Comfortable Madness First PDF 4-13-18

Laps
Walls the color of eggshells hemmed me in. Every room
had a wooden door, thick, no locks. The only locks were on the
nurses’ station and the door to the real world. In my room, a
window took up most of a wall. It refused to open, but you could
see the west hills, bristled with evergreens. Lights from too many
houses glowed there at night.
The only thing I could do was walk. Seventeen laps made a
mile. I walked three, maybe four miles a day. My staff walked with
me. Selma was a short, bulgy woman. Old. Curly white hair. She
used a walker, but she never asked to sit down. She walked with me
and we talked.
“How’re things?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“You seem a little worried,” she said.
Again, I shrugged. Selma knew things. She said things. She
knew how to get into my head and ferret things out. Gid walked
with us, an eggplant smear. He whispered things. His fingers
stroked the knobs of my spine.
Nausea and pain played tug of war.
“She doesn’t believe,” Gid said.
“You’re awfully pale,” Selma said.
Gid put his hand in the center of my chest. My sternum
iced over. I stopped. Selma wheezed to my side.
“You okay?” she asked.
Gid stood with us, blurred and gray. His fingers were hard
and strong. I remembered the feel of his broad chest, his rigid
thighs.
“She knows nothing,” he said.
“Don’t.”
“Butter?” Selma asked.
“Never mind.”