FEATURED WORK OF THE WEEK

I’ve always liked Dr. Schmidt’s eyes, dark brown pools of calm serenity. I feel those eyes on me now, measuring my response.

“We believe you’ve made great progress, Allison.”

 “Oh, yes, Dr. Schmidt, I’m feeling so much better.”

 “We seem to have finally figured out the perfect cocktail of meds to keep you balanced and steady. We’re all proud of the work you do in your one-on-one sessions and group therapy.”

 I allow my smile to reach the corner of my mouth. I resist the urge to say, “YES!” with a fist pump. Quiet confidence, that’s my goal.

 “You haven’t mentioned feeling ‘on-stage’ lately. No feelings of everyone watching you?

 “No, I’m feeling relaxed.” I keep my fingers and face still.

 “That’s what I like to hear. So behave yourself, young lady. No shenanigans, understood? No meltdowns in the cafeteria. No accusations about poison in your food or anything else. Understand? You should be ready to go home soon.”

 “That would be wonderful!”

 “Your mother says that your room is all ready for you.”

 I drive the fingernail of my thumb into the flesh of my index finger. The pain pushes out the urge to laugh.

 “Yes, I’m sure Mother has all the To-do lists printed out and laminated, with index reminder cards for everyone,” I see two lines form between Dr. Schmitt’s eyes. He starts to say something, but I cut him off with a light-hearted chuckle, “You know how Mommy is! She’s wants to make life easier for everyone.”

#

 Dinner is served in the cafeteria at 5:00 p.m. I stand in line and watch the staff load my plate with colorful looking vegetables and a small piece of meat. I like all the cafeteria workers, except Mildred. She hated me the first time she ever saw me. Usually, I won’t eat anything that Mildred serves, but tonight I won’t refuse. Refusing would fall in the category of ‘shenanigans.’ Mildred hands me a large glass of milk, and I put it on my tray.

 I sit in my assigned seat, unfold my napkin and place it in my lap. I feel the eyes of everyone in the cafeteria looking at me, watching me, waiting for me to do something they can report. I refuse to return the stares. I pick up my knife and fork and cut the steak into bite size pieces. I proceed to cut them again and once more for good measure. I keep cutting until the meat forms a mound of tiny bits like an anthill. Small creatures crawl in and out of the spaces between the morsels. I shove it all to one side.

 I drink deeply from the glass of milk. The fluid tastes like chalk and has solid bits in it. As it makes its way to my stomach, everything it touches turns solid. I feel myself turning to stone from the inside out. My lungs and heart are encased in concrete, and I can no longer breathe. I fall to the floor in a heap, clutching my chest.

 Chairs and tables are shoved out of the way, scraping the floor. Dr. Schmidt rushes in and peers into my face.

 “Oh, Allison, why?” He places two fingers on my throat to check for a pulse. He yells in a gruff voice “Call 911. Tell them we have a patient in cardiac arrest and we are commencing CPR.”

 I feel light as air as I float above the scene and watch as Dr. Schmidt straightens out my legs and arms and lays my body flat on the floor. He begins CPR pressing down on my breastbone to force blood through my heart and into my arteries. I can see more of the hospital now as if the roof was lifted off and I can see into all the rooms.

 I notice Mildred calmly retrieve my plate of food and glass of milk. She takes it in the kitchen, scrapes the food into the garbage disposal, pours the milk down the sink and rinses out the glass.

 “I need help here!” Dr. Schmitt is yelling. “One, two three, four! Someone help me, for Pete’s sake!” Workers step away from my body, hands over their mouths.

 The EMT crew arrive and wedge between Dr. Schmidt and me. One of them takes over pumping the chest while the other starts an IV. She asks, “What’s the background of the patient?”

 “She’s a 24-year-old woman in excellent physical health. She’s being treated for schizophrenia but has been responding well to medication and treatment.”.Dr. Schmitt wiped his eyes and sighed. His voice was tight with emotion. “I thought she was getting better."

 “How long has she been here?”

 “Almost two years.”

 “So what’s going on with her today?”

 “An anxiety attack. Extreme enough to stop her breathing, which of course, stopped her heart.”

 The EMT held Dr. Schmidt’s gaze for a second or two, then looked around the cafeteria. “You are sure there is no other cause?”

 “Another cause?”

 “Allergic reaction to food? Drug interactions?”

 “I have no reason to suspect that.”

 “Uh-huh,” The EMT blinks away a question. “Any immediate family to notify?”

 “I’ll contact her mother.”

 “We’ll take her to County General.” Then to his partner, he said, “Notify the Emergency Room that we are on our way.” He turned back to Dr. Schmidt. “We’ll keep you posted on her status.”

 “Thanks,” Dr. Schmitt said as he walked behind the gurney. Just before they loaded me in, he rubbed his thumb on my forehead pushing hair away from my face.

 “Come back to us, Allison,” he whispered.

 I can hear the EMT yelling into my face, “Stay with me, Allison. Don’t go to sleep. Stay with me.”

 I have no desire to fight. Darkness envelopes me, hot fudge over cold ice-cream. “Goodnight, Mother, Sorry about your To-Do lists!” I dive into the chocolate, trying to touch bottom but finding none.

Surrender

by Gloria Cruz

RABBLE REVIEW No.4

Page: 94

Featured in

Author Bio:

Gloria Cruz, born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico, writes short stories and is currently working on a novella.