The First Cut

28 Kirsten

Yes, I am sure that Kirsten doesn’t need her stomach pumped,” Dr. Craven repeated patiently. “You saw for yourself, she brought up the tablets before they had time to work their way into her bloodstream. At worst she’ll feel a little sick and dizzy for a while-which is no more than she deserves-and she’ll probably have a heck of a headache.”

They stood in Kirsten’s room, where she lay tucked up in bed. Her mother was flapping about and wringing her hands like a character in a Victorian melodrama.

“You’re upset, understandably,” the doctor went on. “Perhaps it would be best if you were to take a tranquillizer and lie down for a while yourself.”

“Yes.” Kirsten’s mother nodded, then she frowned. “Oh, but I can’t.” She looked at her daughter. “She took them all.”

It wasn’t meant as an accusation, Kirsten knew, but she was made to feel once again that she had done nothing but make a nuisance of herself since she got back home: first she had refused to go out, then she had been sick all over the living room carpet, and now she was depriving her mother of the oblivion the poor woman so desperately needed in order to cope with the nasty twists of fate that had disrupted her life of late.

Luckily, Dr. Craven reached for her bag and came to the rescue.

“Samples,” she said, tossing over the small foil and cellophane package. Inside were four yellow pills, each in its own compartment. “And I’ll give you another prescription to replace the ones you lost. Kirsten needs rest now.”

She scribbled on her pad, ripped off the sheet and passed it over. The brusqueness of her tone and gesture got through even to Kirsten’s mother, who normally seemed impervious to hints that her company wasn’t required.

“Yes…yes…” Clutching the package and the prescription, she drifted toward the door. “Yes…I’ll just go and get a glass of water and have a lie-down…”

When she had finally gone, the doctor sighed and sat on the edge of the bed beside Kirsten. “She means well, you know,” she said.

Kirsten nodded. “I know.”

Dr. Craven let the silence stretch for a while before she said, in a tone far gentler than Kirsten would have believed possible for her, “But it was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Kirsten didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure.

“Look,” Dr. Craven went on, “I can’t pretend to know what you feel like after what happened. I can’t even imagine what you went through, what you’re still going through, but I can tell you this: suicide isn’t the answer. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten said. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m not being facetious. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dr. Craven looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t enjoy being outside. I wasn’t really hungry. I didn’t fancy reading a book or watching television. I was just at a loose end. Then I thought I’d get drunk, then…I’ve not been sleeping well.”

“There are other options, Kirsten. That’s what you’ve got to remember. I don’t suppose I should be all that surprised you tried something foolish. As I said, I can’t imagine how you feel, but I know it must be terrible. What you have to do now is understand that there’s no quick and easy way back to health. Your body is taking care of itself well enough, but your emotions, your feelings are damaged, too, perhaps even more than we realize. Rest will help, of course, and time, but you won’t be able to go on hiding forever. There’ll come a time when you have to make the effort to start living again, to get out and about, meet people, get involved in life. I know it probably sounds terrifying just at the moment, but you must make that your goal. If you let your fears dominate you, then you’ve lost. You mustn’t give in, you have to fight it. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I think so,” Kirsten said. “I…I just don’t know if I can. I don’t know how.”

“Sermon over.” Dr. Craven’s lips twitched in a smile again. “Now back to practicalities. Nobody can make you, but I strongly suggest that you see a specialist in Bath, someone who knows about the kinds of things you’re feeling. I can recommend just the right person.”

“A psychiatrist, like you mentioned before?”

“Yes. I feel it’s even more important now. I’ll set up an appointment for you, but what I want to know, Kirsten, is will you go?”

Kirsten turned her head aside and looked through the small window at the sky and treetops. At least it had stopped snowing, she thought. That had been the last thing she had registered before coming over faint and retching on the carpet: how odd that it was snowing in August. It hadn’t been snowing at all, of course; it had just been her vision going haywire.

She turned back to Dr. Craven. “All right,” she said, “I’ll go. I don’t suppose I’ve got anything to lose.”

“You’ve got quite a lot to gain, young lady,” the doctor said, patting her hand. “Good. I’ll fix up an appointment and let you know. Now are you sure you’re feeling all right physically? No ill effects?”

“No, I’m fine. Just a bit woozy. Mostly I feel silly.”

“And so you jolly well should.” Back to her normal self, the doctor stood up and walked to the bedroom door. Just before she left, she turned and said, “You can stay in bed till tomorrow morning, that’s quite reasonable for someone who’s done what you just did, but after that I want to see you up and about. Understood?”

Kirsten nodded. Left alone, she pulled the sheets up to her chin and stared at the long, faint crack in the ceiling. Her head was still throbbing and her stomach felt sore, but apart from that, everything seemed in working order, considering the mixture of pills and the amount of alcohol she had taken. As Dr. Craven had said, none of the tablets had had time to do any damage, and she was suffering more from the effects of the Scotch, which was all the stomach wall had had time to absorb.

She would go to the specialist in Bath, she decided. Though she had little faith in psychiatrists, having studied and dismissed both Freud and Jung in a first-year general studies course, she felt desperate enough to try anything. If only he could get that dark cloud out of her mind and give her something-anything-to replace the terrible cold emptiness that she felt about everything. It wasn’t fear that kept her indoors, in her bed, it was just apathy. There was nothing she wanted to do, nothing at all. She felt foolish and despised, and that was about it. With a bit of luck, perhaps the specialist really could help. Maybe he could give her something to live for.