk to her to help her with her recovery, but I kindly decline, usually saying something like, “I am all for helping others get better, but I’m not taking any chances with Clarisa. I don’t want my words to be the cause of another suicide attempt.” Dr. Dillinger always persists, so I turn the conversation to an annoying subject- my release. That usually shuts her up about Clarisa, but by then she’s trying to end our session early. When that happens, I always find myself hoping that my stubbornness won’t jeopardize the slim chance I have of leaving this place.

Then one day I get a new roommate. I was supposed to get one before Clarisa came back, but the woman ended up going to a different facility. Anyway, my new roommate’s name is Annie, and she’s a crazy one for sure. She’s funny as hell, though. She tells me that she was arrested after beating her mother up for sleeping with her man. The judge sentenced her to six months here, but Annie estimates that she’ll be out of here in less than a month once her appeal is heard. Then she goes on a tirade about how the judge that presided over her trial was a fat, sloppy b***h who showed favoritism for the prosecutor after the prosecutor bought her a Big Mac. I laughed for ten minutes after she finished going off.

I begin to show Annie the ropes around the wing, but almost immediately I can tell that Clarisa has a problem. I already know her issue; she doesn’t want me being friends with anyone else, even if I’m not necessarily friends with her right now. You’ve heard the saying: If I can’t have you, nobody can. I think that’s Clarisa’s motto right now, and if I’m right, she could not be any more childish. Suddenly, I’m worried about what Clarisa is plotting next.

It’s been a month since Clarisa returned, and it seems like everything has gone back to normal. There has been no drama whatsoever, and Clarisa and I have even spoken a couple of times. Nothing too deep, nothing personal, just exchanging pleasantries about the weather and the food in the cafeteria; simple things that can’t cause too much trouble between us. But even though things seem on-the-level, I always have this uneasy feeling that we are teetering on the edge of some catastrophic event. Dramatic, I know. But Clarisa’s one of those people that you always expect histrionics with.

Annie and I are enjoying the questionable chicken pot pie in the cafeteria when Dr. Dillinger approaches our table quickly. By now, I don’t bother to ask her anything about my case, but when I notice her brisk walk, I assume something is wrong. “Is everything okay, Betsy?” I ask before she has an opportunity to say anything.

“I have great news, Iris!” she says breathlessly. It finally hits me. This is it!

“Director Pugh just got a phone call from the judge. He’s called a hearing!” she says happily.

“So I’m getting out?!”

The doctor stops bouncing and suddenly this sheepish look crosses her face. “I’m sorry, I got ahead of myself,” she says slowly. “While it is great news that you got a hearing, it’s still no guarantee. It just means that the judge believes that you deserve a hearing based on our request. It will still be difficult to get you released, because the judge will also invite family members of your- er- victims. They’ll have a chance to testify on whether they believe you should be released. So it’ll be facts versus emotions and the judge will decide which one affected him more.”

I consider this. Of course, emotions are incredibly effective. A crying daughter or mother of a victim will surely be able to sway anyone. But judges are professionals who are trained to look at the facts. Will he be influenced by tears? Or will a doctor’s testimony convince him that I am not a threat to society?

I jump up out of my seat and I say, “I have to call Bobby.” Dr. Dillinger immediately turns around and begins walking, and as I watch her curly hair bounce behind her, I am immensely glad that I have someone great like her in my corner.

Bobby meets me in the visitors’ area the next day. Besides his rare visits, I am never in this room, so I try to learn it as I am waiting for them to let him in to see me. Finally, he is sitting before me, wearing what looks like a very expensive double breasted suit and carrying a Hermes briefcase.

“It’s so nice to see my star defendant!” says Bobby, giving me a quick pat on my hand resting on the table.

“Yeah, I made you a s**t-ton of money, huh?” I giggle.

“You really did. I’d never charge you for services. Your case got me so many new clients that I’ve made millions of dollars in the years after I represented you. People still haven’t forgotten my name, or yours.”

“Well, I can tell you’re a multi-millionaire. You reek of cash!”

“Ha ha, really funny. So, let’s get down to business. The judge’s name is Carlton Thomas. He is not well known for letting murderers off easily.”

It is incredibly easy to ignore his blunt speaking style. I’m so used to it; he is not, nor has he ever been, one to mince words.

“So what do you think my chances are?” I say.

“I think your chances are fairly even. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll get out of here.”

“How do you think we should play this?” I ask.

“Well, nearly everyone who works at this facility has written you a recommendation letter. Even some of the cooks in the cafeteria.” He chuckles. “You seem to have really turned it around, and your progress has been so remarkable that after only five years of being locked up, you’ve already been recommended for release. That’s extraordinary, because usually it takes decades for those considered mentally insane to be released. You have to understand, too, that the directors at mental facilities normally don’t get involved with patient release recommendations, so you must be something truly special if the director here is trying to get you out.

“I think that if we play our cards right, we can get you freed. But the attorneys for the families of the victims are going to be coaching their clients on the right things to say when they get on the stand to dispute your release. And if they are good enough, they can seriously jeopardize your chances. So we will have to appeal to the judge as well as the victim families at the hearing. You will have to prove to the victims that you have changed, and that you are not a danger to anyone else’s loved ones. If you can somehow prove that to them, you’ll have a much better chance of getting out.”

“How in the world will I convince the family members of the people I brutally murdered that I should be freed? No matter what I say, they won’t believe me!”

“That’s not necessarily true, Iris. You convinced a judge that you weren’t guilty, and you killed ten people. I didn’t even believe your excuse until you got up on that stand. You are gold as a witness, and I know that you can convince anyone anything. You come across so raw and honest when you testify, and I know that will help us.”

I can’t imagine what he’s saying. I know that I am good with words and with getting my point across when I’m trying to defend myself, but I didn’t think it was my oral skills that got me acquitted at trial. I thought it was the evidence presented by the prosecution’s psychiatrists that painted me to be mentally ill. So to hear Bobby say that I played a hand in proving my innocence is a surprise.

“I never knew that.”

“Well, it’s true, Iris. And I don’t want to coach you on what to say; I’m not going to mess up the realness that comes through when you speak. So you’re just going to have to wing it. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

I am not convinced by a long-shot, but Bobby has never steered me wrong, so I’m not going to start questioning his ideas now.