Running
Jess Small
(March, 2013)
My father picked me up in front of school, his car newly waxed. He walked around to open the passenger door and tipped his pretend hat while I lowered myself into the front seat. I must have been about ten at the time, excited to spend an afternoon at the races and to have my dad to myself. On the way to the track, he told me about the books he picked out from the library where we would pretend to have been when my mother asked later that night. When we got to the track, my father gave me five dollars to bet with. We sat in the bleachers and watched our horses run round and round. I loved the sound of the hooves and the feel of the gallop as the bleachers tickled my thighs.
My mother told me later, when I was old enough to hear, that the gambling was her final straw. Dad lost my college fund one of those Wednesday afternoons on a sure thing, and when she found out she told him to leave, to pack his things and go. A week later, the police came to the house and asked my mother if she could identify the body that was found hanging in the bathroom of a nearby motel.
My little girl lies with her head in my lap. I try to get the knots out of her hair but it’s matted with eggs. I comb through the tangles with my fingers and pull the nits off each strand, crushing them with my nails for the satisfaction of the crunch.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No, Mommy. It’s fine.”
We sit like this for hours, me pulling the nits one by one from her hair. I feel as if the lice are crawling on my own scalp and we fall asleep together on the couch.
I feel sick the next morning, like I might do something bad. My little girl is still asleep and my husband is curled on his side in the middle of our bed. I write a note. I am going home for a bit it says. And I leave.
I drive west for two days to my mother’s house just outside Chicago. I stop only for gas and to force myself to eat, the food so dry going down I have to swallow each bite with water as if it were a pill. My head hurts, a tight band across my temples, and my eyes ache from the glare of the road. I count the mile markers as they pass, read each sign until the words start to change. MIND BEND, 10 miles, CRAZY BITCH, next exit. I follow the road with my eyes closed and hear the trees as I pass.
I pull up the driveway and my mother stands in the doorway, waiting with a spoon in her hand, no smile on her face, and I hallucinate my father standing next to her, pitch-fork and hat, American Gothic style. She tells me to come in.
“Are you hungry?”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Alex called.” My mother prepares a cup of coffee and sandwich for me. “What’s going on Rebecca?” She looks at me from head to toe with a slight frown on her face, taking note, I’m sure, of the knotted hair and torn jeans.
“I just need a rest, Mom.” I run my fingers through my hair and they get stuck in a tangle.
I sleep. I dream of driving down the highway, losing control of the wheel, the brakes not working. Or of flying over The Falls only to realize mid-flight that the car can’t fly. I dream of my husband. I go down on him and then look up into the face of a dog. I walk through a cornfield and feel a crunch beneath my feet. The field is covered with baby mice, red-eyes still burnt closed, squirming. I walk over the small pink bodies trying to get home. I dream of a deep restful sleep and then of watching myself in that sleep suddenly stop breathing. I try to wake up but can’t open my eyes. I am in both worlds at once. I can hear my mother and stepfather talk as I lie fighting with my sleeping self. And then the dreams stop, and in the quiet, I open my eyes.
My husband calls. He says he is flying out, he’ll leave Jaime with his parents. We have to decide what to do. He tells me I need help and that he found a space at McLean’s. He is coming to Chicago to get me. I tell him I don’t want him here and hang up. I can hear him tell me through the receiver he is coming anyway. I know, I say silently back. My mother comes in and puts on a pot for tea. I hear her tell me she is worried. I hear myself tell her not to be.
Alex is here she says.
I know.
I am not sure if my mouth is moving. I am not sure if my eyes are open. I feel nothing. I feel the wind against my skin and my heart beating. I feel nothing.
Alex walks across the room.
I feel the floor shake as he walks.
He takes me in his arms. I feel nothing.
The room is white and stark and the lights are too bright. I see myself reflected in the shifty eyes of the other patients. And then I am in the doctor’s office, lying as I’d imagined on his couch. I tell the doctor that as a child, when my mother took me to the therapist after the suicide, there was no couch. Just a small chair and desk, and mostly I drew pictures. I drew horses and race tracks, and my mother driving her car. The doctor asks me questions and I describe the pictures I would have drawn.
The first time I experienced my own depression was after Jaime was born. Those first few months, Alex would come home from work to find me unbathed, staring through the television as Jaime slept in my arms.
“Rebecca, you have to get off that couch,” he said as he took off his shoes and coat and sat in the chair across from me.
“I know. I know.” I sat up and shifted the baby in my arms.
“She’s fine,” he told me. “Put her in the crib.”
“She’s so warm. I just like holding her.”
Alex took her from me and put her in the crib. When he came back, he sat on the couch and laid his head in my lap. I absently played with his curls and he reached up to touch my breast. I brushed him away.
“They hurt,” I said.
“I miss you.”
“I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Alex sat up. “Why don’t you go to your doctor?”
“I did,” I said, and looked away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She gave me a script. I don’t want to take anything. I’ll be fine. Just a bit bluesy after the baby. I’ll be better when I get back to work.”
“I love you.” Alex said and he reached up to kiss me, but the baby started to cry. He brought Jaime to me and I lifted my shirt to give her my breast to suckle. We all sat together on the couch.
Alex picked up my prescription at the pharmacy, giving me water and a pill with breakfast the next morning.
Jaime comes into the visitor’s room with a bunch of tulips in her hands. She runs toward me and mashes the flowers between us as she gives me a hug. When she sees the flowers with the petals crushed and a few fallen off, she gets teary.
“Don’t worry honey – they’re still beautiful.” I take the bouquet and kiss her hair. We sit in a cluster at the back of the room. Alex and I both look at our daughter for comfort.
“When are you coming home Mommy?”
“Soon, baby. Soon”
“Are you very sick?”
“No. Just a little tired.” I smile at Her and look across to Alex. Alex looks tired with two days’ growth on his chin and dark shadows under his eyes.
“We miss you,” he says.
“I’m doing better.”
“Are you?”
“I feel better. Should we play a game?”
I point him to the bookshelf that is filled with board games – bored games as we used to call them, unable to imagine being the older couple that played scrabble instead of making love on the couch. Jaime runs over and pulls out Candyland, spilling the pieces on the floor. Again, she gets teary and runs into my arms.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s all okay. We can clean it up together,” I say. And we pick up the pieces from the floor as a family. Jaime finds a nickel and places it in her pocket. We set up the game and play twice because Jaime loses the first time. Then it is time for dinner and Jaime and Alex leave.
Alex and I married young. It was the summer after our junior year, the year Alex’s father had his first heart attack. We celebrated with a small group of family and friends at Alex’s family home on the Cape, the local justice of the peace presiding instead of the Rabbi my mother had hoped for. I wore a simple white dress, fitted at the waist with a lilac bow. I had flowers braided into my hair. Alex wore a grey suit with a tie that matched my waistband.
I waited in the kitchen with my mother while everyone got seated. She pulled a strand of hair back into my braid and secured it with a bobby pin.
“You look so grown up,” she said.
“I wish dad were here.”
“Oh honey,” she said, pulled me to her chest. We heard the music start and she took my elbow and walked me down the aisle.
He was handsome, my father. Steel grey eyes. Like mine. He used to swing. High and low. I remember him best when he was high. He would come home from work, lift me in his arms and dance me around the kitchen while Santana sang on the radio. Once, he brought home a long black mink for my mother that he said matched her hair perfectly. She put it on over her blouse and jeans, draped it around her slender shoulders and walked through the house, calling my father dahling and holding out her hand. She took it back to the store the next day.
Alex comes alone to pick me up from the hospital. My doctor and I have found a good medicine and a game plan if things go bad again and so I feel safe going home. I miss Jaime. Alex takes my bag.
“I feel better,” I say as we walk to the car.
“You look well.” He pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the doors. “Your parents are at the house. Jaime couldn’t fall asleep last night, she’s so excited.”
Alex checks to see that I buckled my seatbelt and then starts the car. He turns to give me a smile. We drive home in silence, and as I stare out the window at the buds coming out on the trees, I look forward to seeing my mother and step-father, to holding Jaime in my arms. I look forward to tasting a home cooked meal. I look forward to taking a warm bath with a cup of tea. I look forward to sharing my bed with my husband, to feeling his breath on my neck and the warmth of his skin. And I enjoy this simple act of looking forward.
Jess Small is a physician and want-to-be writer. She lives with her husband, two children, and dog. She enjoys meeting with her writing friends for feedback, inspiration, good food, and wine.