CHAPTER 7

      That doctor stopped by to see me again—a couple of hours ago, I think. I wasn’t quite as doped up as I’ve been the last few times she was in. (And how many times is that, I wonder? I have no idea.) But it’s quiet now. No one has been in for quite a while. They seem to have decided to leave me with nothing but this notebook for company. That’s fine with me. I just want to be left alone.

      I hear the murmur of voices out in the hall, sounding low and disapproving as they pause occasionally at the window of this room. They consider me stark raving mad, I suppose, and dangerous to boot.

      The doctor never actually came out and said so, but I suspect she’s a psychiatrist. It makes sense, after what I tried to do in the ER—after everything else, too. Maybe she really does want to help. But it’s more likely, I think, that this is part of the process they’re going through now—determining my competency before they decide what to do with me. I’m beyond help, in any case. Though I’m sure I will be judged, it won’t be in this lifetime.

      I never even looked at the doctor, although she did her best to engage me in conversation. She’s good, too. Pulled out all the tricks—open-ended questions. Empathy. Those long, pregnant silences that normal people feel obliged to fill with nervous chatter. She seemed disappointed when I didn’t respond.

      “Perhaps you’ll feel like talking tomorrow, Jillian,” she said just before she left.

      Well, no, I could have told her, I won’t. It may be her business, if she is a shrink, to get people to talk about their deepest feelings, but I can’t do that. She’s a stranger to me. I’m not the kind of person who confides, even to people I’ve known for many years. I never was. I know there are those who see it as evidence that I feel somehow superior, but the truth is just the opposite. I’ve always been embarrassed to talk about myself. I can’t imagine a duller subject, or why anyone would be interested. I’m a good listener, though. I suppose it’s why I chose to do the work I do, gathering oral histories, recording the reminiscences of mostly older people about the great events they’ve lived through. Their lives are so much more exciting than mine.

      This doctor is stubborn, though. I can tell. I know she’ll be back. To be honest, she seems like a very nice person. I feel guilty about ignoring her, but I simply don’t want what she has to offer. How can I convince her I’m a waste of her time and skills? That she’d be better served expending her energies elsewhere, on someone who wants—deserves—to be saved? That I am beyond redemption?

      She was careful before she went out to catch the door before it slammed, easing it gently shut. Still, there was no mistaking the sound of the dead bolt ramming home. Obviously, they’re taking no more chances with me. Maybe they think I’ll try to run, but what would be the point, when my thoughts would only come along for the ride?

      No, there’s only one escape for me.

      In any event, even if I did want to walk out of here, they’ve taken my clothes—destroyed them, I suppose, since they’d have been ruined, what with all the blood, and then blackened from the fire….

      Oh, Jillian! What are you thinking? Of course they wouldn’t destroy them. Far from it. Every item would have been painstakingly preserved. Some criminal investigator is no doubt examining them at this very moment, lifting hairs, microscopic bits of lint and drops of my mother’s blood, accumulating the mountain of evidence they’ll be building against me. But that, too, is a waste of time and resources.

      In place of my ruined things, they’ve given me a short blue hospital gown and white cotton socks. There’s also a terry robe lying at the end of the bed—beltless. I’ve already checked. Nor is there anything else in here remotely long enough to be used as a rope, not even a sheet on the mattress. There’s just a quilted pad and a thick down duvet to keep me warm. It hardly matters. Even if there were something to make into a noose, there’s no place to hang it. The half-globe light fixture seems firmly anchored to the ceiling, and there are no convenient bars on those high windows. That mesh-reinforced glass looks unbreakable, too, and the room is devoid of any other sharp objects. Even the food trays they bring in and carry out, untouched, hold only round, stainless steel spoons and melamine plates and cups. No breakable plastic or lovely glass shards with which to slash those wrists today, dearie!

      Amazing how they think of everything.

      The doctor left another parting gift along with this notebook—a box of fine-tipped colored markers. I almost smiled. She’s no fool, this woman. There’s no chance she’d leave me sharp lead pencils or ball point steel suitable for ramming into eager arteries. It’s pretty hard to kill yourself with fuzzy felt Crayolas.

      She wants me to write down my thoughts. How cruel is that? My mind wanders between stupor, rage and grief, and sometimes, for a few minutes, I forget. Then suddenly it comes back, slamming into the center of my chest like a sledgehammer—these awful, monstrous memories clawing at my brain—and I remember where I am and why I’m here.

      I can hardly bring myself to believe it—my mother is dead….

      My mother is dead and I have no business being alive. That’s the fundamental truth here. But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I have inherited just a tiny measure of her indomitable willpower, after all.

      It occurs to me, though, that perhaps I owe society an explanation. If I do that, will I find the courage then to do what I have to do?

      I know there are those who will resent justice being cheated in this way. All I can say to them is that I don’t want or expect forgiveness. It’s not even that I’m afraid to face the consequences of what I might have done. I just can’t live with the knowledge of what I am.

      They say confession is good for the soul, but I don’t believe