Silver

Chapter 42 - now

I feel odd today. I am tired and lacking energy. I call the Director and leave a message with his assistant that I need the day off so I can sleep. I tell her I'm unwell.

It's probably the medication. Every time they change the dosage it throws me off kilter. Dr Reynolds is constantly adjusting the dosage to get 'the right balance'. Medication is like their insurance policy for staff - they are trying to make sure we are well adjusted enough to cope with our patients. Dr Reynolds tells me that when we get 'the right balance' he'll keep me at that level, he just needs to tinker to get me there.

I slept all morning on and off. It was the disjointed sleep of a person in heavy angst. At lunchtime, I call the kitchen and ask them to bring my lunch to my room, so I don't have to see anyone in the tea room. I eat my zucchini slice and Greek salad and green smoothie off a silver tray on my lap and look out the window at the gravel courtyard.

My room is basic. It has a single bed, with an old fashioned quilt in a floral pattern, and two feather pillows. I have a built in wardrobe with mirrored sliding doors. There's a little kitchenette, with a sink, a fridge and a kettle. Sometimes I steal apples or nectarines from the lunch table, so that I have something other than UHT milk to put into my fridge. I have a sitting chair by the window. The window looks out at the gravel courtyard. Sometimes I see delivery people from the outside world - desperates who drive white vans and deliver trays of mangoes or bananas straight from the market to the kitchen. I also have my own ensuite, with a sink and a toilet and a shower. The composition of my room and ensuite feels more like a hospital than a hotel. If I allow myself to think too much about it, I'm struck with an intense grief for my childhood home, for my glass windows looking over Port Phillip Bay, for the rounded white rooms and the sun soaked light. I feel so sad, I almost can't breathe. But then I need to remind myself of my purpose being here. That although the built environment is dreadful, the beauty I'll find, when I find Jarvis, will be magical.

After I've eaten lunch, I make a cup of tea and read a book I've borrowed from the library called 'Stoicism for resilience'. But the words are floating in a mish mash of colours and the ideas don't penetrate in my mind, they collapse, loose and floppy.

I paint my nails a blue colour. I brush my hair. I've noticed it's been falling out more lately. The plug hole in my shower gets blocked with clumps of hair. My hairbrush gets so full of loose hair, I have to pull it out daily.

I put on the one Lolita outfit I've kept - the red and white gingham dress with the cream blouse and white petticoat. I pull on the knee-high socks and red Mary Jane shoes and swish the dress in front of the mirror, listening to the ruffle of the fabric.

It still makes me feel good. It's like a superhero costume. It gives me the power to believe. I smile at myself and imagine the day I'll get to wear this at a restaurant with Jarvis. He'll be wearing black tailored pants with a white shirt and black suspenders. He'll draw his chair over to mine, and we'll sit as close as we can to one another. The absolute closeness will be a balm, and every minute that I've spent in these institutions will be worth it, absolutely worth it.