I set the bottle beside me on the bed and held up the paper crane, pinching one of its tiny, stark white wings between my fingers. In the hospital, as part of my group therapy, the doctors taught us ways to distract ourselves from suicidal thoughts. Origami was apparently supposed to be extremely calming and helpful in this endeavor, but looking at the crane only reminded me of Joy.
She was in my therapy group. There were six of us, but Joy stood out. Mostly because she didn’t seem afraid of the doctors or counselors. She didn’t strike me as sad or alone, just determined to end herself. I admired that, even though I probably shouldn’t have.
Joy had been in Kingsdale twice for suicide attempts. The first time she’d tried downing a fifth of vodka and a bottle of sleeping pills. The second time she’d swallowed everything in her parents’ medicine cabinet. I’d asked her once if she ever thought about trying again. She’d whispered to me, “Third time’s a charm.”
We’d sit there in group, answer questions about ways we could deal with our emotions, and then it was origami time. Joy only ever made cranes. On her last day, she handed me the crane she’d just made and repeated her words: “Third time’s a charm.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by it. Not until I walked into the common area that afternoon and saw a buzz of doctors and nurses flitting about, shouting things. Joy was lying on her back on the white tile floor. Her large, dark eyes were open, but there was no spark of life in them. She was dead.
She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look lost or lonely. She looked at peace. I envied her that. It was all I ever wanted. Peace.
I could see blood on the tile, but nothing to indicate where it had come from. An orderly pushed me into my room and closed the door, standing in front of my small window and blocking my view. On my tiptoes, I managed to see Joy being placed on a stretcher and hurried away. Various staff members stood in front of the other patients’ doors as well. We were on lockdown.
I slept heavy that night, but only because everyone was given a dose of something to keep the entire ward calm. When I awoke, I realized I was still holding the crane that Joy had given me. One of its tiny wings had a small bit of dried blood on the tip. I wondered if it was Joy’s or mine.
The staff kept an even closer eye on all of us after that. Bedroom doors had to remain open. Trips to the bathroom were escorted. I didn’t say much about anything at first, but all I really wanted to do was ask how Joy had died. I kept to myself for about a week, before slowly acting as if I were becoming open to the idea of therapy. It was the only way out, after all. I kept the crane, though. It felt somehow symbolic. Of Joy’s triumph. Of my goal.
I zoned out in the familiar comfort of my bed, and eventually I must have fallen asleep, though I hadn’t intended to. The one thing the meds did do was make me sleepy. Only I never dreamed. Or if I did have dreams, I didn’t recall them. When I opened my eyes, morning light filtered into my room through the sheer curtains. I’d slept for over twelve hours. My fingers were curled gently around the crane, cupping it in my hand without crushing it. Familiar sorrow washed over me. I’d woken up. Again.
I sat up, knocking the bottle of pills to the floor as I swung my feet over the edge of the bed. After retrieving some thread and a thumbtack from my desk drawer, I hung the crane above my bed as a reminder. Once it was hung, I took a deep breath and headed for the door. I could already smell bacon and eggs, which meant that Mom was downstairs cooking and wouldn’t notice what I was doing.
Behind me, the crane whispered its support. It knew I was making a new plan. One that would succeed. Just like Joy’s had.
The hall seemed its normal length this morning, and I moved silently down it and past the stairs to my parents’ bedroom. Before stepping inside, I listened carefully to make sure that no one was upstairs with me. After determining I had the floor to myself, I moved as quietly as I could through their bedroom over that god-awful mauve carpeting and into the master bath. Above the sink was a medicine cabinet. Inside would be the answer to my problem—life being the problem, of course.
I stepped in front of the sink, and the floor creaked slightly. Cursing inside my mind, I opened the cabinet, and my heart sank. A single bottle of some herbal headache medicine, a half-used tube of Bengay, and a box of Q-tips were the only things inside. Closing the mirror door, I searched the drawers of the cabinet below. Cotton balls, a hair dryer, a bottle of my mom’s favorite moisturizer—nothing that would aid me. It was as if the place had been cleaned out.
No. No, that’s exactly what had happened. Can’t trust someone who’s made an attempt on their life with anything sharper than a Q-tip or a cotton ball, now can we?
With a heavy sigh, I descended the stairs. This was going to be harder than I’d thought.
My dad was probably already gone for the day, so it was just Mom and me. Or so I thought, until I rounded the arched door that led to the kitchen. Mom was at the stove, flipping bacon in a sizzling pan. Duckie was sitting at the counter. He was the same Duckie I had left behind—his eyes intensely green, his hair brown with blond highlights and spiked up in a faux-hawk. He was dressed in bright colors in that mismatched way that said he didn’t give a damn what anybody thought about him, so let ’em talk. He was the same Duckie. But I wasn’t the same Brooke. There was a huge space between us before he even noticed I’d entered the room. I put it there.
He looked up at me in surprise, dropping a half-eaten triangle of buttered toast on his plate. His surprise quickly turned apologetic. “Hey, Brooke.”
My mom shut down the stove and put the rest of the bacon on a plate. She turned around and smiled brightly at me, pretending that everything was normal. Probably in an effort to wish it that way. She’d always been like that. No matter how dark the skies got, she’d insist the sun was shining.
When I was little, she taught me to watch the sky fade from day to night. According to my mom, the first star to appear was a lucky one. And if you saw it, you could make a wish on it. She even taught me what to say to make my wish come true. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” None of my wishes ever came true. As I took the seat next to Duckie at the counter, I wondered if any of hers did.
She set the plate in front of me and said, “I heard you moving around upstairs. Looking for anything in particular?”
Damn creaky floor. I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could manage. “Just pain meds. I have a monster headache. Probably the stress of going back to school.”
“We have some herbal headache medicine.”
I noticed. “Herbs won’t help me.”
She sighed and straightened her shoulders as she looked at me. I knew this version of my mother. It was the face of the disciplinarian—a face she rarely wore. “Well, then I suggest you try closing your eyes and relaxing. All medication but Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, and the like have been removed, just like the doctors told us. The liquor cabinet has been emptied, and anything sharp—including kitchen knives—have been hidden and locked away.”
“What if I want to cut up veggies for a salad? That’s going to seriously screw with my vitamin intake.” Duckie suppressed a chuckle at my quip, but Mom’s sharp glance silenced him.