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* * *
The reason for the delay in contacting you is your biggest client, the one who fired you, apparently had a minor skin infection, which I carelessly caught from him. In addition, unbeknownst to me, my new husband is involved in a massive cult, and they have placed me in a mental asylum. They call it a ‘rejuvenation center’ so it sounds better, and I am assured it’s all on the up and up. Here I have undergone surgery to my nether regions to ‘make me whole again.’ I have also learned the sixteen levels of mastery and had a fancy introduction into shock therapy. It’s my understanding there are future surgeries coming, and I guess the other stuff kind of makes up for not having to pay out of pocket for bettering yourself. No matter that my husband’s first wife died after a botched surgery. I figure it’s kind of like all that bad stuff you had to say about those people in favor of the Affordable Care Act. Who cares if they kill you off in the end or manage your care to death with denials, so long as it’s free, right?
* * *
Now that I have brought you up to date, I want to tell you that there was no hotel fire, I did not have any burns or skull fracture, I am not pregnant, I am not infected. However, I will soon be homeless once again, and I want you to see this in its proper perspective. Now, can I come home? Your loving daughter, Melanie
I don’t know how many days I’ve been here. They all run together like a string of bad dreams. I’m fed a healthy dose of pills, which are supposed to help me sleep but really don’t. The sounds in here when the lights go out aren’t the falling asleep kind. People go mad in the dark. We all have our terrors, Vanessa said, and it turns out she was right. The woman two doors down is convinced her bed is covered in spiders. It may be, for all I know.
On the other side, a woman weeps for her children. Robert and Catherine. I’ve learned their names. Everyone on this wing has.
And somewhere at the end is “Screaming Sheila.” You don’t want to know what they do when she won’t stop. I beg them to put her in solitary so I can sleep. So we can all sleep.
Mrs. Elizabeth says there’s no lesson in that.
Speaking of lessons, I didn’t meet my weigh-in yesterday. I haven’t a clue as to why. I’m still on a liquid diet, and sometimes I can’t stomach even that. I haven’t earned cafeteria privileges yet on account of being on the diet plan.
“I’m not overweight,” I said to my advisor.
She only smiled and said, “You’re not under, either.”
Mrs. Elizabeth said I have to cut weight this week. “If I lose a few pounds, do I get to go home?”
She shook her head. “You have to recover.”
“I feel very recovered.”
“You can’t be sexually active yet.” I could see that she doesn’t like having to spell things out, which is exactly why I make her do it.
“That’s fine.”
Mrs. Elizabeth looked at me crossly. “What good are you, if you can’t perform your wifely duties? Your husband doesn’t deserve a broken woman. That’s why you’re here.”
Bingo. I got my answer. Not only did Tom not want to put up with me after I lost our fake child, after he found out I wasn’t as flawless as he’d thought, but he was callous enough to send me here. “How can I get unbroken?”
She glared at me with her squinty eyes. “This is a large organization, Mrs. Anderson. People get lost in bureaucracies like this. Trust me, you don’t want that to be the case where you’re concerned... ”
“I meant… what do I have to do to go home?”
“You can start by cutting weight.” In order to make this happen, I am told an aide will retrieve me from my room.
“Let’s get you thinned out,” the woman says when she finally comes. I’m relieved to get out of there. I’m relieved to finally see another face, and I don’t even like people.
I ask the aide if I am getting lipo.
The woman doesn’t answer. She leads me to the shower instead.
The bathrooms here are quite nice, actually. If sparsely decorated and plain white happens to be your thing, then everything is nice.
Usually, I am allowed one private shower once a day. I had mine this morning. Normally, the aide stands outside like the bathroom attendants at my favorite bars. Only different. But sometimes I pretend.
“Undress, please,” the aide orders. She is an older frail looking woman, with thinning gray hair and deep-set green eyes. I imagine she might have been pretty once.
“I’ve already showered today.” I choose my words carefully. The aides in this place don’t like to be corrected.
“Undress, please.”
“What for?”
