Page 41 of Tear Me Apart

NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

1993

VIVIAN

Liesel has been a silent member of the ward for two weeks. She won’t participate in group, she won’t participate in one-on-one, she certainly won’t participate with me more than the perfunctory. She seems to like art, though, paints with abandon during arts and crafts, but as for the rest, she is mute.

After art, when we’re cleaning our brushes—me extra thoroughly—I finally decide to go for it.

“You were crying in your sleep last night. Again. Want to talk about it?”

There is a long, pungent silence, before a small, quiet “Maybe.”

“We could go smoke.”

“I don’t smoke anymore.”

“Then our room.”

“Fine. I guess.”

Twenty minutes later, after I smuggle us in sodas and the sandwich crackers with sour cream and chive cheese I know she likes, I shut the door almost all the way and we have a small party, sitting on the floor in between the beds, our blankets as a combo picnic blanket and cushion.

Munching her crackers, she finally tosses an opening salvo. “Do I say anything, in my sleep?”

“You keep saying ‘no.’ Over and over. And punching the sky.”

She nods, calmly, as if she was expecting this. “That’s all?”

“Yes. But you seem...upset. Scared. It’s freaky.”

“Why do you sneak out at night? What are you doing?”

A test. I decide I have nothing to lose. “One of the night guys lets me smoke in the lounge.”

“What’s he want in return?”

“For smokes, nothing. But for information—everything has its price.” I shrug. “I haven’t paid it.”

“Would you?”

“Fuck an orderly for information? If I had to. If it was important enough.”

I sound braver than I feel.

“You’d do that to find out about me?”

“He offered. I said no. I would much rather hear it from you.”

“Don’t ever trade yourself for information. You’re better than that. Swear to me you’ll never do it.”

“I swear. Okay? I swear. Now, what’s the story?”

“I tried to kill myself. That’s why I’m here.” She pushes up her left sleeve, and I have to admire the vertical slice that starts at her palm and heads toward her elbow. It is straight, uniform, still red against her pale skin, but clean and healing well. In the light, I can also see multiple scars, two inches long, straight across the soft flesh of her inner forearm. Only two of the horizontal lines intersect the newer slice. They are much older, a perpendicular railway built over a long time.

“That’s pretty work.”

She slides the sleeve down. “Thank you. Precision is important to me.”