Inferno, p.17
Inferno, page 17
I shook my head and started to throw the food on the floor, but he looked so sad that, even though it repulsed me, I stopped. He set up the table, I pretended not to notice he was serving flesh. I refused to touch it.
‘Please eat,’ he said. ‘Please, just eat one thing.’
I shook my head.
He looked sadly at me. He looked haggard. How could I get him to realise we were in Hell? I wanted to exit, I wanted this to end, but I couldn’t leave him behind, I needed him to know, I needed him to believe me.
‘We have to sleep,’ I said.
‘Yes, please sleep,’ he said.
‘I need you to sleep with me.’ I gestured to the bed, quickly, quickly before the guards came in and stopped him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Remember, Cat, we’ve talked about this before. It’s against the rules.’
‘There are no rules here,’ I said. ‘It’s OK, the rules are in your head. I’m not going to leave you behind.’ I spoke gently.
He shook his head. And so I failed again. I tried to remain calm, I would make him understand. I would.
*
Sometimes I heard the sounds of a baby crying. I could hear the sounds of a woman screaming. Who was screaming? Was that me? And then I heard the sound of a heartbeat. The heartbeat sounded like it was faltering. Was it mine? Was it James’? Was James dying? I heard the sound of a metal gate closing, opening, closing. There was a line connected to my wrist, I tugged at it.
Someone was piling blankets on the bed, pressing on top of my legs. I couldn’t move, I felt paralysed in my body. I tried to scream, but there was no noise.
James brought more containers of food. There were biscuits, my favourite Girl Scout cookies, Oreos, a stack of crackers. There was juice, coconut water, a smoothie. He set them up carefully in a line, his on one side and the reverse mirror-image on mine. We sat across from each other on the floor, with our legs crossed.
‘Let’s have a tasting,’ James said.
He took a sip of the juice. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
I imitated him. Perhaps we were in a mirror again.
‘Refreshing!’ he said.
‘Refreshing!’ I said.
I paused. James looked so thin.
‘Why don’t you eat?’ I said to him.
James was crying. ‘All I wanted was to give you a high-school date. You always said you wanted to go on a high-school date with me in my hometown. I’m sorry I never did that before.’
I looked at him with concern. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘You always made me so happy.’
He hugged me, I hugged him close and tried to whisper the truth in his ear, but it only made him cry more.
*
I started to recognise the nurses, the same demons. They’d appear and disappear only to reappear again, wearing the same clothes, wearing the same expression. There was a nurse who never looked me in the eye. She’d glance at me with fear. I glared at her often, sometimes I bared my teeth. Roar, I thought. Run, run.
Sometimes I saw time fracture, a simulation of moments, James in duplicate, being tortured, living, waiting in a hospital room for eternity with me.
And then there was one time when I saw it: as he smiled at me, I saw a version where he left me behind at the hospital. He was dancing with a bride at another wedding, his own. There was a cloud of confetti and he was sobbing through his vows. I smiled. At least he would find happiness. I was the first wife. I saw that now.
I tried to explain to James that he needed to leave. ‘I’m your first wife,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re my wife.’ He pointed at the family tree.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But you will find another wife, and I need you to promise that you will. At least in this version.’
‘This version?’
I nodded. I didn’t want to scare him by letting him know how many versions there were where he was suffering for eternity.
I begged James for paper and a pen. He gave me a stack of paper and I started frantically writing down everything we were saying. If we were in a simulation, if we were being watched, Teddy would need this record to figure out what moment of time we were in. I wrote and wrote furiously. Foxhole buddies. Bad storytelling, foxhole buddies, foxhole buddies, Cato you’re killing your father. I was trying to stop time, trying to pause the moment, what was the date, what was the time, how do you capture a moment in an infinite loop? I wrote until the pen ran out of ink. Frantic scribbles.
Sometimes music would play from the ceiling. James and I would dance. We danced to our wedding song, and I whirled with him and cried as he smiled, because with every turn, I was growing older, I was changing. I was Cato dancing with my father, I was a grandmother dancing with my grandson, I was James’ first wife dancing to Ray Charles, I was his second wife dancing to a love song. James was trying to keep me in this moment, but it was impossible, we were caught infinitely. I held him close because even if I had him for a moment, a suspended moment, that would be enough.
I was still seeing patterns, still seeing connections. Every moment brought a new connection, a new pattern. The patterns, the connections I was seeing, there were too many of them and too many parallels. The stories and warnings my mother had told me were taking shape, I thought. Those stories had all been to prepare me for my fate, to give me strength for this moment. I saw that now. I had to be strong, I could not bend. Shim Chung and her blind father, was I going to drown in the ocean? Would I be reborn? Nong Gae dancing off the cliff, I was meant to be a sacrifice, to stop the oncoming tide.
I started to draw flowers, flowers on the paper, on the walls. I was Ophelia, dancing with flowers in my hair.
And then Cato was there, he was standing outside the door. He was an adult now, and I an old woman. When had that happened? Had my life passed, and I had forgotten it all? Was I in a nursing home? I looked at my hands, they were wrinkled, dry, my grandmother’s hands. ‘Cato,’ I said. I wanted to see him, I wanted to see him before I forgot him again.
‘He’s not here,’ my ‘mother’ said.
‘I have to see him, he’s standing outside, please, let him in.’ I clutched at her shoulder, it felt frail in my arms. I could crush her, I could break this metal, then she would see, she would see. ‘I have to see him, let me see him!’ I shook her.
‘No,’ she said, I saw fear in her eyes. ‘No, you can’t open the door.’ And then I sensed it, the moment was gone, Cato was gone, dead, disappeared. My chance had passed.
And for the first time, I wept. ‘I’ll never forgive you,’ I said.
Outside the room, I heard the nurses talking about my husband. ‘Her husband, first husband?’ I heard Drew’s footsteps outside in the hall. I saw him smiling, standing outside the door. Why was he here? Why was I trapped in this room? Why had they brought him? He wasn’t my husband. Outside, I heard women screaming – who was he hurting? And then I realised who Drew was. He was every man who was cruel to women. We were the comfort women, he the Japanese soldiers. We were the wives, the ones who hid in the darkness, hiding behind concealer and false smiles.
I started to scream, I needed to exit this place, perhaps I was Alice in Wonderland, and I could shrink if I only ate the right thing. I started to chew on a piece of plastic I found that fitted on the bottom of a chair leg. Was I shrinking? Would I be able to hide?
I didn’t know what I would do if Drew came in. I thought of all the ways I could kill him with what was in the room. A pen to the face, a cable cord around his neck, a shattering of the vase. I remembered the moment on the balcony, I hadn’t had the will to fight then, but I did now. I knew now that I could not be prey.
Time split again, I was on the balcony, debating if I should leap. I was Leah, begging my son not to jump. I was Cato looking down from the balcony ledge. I could see the oceans below me, hands lifted up as if in prayer.
I thought of all the patterns in the universe, why had I never noticed them before? I’d been so blind. I was sensing something larger than myself. I was seeing the face of God. I was seeing the infinite.
I remember that when we were children, Teddy asked me what it would feel like to die. He was scared, he said.
I think he was seven and I was ten, I remember I couldn’t imagine not being able to use two hands to count my age. I remember that I told him a child’s version of heaven. And he smiled.
I remember that we were watching the hibiscus burn bright red in the fading light. We were looking out over the gravestones, the ones that lay empty. The black marble glinted midnight blue in the setting sun.
He reminded me of this a couple of years ago, when he came back from his trip around the world. He didn’t believe anymore, he said. He’d seen all the beauty that nature had, he’d climbed mountains, spent days in solitude walking with only the wilderness around him. He’d lost his faith. No matter how hard he tried to find it.
He sounded regretful. He was still scared, he said. He had felt so alone.
In the ward, I have a glimpse of what Teddy meant. Days in solitude, without really talking, without really feeling. But I am waiting. I keep walking. To find the morning.
I think of Westbrook, my godfather. In the end, he had longed to die. He had sat by the window, his eyes closed, waiting for the night to come. His beloved wife had died first, of Alzheimer’s. It had taken away her memories, her identity, and left a shell behind. Death was a friend, my godfather said, and he’d seen it often. It would be a place where soldiers were safe, where the young men he’d fought with would stand tall, would laugh, run free. It would be a place where his daughter would be, a child, always eleven. She died of cystic fibrosis, never able to fully take a breath. Death was the next adventure, he said.
It was finding morning.
I remember that James told me they were going to have to take me to another hospital. I was going to leave. A doctor stood by James; his arms were crossed. He was wearing silver spectacles. His voice was grave. ‘She’s been here for four days, and she hasn’t slept,’ he said to James, ignoring me. ‘She doesn’t seem to know who she is. She isn’t getting better. Each time I’ve spoken to her, she is still confused.’ What did he mean by four days? Each time he’d spoken to me? When had we spoken?
‘I’ve never spoken to you,’ I said.
The doctor didn’t turn his head and acted as though he hadn’t heard me.
But then maybe I had. Dr Jacobs. I tried to remember. I remembered being a child, drawing flowers with crayons, and a man nodding his head at me. His name had been Dr Jacobs … But I hadn’t been Catherine in that version. Or had I?
The world was a wash of colour; I could barely see anything. Where were my contacts? Where were my glasses? I didn’t have my glasses. Why couldn’t I see?
‘Yes,’ James said gently. ‘It’s because you were trying to chew on the glass.’
‘But I can’t see,’ I said. Maybe this was my fate, to be blinded. Like my father. The world was just lights, blurred shapes of light and dark, and the people in it were figures that moved like coloured shadows. Was this how my father always saw the world?
Where was my engagement ring? My wedding ring? Was I not married in this version? My fingers were bare.
Lane told me that I was going to be going on a rollercoaster, he was strapping me onto a bed, my wrists were in restraints. I smiled at him, how sweet that he was trying to protect me from the truth. I knew the truth; I was going to be euthanised. I was leaving Hell, but I’d failed. I was going to be extinguished. I asked that he choose the fastest method. ‘I want it to be quick,’ I said.
‘Let’s not overthink it,’ he said.
I always depend on the kindness of strangers, I thought. That sounded familiar.
Lane stepped into a vehicle, I saw that it was an ambulance, I saw the bright light of day, and I shaded my eyes, the sunlight was too bright. The air was crisp and clear, and I breathed it deeply into my lungs.
I started to sing as loud as I could, maybe Teddy would hear me. Maybe he could tell Cato about me, Cato would be too young to remember. I sang until the door closed behind me.
Time was still fracturing, I caught a glimpse of the world ending, again and again, apocalyptic. I saw a version where James was Ender, the one destined to close the universe. I saw Cato die, I saw Cato live, I saw him grow up without a mother, I saw him grow up with a stepmother, I saw Cato grow up to be James, I saw James as the youngest of three sons. I saw Cato’s sons, I saw them die, and then be reborn again. I saw spaceships, I saw a Cylon war, I saw James fighting Cato, I saw floods, I saw Noah’s ark, the fall of the gods, of Odin’s son, I saw time bend.
And then.
*
I cannot see, I am holding my hands like binoculars to my face and calling them glasses.
I remember singing in French and pulling at my clothes.
I remember a gurney, and Lane holding my hands as I saw beasts pacing around me. What was happening? Was I in a pound? A zoo? An ape screams at me. An owl screeches. A panther stares at me from its perch.
I remember a light, a white room, plain. I hear a phone ringing. There are no windows, where is the light coming from? Was I going to be here for all eternity?
I hear the animals outside. ‘No, no, you can’t be here!’ I hear shouting. I feel arms on me, hands on me, rough, and I’m being carried back into the white, back into the white room.
My legs are wet, is that urine? There is liquid on the floor. There are faces in the slot of the door, concerned ones. I see Drew’s face, then my father’s, then a demon’s, then James’, then my own.
I hear screaming, coming from within. Is that me? I’m screaming.
I hear James’ voice shouting as though in a tunnel.
I am being put into a box, a box.
And then, and then, and then I wake up, with my hair tied in a strange way, and my breasts a network of knots.
I am in a room; the lights are bright, so bright I can hear them, a noise in my head.
There is the smell of chlorine and chemicals.
A woman is in the room with a mop. ‘Breasts, breasts!’ she shouts at me. I realise she means that I need to express. My breasts are swollen, I feel them, they are a mess of knots, red and sore to touch. Oh, I remember. I was breastfeeding. I try to think about Cato, but the thought is pushed away.
The woman is slight with dark hair. She’s wearing scrubs and rubber shoes.
She walks me outside of my room to the hallway, where she opens a door to a shower. She strips my hospital robe and gestures to me to express milk. I stare blankly at the shower head, there is no tap. ‘Here, here,’ she says. And jams a toothbrush into a divot by the shower. The water is ice cold.
She presses my breasts for me, motioning to me. ‘Breasts!’ she shouts. I mirror her.
‘Change, change,’ she says. She hands me a bra and a pair of underwear and maternity leggings. Those are my clothes, I think. There’s a jumper which I recognise as my husband’s. I wonder what he’s wearing.
She drags a pair of large men’s socks over my feet. I pad out to a bright hallway. I hear the sounds of phones, of the tapping on computer keyboards.
I hear a boy’s voice, ‘Hello, Cat.’ He is walking along the hallway, he nods as he walks past. I wonder how he knows my name.
She walks me back to the room.
Before she leaves, she hands me a pair of glasses, and suddenly the world comes into focus.
I can see the room; it’s plain and white concrete. There is a bed in the corner, but the sheets have been stripped. There is a window with bars at the top. There is a curtained partition, I open it and see a small bathroom, a toilet and a metal sink.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t recognise myself, I only see glasses.
I look around the room, at the single bed, at the shelving on the side. There are stacks of jumpers, leggings, underwear, cartoon socks. I touch them, one by one, slowly, they are my clothes.
I find a notebook under my pillow. It’s grey with thick, pale paper. I recognise it as one of my husband’s treasured ones. On the front page is his handwriting. Precise and neat. There’s a list of names with phone numbers, and the date 9 February 2018 is written at the top. The year is underlined in thick ink.
So it’s still 2018.
There is a purple marker on the shelf.
I tear out a page, and I write my truths.
I am alive, I write.
In Hong Kong, they believe that the spirit world is in the same realm as ours, only thinly separated, with spaces that overlap. The spirits, they watch us, from their realm. If life was cut off too quickly, they yearn to reach the living. Their presence can be felt in those moments – whether it’s the wind or the call of the night, the spirits, they are here. And so, in this way, they are never separated from us.
When someone passed, you would stay at night in their home. You would light candles and prepare a large feast so that the spirits could visit and help guide the deceased’s soul to the other realm. You wouldn’t clean up the feast, you would leave it on the table, and before you left the room, you’d sprinkle the ground with white flour so that you could see the footsteps as they departed.
I loved that image of the footsteps of the spirit realm. It felt true to me, in a way. How many times had I felt the linger of a memory, the yearning of a spirit, of my grandmother. My grandmother passed away alone, on a quiet morning in the summer. Towards the end, she became like paper. She didn’t have the energy to stand, she lay in bed, taking sips of water, listening to the sound of the ocean. I wonder if she thought of her island home, or if she remembered being a young girl and watching the war planes go by.
My grandmother started to forget, her memories of the past overtook the present. She cried for brothers we’d never heard of, she cried for babies unborn, she cried for her mother.
I hope the spirits heard her.
It is visiting hour. James comes with my father this time. James says that my mother wasn’t sure if she should come. I think James also wants to spare her seeing me in a mental hospital.
