This is the next instalment from my true life story of what happens when you escape for the weekend from psych ward with the cute guy from two doors down. We are tucked away on a secluded beach somewhere in West Vancouver.
Nick, in all his naked glory, promptly ignores my come hither too batting of my eyes and starts swimming for a cluster of jutting rocks. Abandoned on the shoreline, in a state of rising hypersexuality, I throw caution to the wind and go for it. I jump out of my suit and into the water.
I dive, sink into the clear salty water. Nipples pert from the sudden contrast. Water glistening on my skin, my chest, thighs laying bare to the sun and I float, bobbing in the briny ocean. We canoodle, wrestle, and swirl. The setting sun fixes golden pink hues on the water and the backdrop of trees.
We are here not only to swim, but to camp overnight. An impromptu, brazen escape from the psych ward and in complete violation of psych ward patient policies. The orange plastic tarp is our makeshift tent and chunks of driftwood anchor it down. We have no sleeping bags, no sunscreen, only wet towels. We've brought Mr. Peanut peanuts and 7-11 subs for dinner. We have one remaining bottle of water but lots of beer. Planning and preparation are not part of the manic skill set.
We tan until the sun dies completely, then wriggle into toasty clothes and crawl under the tarp. We fall asleep in each other's arms. For some reason, we don't have sex. Never have sex. The thrill of escape and nudity was enough I think. Sunday morning. It's time to go back. We're achy and stiff, invigorated but relaxed with only mild hangovers.
Before we return to the hospital, Nick pulls up to a towering white apartment building in West Vancouver. ‘Hang on', he says. He slams the door, the car still running. 5 minutes later, he hops back in. ‘All set.' and he guns the engine.
The next couple weeks we spend sneaking onto the playing field beside the emergency entrance, rolling under Evergreens getting pine sap rashes and grass stains. Behind abandoned ambulances, while paramedics take smoke breaks, we kiss and neck - fueling our fantasies. We lock ourselves in airless linen closets, among blue sheets and dusty pillows, make out against their stoic doors. With the sound of Frank the daytime janitor's jangling keys we untangle our legs and arms. Scramble out of sight, diving behind bins of dirty hand towels.
Frank struggles with the jammed lock, gives up and we are free. We snatch one last kiss before Nick walks out, smoothing his hair. I poke my head out, guillotine-style and exit unaddled and dizzy, ‘reponytailing' my hair.
Next day, Nick dressed in scrubby jeans and a ratty T-shirt, (why does dirt make men so sexy?) sits beside me in the common room. I'm hunched over rabidly scribbling some tragic high school poetry. He waits until I look up. ‘I'm being discharged this afternoon.'
‘Oh.' I purse my lips.
‘They say I'm stable.'
‘Sounds like you're a piece of horse equipment.' Then I glare at the mirror to the right of his head.
‘Hey,' he quips, ‘come on - it's not that bad. You'll be out soon too.'
‘I know.' I am petulant.
‘Anyway this is for you.' He extends his right arm and jiggles his fist - as if it has a mind of its own.
I level a look at him but can't hide my smile. I peel away each finger one at a time. On his palm: a delicate necklace made of small pearls with a clasp that is intricately engraved with curlicues. It's his grandmothers.
‘But she's dead and I don't wear jewelry.' We both laugh.
They aren't real pearls. But it is a real gift. Another two days and I'm released and back in my attic suite, I bounce to the phone to call Sam. I haven't been this excited since Lynn the head nurse said we could order Pizza Hut Pizza instead of having the Friday rehab cooking class.
I dial and I hold my breath. It rings and I wait for our first post-psych ward salutation. On the other end: ‘Hello?' It's a woman's voice. A sultry attractive women's voice.
‘Uh, yeah...is Sam around?' I croak.
‘Who is this?' This, this...woman asks.
‘Uh, Victoria, from the psych ward.' (What else can I say?) ‘Who's this?' I volley back.
‘Uh, his girlfriend from his relationship.'
And before I can spit out my defense and damnations:
‘He told me about you...how you seduced him. Stalked him - stole his grandmother's necklace- you, you psycho. So don't call again. And don't you dare think of coming around. Ever!' A loud, relentless, irrefutable dial tone.
My hook up and hang out Psych ward Prince Charming is no more. I don't call, wouldn't drop by and never wear the necklace. Instead for the next 10 days I drive across town every day to my friend Laurie's where he serves me his Baba's famous borsch with dollops of full fat sour cream. We slurp soup and eat white doughy buns while I obsess and self-berate. Laurie, with his tie-dyed T-shirts, all season shorts, eyebrows too big for his face and a soft pudgy middle was my only visitor in A2. And now that I'm out: We share meals, share sorrow and share thick warm silences. Only a really really good friend knows how to share silence. But when he does speak, it's not what he says exactly that soothes my raw shattered self, but it's how he makes me feel.
I continue in this plum black darkness from late summer through and into late December...it is excruciating. And three months before my second stay at the psych ward in March... I meet Mu at a holiday party. Mu - not like the cow, but MU. M. U. Anyway: he's an artist, carpenter and spiritual seeker. He's freakishly tall, remarkably lean and incredibly good looking. He's also 16 years older than me and extremely commitment phobic. I am in love as soon as I see him.
To be continued...
© Victoria Maxwell 2010
http://www.victoriamaxwell.com
