Free Crossing the Line by Dianne Bates Page A

get me to join in with the table tennis comp in the Day Room. Draughts, chess – no invitations come my way. And I definitely won’t be sitting with the couch potatoes watching TV soapies. A few patients wander by, but if they get too close, I try to look dangerous and they leave. I sit for a long time, wanting nothing. I’ve got this place sussed out.
    Just when I think they’ve forgotten about me, a nurse arrives to tell me I have to see the doctor. Reluctantly, I agree.
    The doctor’s name is Helen Marshall. She asks how I am. I don’t answer.
    ‘What do you think is wrong with you, Sophie?’
    I ignore that, too.
    ‘I have a letter from Doctor Palmer. He seems very concerned about you.’
    Silence engulfs the room like a huge black cloud.
    At last she says, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
    I watch tree branches thrash in the wind outside, scattering leaves.
    ‘We’ll put you in the Adolescent Unit in a day or two. You should feel more comfortable there.’
    As I pass her on my way out, she places her hand on my shoulder. ‘Take care, my dear.’
    The way she says ‘dear’ is so different to Marie. Like I really matter to her.
    In the toilets, hidden from the inquisitive eyes of nurses and patients, I can’t stop crying.

    After three torturous days I am transferred out of C Ward to the kids’ ward. The very act of putting one foot in front of the other takes every drop of my concentration and energy. I don’t want to eat or write or read or even breathe. I don’t know what’s happening to me: everything lacks colour, as if I’m seeing the world through dark wire gauze. All I want is to stay in bed forever, but the nurses – damn them – are constantly trying to jolly me into activity.
    There are five others in the unit: Ashley, Emma, Felix, Holden, and Lauren. I haven’t responded to any overtures of friendship so they’ve left me alone. I don’t want to tell my life story. Sick to death of that.
    In Group, the new therapist, Shelley, keeps asking me questions, but I look straight through her. Yesterday she asked Lauren a question, but Lauren, my new hero, told her to ‘Shut up, bitch-face’. Lauren keeps fighting the staff, abusing them, not doing what they want. If I wasn’t feeling so crappy I’d join forces with her.
    My sessions with the doctor are getting nowhere. I don’t want to talk with her so I retreat into my old pal, Silence. As much as I can I keep my head down; that way I don’t need to make any contact. Sometimes I close my eyes and drift off. The doctor said to call her Helen, if I like. She sits, clasping her hands in her lap. They are narrow hands, white and dappled with freckles, which Arlene used to call ‘flowers of death’. From time to time she twists a diamond ring on her right hand. Sometimes she tells me about herself. So far I know she’s a single mother with a ten-year-old daughter, Cara, and that she went to an all girls’ school. Oh yes, and she likes bodysurfing. I think she chatters on to fill the gaps of silence, or perhaps it is to make me feel comfortable with her. Her voice is low and gravelly. She’s tall and well-padded. Not fat or even chubby. She’s just right. Her hair, the colour of butterscotch, is looped onto her head, held in place with clips. When she walks beside me, escorting me to the door after our sessions, I smell a whiff of her perfume. It’s exotic, like white lilies, which I love.
    She has put me on antidepressants so now I line up with the others in a conga line of loonies as nurses dole out our medication, a bandaid against demons. I don’t really mind it all that much. Maybe I can never beat my demons, but the meds make them quieter than usual.

13

    A week passes before Matt comes to visit me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not him, so I’m not properly dressed for his visit. I feel embarrassed that he should see me looking so bedraggled, barefoot and in old jeans. God only knows how bad my hair must