The first few spoonfuls of soup make me gag but under Adam’s worried gaze I managed to keep down the bowl of soup. I spooned up the broth but left the noodles and the bits of chicken. As soon as I had finished I returned to bed and pretended to be asleep so he couldn’t lecture me. I still hadn’t made an appointment with the doctor. It was futile. Besides, I had to devote any feeling well time to writing my paper. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and attend class twice a week but I was doing virtually nothing else. Adam never complained but I heard him groan and saw him shake his head when he dragged the vacuum into to bathroom.
"Ouch! What’s this pin doing in the bathroom?"
For a moment I considered telling the truth. "Just a little at home electric shock therapy, sweetie. Nothing to worry about. It’s done wonders for my head. Really." I imagined the scene that would follow. I would lose myself to complete hysteria and Adam would have to commit me to the psych ward. They would drug me till my whole body was a heavy as my head so I wouldn’t notice the weight of my skull. Once my equilibrium was restored I would wander around with dark circle under my eyes and spend my afternoons stringing uncooked pasta onto wire for necklaces in an institutional green rec room. Finally, my illness would be recognized, celebrated even, and I could stop feeling guilty, convinced that somehow I was to blame for bringing the migraines on or for not having the stamina to withstand them.
"Ouch! What’s this pin doing in the bathroom?"
For a moment I considered telling the truth. "Just a little at home electric shock therapy, sweetie. Nothing to worry about. It’s done wonders for my head. Really." I imagined the scene that would follow. I would lose myself to complete hysteria and Adam would have to commit me to the psych ward. They would drug me till my whole body was a heavy as my head so I wouldn’t notice the weight of my skull. Once my equilibrium was restored I would wander around with dark circle under my eyes and spend my afternoons stringing uncooked pasta onto wire for necklaces in an institutional green rec room. Finally, my illness would be recognized, celebrated even, and I could stop feeling guilty, convinced that somehow I was to blame for bringing the migraines on or for not having the stamina to withstand them.
"Cassandra, I know you’re awake."
Ah, what an indulgence to spend time on the psych ward. But I let go of the fantasy and only mumbled, "I had a splinter."
"From these damn wood floors," I added forcefully, knowing he would let it go rather than debate the shortcomings of our recently purchased home.
"Well, don’t you look festive, dear." my mother greeted me with sarcasm on Thanksgiving. I was wearing what had become my uniform: jeans, Doc Martens, and a black cardigan sweater over a thermal shirt.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you too. It’s freezing in here. Is the fireplace lit?" I walked into the Martha Stewart winter wonderland living room and sat on the reindeer rug in front of the fire.
"You’re too thin, that’s why you’re always cold. You’re face is gaunt and you’ve got circles under you eyes. Did you call that new doctor yet? Your cousin’s friend’s husband swears he’s a miracle worker."
Ah, what an indulgence to spend time on the psych ward. But I let go of the fantasy and only mumbled, "I had a splinter."
"From these damn wood floors," I added forcefully, knowing he would let it go rather than debate the shortcomings of our recently purchased home.
"Well, don’t you look festive, dear." my mother greeted me with sarcasm on Thanksgiving. I was wearing what had become my uniform: jeans, Doc Martens, and a black cardigan sweater over a thermal shirt.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you too. It’s freezing in here. Is the fireplace lit?" I walked into the Martha Stewart winter wonderland living room and sat on the reindeer rug in front of the fire.
"You’re too thin, that’s why you’re always cold. You’re face is gaunt and you’ve got circles under you eyes. Did you call that new doctor yet? Your cousin’s friend’s husband swears he’s a miracle worker."
I rolled my eyes and stayed by the fire while my mother and Adam walked into the kitchen whispering about me. I had lost weight. I was perversely proud of my haunted look. It was romantic in the tradition of Sylvia and other tragic, artistic figures. I longed to be served cold turkey and a packet of cranberry sauce in my bed at the sanitarium. When the rivets on my jeans began to burn my hips, I went into the bathroom, took a pin out of my pocket and prepared myself for a holiday dinner with my family.
The Last Class Continues With Part 3... Next Month.
