Previously… link to 30 Stories High / Part Two
Part Three
We are still in ‘post fire shock’ several weeks later when we rent the pale green board-and-batten townhouse. I recall it again tonight, thirty years later, from Scott’s posh apartment on the 30th floor of the Tulsa skyscraper.
Sam and I and the dog move temporarily into one half of a duplex. The two-story apartments have a thin wall separating the stairs between the units. It’s a quirky, high-turnover rental on a small parcel between Highway One and the frontage road that curves under the freeway and through the forest to Rio Del Mar beach.
We meet our new neighbor, an emaciated childlike woman in her thirties. She has lost various jobs, several homes, and all of her children. Before we moved in, she had taken a fall down the steep steps on her side of the wall. Now she wears a wistful mask more often than her prescribed back brace. She needs a lot of Seconal, and we think she may be buying LSD with her welfare check. The county has assigned her a shrink.
She has lost various jobs, several homes, and all of her children.
Michelle shares some of the times she should have died. Terrible accidents, violent abuse, rare operations with bizarre complications. She tells us she would like to die. She is in constant pain. She believes death will bring release from suffering. If only everyone will stop trying to stop her.
Sam and I try to keep the conversation light. We offer advice we grew up with in the Oklahoma heartland. We’ve notice that Santa Cruz attracts people whose minds are blown and hearts are open. They eat mushrooms and see God, hike mountains and hear choirs of angels. They long to rescue whales, salamanders, and harp seal pups. They want to rescue people, too, whether they want to be rescued or not.
Sam and I try to keep the conversation light.
We also notice the background music that accompanies the Santa Cruz experience in 1969. The Moody Blues are revered by those on journeys to other dimensions. People exchange stories detailing the profound visions initiated by their music.
“We are all One. There is only Love. We are each a mere version of the Big Story. A grain of sand on the beach of God's Belly.”
This seems to be the message compelling our neighbor in the twin apartment. Life or Death. What Difference Does It Make? The body is just a temporary vehicle. Michelle accepts that the car driving her aching soul is a lemon.
Bad karma, treacherous twists, and scary dreams---these define her reality. Why not leave her broken body by the side of the road, and head on without it?
What Michelle reads in The Tibetan Book of the Dead gives her a hopeful look at the next leg of the trip. It is inviting. She hears Brave Helios beckon her one morning down at the beach. We watch her hold a stone to her forehead and lift her face to the full sun. The dog gallops directly to her upright sitting asana, pees on her back, and licks her face.
She looks directly at the light and sees a fiery spectacle everywhere from then on.
We help her walk back up the path to the apartment building, then up the narrow carpeted stairs to her living room, which overlooks the freeway, just like ours.
I go over later to check on her, and find her front door ajar. I climb the stairs and see her lying pale on the couch, smoking a Marlboro. Sand falls from the cuffs of her shorts and settles in dunes on the carpet. The hood of her sweatshirt is drawn up around her face. Shades cover her pale eyes, and she asks me to sit with her while she dies.
"Just keep me company until I go, so I'll know no one is going to call an ambulance. I can't go back to the hospital. They'll pump my stomach till my throat hurts so bad I can't swallow."
"We should call your doctor, Michelle."
Now there are little girl tears in her eyes.
"No, don't call him. He'll be pissed."
She shakes her head and looks away.
"No, he won't, Michelle. He'll know what to do.
"No, you don't understand."
"What do you mean?"
"He told me not to take any more acid. He said if I did, he won’t help me. He won't talk to me now."
"You mean you took acid?" I feel prickles on my forearms.
"I took it all. Right before you came over."
"You took all what?"
"All the LSD. All the Seconal. I took it all."
Shades cover her pale eyes, and she asks me to sit with her while she dies.
I look around the room. Every available surface is cluttered. Dirty cups and glasses, plates, silverware, fast food bags, ash trays, shoes, towels, clothes, books and papers. Under the coffee table I spot an amber pill bottle on its side, empty. I feel her hot forehead and hold her wrist to check her pulse. I don't have the attention for it. I can't find it and I can't wait for it.
"I'm going home to talk to Sam. We’ll call the doctor and get you some help."
I cover her with a beach towel and turn to go.
"Please don't."
"I'm going to call the doctor, and then I'll come back and sit with you."
Can I get in trouble if she dies? I fly down her stairs, lodge a rock in the doorway and fly up my stairs on the other side of the wall. I explain the situation to Sam, who nods, sees the doctor’s card she left on our floor, and begins dialing the psychiatrist's emergency number.
"This is the Doctors' Emergency Number, Please Hold."
No music. Nothing prerecorded to encourage you not to kill yourself. Just silence. After a long ten seconds, he hangs up and dials again.
This time he commands, "Don't Put Me On Hold! This is a neighbor of one of Dr. Kendall's patients and it's urgent that I speak to him!"
"Dr. Kendall is no longer at this exchange. Would you like his new number?"
"Yes."
Sam rolls his eyes and dials the new number.
"This is the Doctors' Emergency Number, Please Hold."
"No! Answer the damn phone! This is an emergency! Answer the phone!”
Silence.
We both remember how we howled listening to Shelly Berman do the comedy bit with the little girl who keeps hanging up on him. He curses the toddler after the last hang up. We remember, but we don't mention it.
"Stupid Shithead!" hisses my sweet husband.
I look at the wall and wonder if Michelle is still breathing over there in the parallel apartment.
Can I get in trouble if she dies?
He dials again and gets a voice.
"Is this Dr. Kendall's exchange?"
"Yes, it is. How may I help you?"
"Didn't you just give me Dr. Kendall's new number?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why did I have to call back?"
"Dr. Kendall doesn't use that exchange any more. I can't take calls for him at that number. What is your message?"
Sam enunciated each word:
"My neighbor, Michelle Carter, is a patient of his. We think she is going to kill herself."
"Has she threatened to kill herself within the last twenty-four hours?"
I nod.
"Yes," Sam reports, "and we think she has taken an overdose of Secanol and LSD."
"How many has she taken?"
"We. Don't. Know. The bottle is empty, and she’s incoherent. Should we call an ambulance?"
"I can't advise you. What is your telephone number? I'll page the Doctor and give him this message. He should call you back within thirty minutes."
Sam gives her the number and hangs up. We sit on the floor and consider our part in this caper.
We watch a sunbeam spread a warm yellow blanket on the carpet. Our apartment has no furniture, so we have room to stretch out and roll around. Two cardboard boxes make tables. One for the phone and one for the sea shells we collect to make up for the stuff we lost in the fire. Our bare room sits bare in silent contrast to the messy one on the other side of the wall, where a woman lies moaning, hoping to die.
Sam picks up the phone before it finishes its first ring. He describes and explains and answers questions.
"Okay. I understand. Is there anything else we should do? Okay. Thank you."
He puts the phone back in its cradle and shudders.
"What? What are we supposed to do?"
"Maybe nothing."
"Nothing?"
"She's done this before."
"So?"
"Lots of times, apparently."
"Well?"
"The doctor doesn't think she's going to die. He thinks she will sleep through till tomorrow, then get up and start all over. She's a regular at the emergency room."
"Can't he come talk to her? She looks bad!"
"He said to call an ambulance if we can't stand it. Someone usually does."
"Maybe I should talk to him. You didn’t see her."
"He said not to call him. He released her as his patient. She made her choice."
"Oh my God."
"Yeah."
"Well, I told her I'd come back. I've got to go over there. She's in bad shape."
"I'll wait for you here,” he nodded. “I've got essays to read."
Okay, Okay, grab some smokes. Be a good neighbor.
Panic trumping dread, I reappear at the top of her stairs with no effort. She is still lying on her back, staring straight up. A long ash grows at the end of her cigarette. A victory sign or bunny ears? Her arm gestures slightly toward the ashtray on the coffee table.
I take it and tap it out for her. Her eyelids flutter behind the dark glasses and she asks if I will help her.
"What do you want me to do?" Besides smother you with a pillow.
"I want to hear The Moody Blues."
Her head twitches to indicate a pile of vinyl albums on the floor. Beside them is a cheap plastic record player. Just a turntable with batteries.
"Our Children's Children's Children. They're so high."
I find the album and put it on the turntable. I balance the needle on the first song. The sound is scratchy, but recognizable. Her eyes roll back out of sight and she smiles.
I light a cigarette and sit up very straight, cross-legged on the carpet. I listen and I watch smoke lift up and swirl and disperse. It seems to disappear, but I know it is not gone. I can still smell it. It is somewhere. I want to be somewhere, too.
"I want to hear The Moody Blues."
The Moody Blues begin to slur their words. The music slows, the voices droop. The song is distorted, fading, dying. Michelle is distorted, fading, dying.
"Do you want me to turn it off before I go? The batteries are dying."
She smiles dreamily at the ceiling again.
"No. They're singing that way for me. They understand."
"Okay, I'm going back over to my place now. I'll check on you tomorrow."
"I won't be here tomorrow."
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?'
"You’re bumming me out."
"I'm going now."
"One more favor.'
"What."
"Lock the door on your way out."
"Good night, Michelle. I'll see you tomorrow."
I tiptoe down the stairs. Why? So I won't disturb her? I turn the lock, so once I close the door, I won't be able to get back in. No one will, unless she gets up and opens it. Now I go and curl into a tiny ball on a borrowed mattress next to Sam. I weep silently into my throat until I fall asleep.
I turn the lock, so once I close the door, I won't be able to get back in.
We drink coffee the next morning and take the dog for a run on the beach. We don't talk about Michelle. We get back to the apartment feeling scared and guilty. But we don't talk about it.
At eleven-seventeen, there is a knock at the door.
We creep down the stairs together. The sheriff? An ambulance driver? Someone from her family?
"Can you give me a ride up to the shopping center? I need my prescription filled."
It is Michelle. She is alive. She has dyed her hair orange. She wears makeup and a jaunty toga. Roman sandals crisscross her legs to the knee. She is ready for another day.
Sam has had enough. He tells her to get in the car and wait for him. He gathers his keys and wallet and gives me a look that says,
“This is the last time.”
I nod my head slowly, then we both hear her add,
"Oh, and I need some new batteries!"
Back in Tulsa, in Scott's tower, thirty years later, I am beached on the couch, lost in leather, engulfed by the Moody Blues in the highest fidelity available. I watch Scott and my big brother, eyes glazed, grinning at their own flashbacks.
Scott asks, "Is this bitchin' or WHAT?"
I let the music drown me out. I give the peace sign and nod, "What."
Thank you for sharing. Wow! Had to keep reading and thankful you and Sam were not left with any guilt for you did all you could. A friend of ours Sherry from HS who lost a daughter who overdosed ! So tragic and how can one know when the accidental or purposeful could happen. Good that you tried to help. 🥰
"The Ending that Opens The Space for a New Beginning" Good Morning Sherry, I have driven on Highway 1 for many, many years, today I will drive on Highway One again going to my Brother's Memorial. As usual, I love your ART. Broken Branches completely describes how my life has felt for a long time. I always read your stories - I focus on the ART because it heals me. I have been going through change and deeply for quite a while now, and finally "The Ending Opens Then Space for A New Beginning." Path to the Beach is gorgeous and reminds me of HMB. (I'm wondering you may know my family there.) HOTLINE fantastic! I have picked my medicine. Thank you so much Sherry 🩵 Your ART is fantastic and should be shared with all the world. Did you listen to my wild ride song? Love LA