Read Online B000FCJYE6 EBOK by Marya Hornbacher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marya Hornbacher
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about the coffee. Right?” I looked at my mother. She nodded.
“Esau,” I said. His mouth moved slightly.
“He wants to talk to me,” I said, louder. I felt my chin start to wrinkle and pursed my mouth to stop it. “He has something to tell me.”
My mother reached out to touch my head. I jerked away.
“He’s not here, honey,” she said.
“Yes he is here, he is so here,” I cried, shaking him some more. “He has something to say, he said we should listen, you’re not listening to him.” I put my head down by Esau’s mouth to listen. I felt his breath on my ear, the hissing sound of words that wouldn’t come out.
“Katie, he’s sleeping.”
“Liar!” I yelled. I stood up and went to the door and turned to face my mother. “You’re going to send him to Away, aren’t you?”
“Katie, we—”
“You are. You’re going to send him to Away and then I can’t sleep and we eat fish sticks and Dad goes for a drive for forever and everyone leaves me and and and—,” I wailed, and started crying too hard to talk, so I gasped and hiccupped and sat down on the floor and put my head on the bathroom tile and watched it get all wet from tears.
She picked me up and carried me to my room. We walked down the hall, through the dining room, past my father in his chair. I bawled, “He hates Away, he told me the food is awful and the beds are hard and everyone’s sad there and he hates the white room,” and my mother said, “Shhhh, you’re tired,” and I yelled, “I’m not tired, what about Esau, he hates the white room.” I was falling asleep as we walked, as my mother set me down on the bed and pulled the pink quilt over me. She leaned down and put her hand on my forehead and said, “You’re giving yourself a fever, honey. Just try to sleep. I’ll be back in a little while and bring you Seven-Up,” and I said, “Everybody just leaves me,” and my mother said, “I’m not leaving,” and I nodded and closed my eyes. My mother began to move away and I said, “Mom,” and I had something to ask her, but I forgot what. The morning light came through the curtains, a cold winter white. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“I’m not going to go away,” she said. And shut the door.
I could hear my parents talking in the living room. I slid off the bed and opened my door.
“Arnold, we have to take him in.” My mother stood with her back to my father, looking out the window with her arms crossed. My father let out a long breath.
“I know,” he said.
“How long do you think it’ll be this time?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know, Claire. How would I know?”
In September, it had seemed like a very long time. The longer it was, the quieter they were, until they were almost whispering when they sat at the table. As if the words were so heavy they couldn’t be said out loud, they would be too hard to lift. I had heard them talking about the doctors. My father had spat out the word institution. He had spat out facility.
Institution, facility, episode. Also, medicine, court order, and They.
You could arrange the words to mean different things. I arranged them in my head, filling in the blanks like I did in my vocabulary workbook. The way they went, if I had it figured out correctly, was: The episodes are occurring with increasing frequency and severity. (Sometimes there were long phrases or whole sections of the conversation that I didn’t get.) The facility where Esau usually went was low security. They said that the patient might soon require a high-security facility. Otherwise known as an institution. Or simply State.
My brother, in other words, would be institutionalized and, my father spat out, turned into a zombie, handed over to the experts who could take care of his son, goddammit, better than he could himself.
On the other hand, you could arrange it this way: They were having increasingly frequent episodes and the patient would institutionalize the zombie
“Esau,” I said. His mouth moved slightly.
“He wants to talk to me,” I said, louder. I felt my chin start to wrinkle and pursed my mouth to stop it. “He has something to tell me.”
My mother reached out to touch my head. I jerked away.
“He’s not here, honey,” she said.
“Yes he is here, he is so here,” I cried, shaking him some more. “He has something to say, he said we should listen, you’re not listening to him.” I put my head down by Esau’s mouth to listen. I felt his breath on my ear, the hissing sound of words that wouldn’t come out.
“Katie, he’s sleeping.”
“Liar!” I yelled. I stood up and went to the door and turned to face my mother. “You’re going to send him to Away, aren’t you?”
“Katie, we—”
“You are. You’re going to send him to Away and then I can’t sleep and we eat fish sticks and Dad goes for a drive for forever and everyone leaves me and and and—,” I wailed, and started crying too hard to talk, so I gasped and hiccupped and sat down on the floor and put my head on the bathroom tile and watched it get all wet from tears.
She picked me up and carried me to my room. We walked down the hall, through the dining room, past my father in his chair. I bawled, “He hates Away, he told me the food is awful and the beds are hard and everyone’s sad there and he hates the white room,” and my mother said, “Shhhh, you’re tired,” and I yelled, “I’m not tired, what about Esau, he hates the white room.” I was falling asleep as we walked, as my mother set me down on the bed and pulled the pink quilt over me. She leaned down and put her hand on my forehead and said, “You’re giving yourself a fever, honey. Just try to sleep. I’ll be back in a little while and bring you Seven-Up,” and I said, “Everybody just leaves me,” and my mother said, “I’m not leaving,” and I nodded and closed my eyes. My mother began to move away and I said, “Mom,” and I had something to ask her, but I forgot what. The morning light came through the curtains, a cold winter white. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“I’m not going to go away,” she said. And shut the door.
I could hear my parents talking in the living room. I slid off the bed and opened my door.
“Arnold, we have to take him in.” My mother stood with her back to my father, looking out the window with her arms crossed. My father let out a long breath.
“I know,” he said.
“How long do you think it’ll be this time?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know, Claire. How would I know?”
In September, it had seemed like a very long time. The longer it was, the quieter they were, until they were almost whispering when they sat at the table. As if the words were so heavy they couldn’t be said out loud, they would be too hard to lift. I had heard them talking about the doctors. My father had spat out the word institution. He had spat out facility.
Institution, facility, episode. Also, medicine, court order, and They.
You could arrange the words to mean different things. I arranged them in my head, filling in the blanks like I did in my vocabulary workbook. The way they went, if I had it figured out correctly, was: The episodes are occurring with increasing frequency and severity. (Sometimes there were long phrases or whole sections of the conversation that I didn’t get.) The facility where Esau usually went was low security. They said that the patient might soon require a high-security facility. Otherwise known as an institution. Or simply State.
My brother, in other words, would be institutionalized and, my father spat out, turned into a zombie, handed over to the experts who could take care of his son, goddammit, better than he could himself.
On the other hand, you could arrange it this way: They were having increasingly frequent episodes and the patient would institutionalize the zombie
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