“Withdrawal Diary: Day Two” by Deborah Harada

Withdrawal Diary: Day Two

Even if I could peer down the long hallway of each house we’d lived in, crane my neck to peer up every flight of stairs, turn sharply toward every bedroom door Ellie had flung open and slammed shut, I know I wouldn’t find hatred. I could stare into the sun, go blind, seething and searching. But daughter, I am telling you — it is not there. You love me. You hate needing me, but you love me.
Lights across the parking lot wavered yellow and red. Brake lights and headlights bounced and streaked as I stared out the window from the fourth floor. The ICU floor and Ellie, sleeping in the bed behind me, still for the moment. No longer trying to climb out of her own skin. The violent tremors and murmuring hallucinations stopped when the nurse gave her more Ativan.
In this moment, I refused to turn and look at my daughter. I had already memorized the set and stage of this scene. Precautionary physical restraints hung limp on the rails of her bed. The constancy of the digital monitors stacked by her bedside faded into the background the longer we were in this room. Bright pink Gerber daisies I’d plucked from a hearty bouquet discarded next to a trash can were stuck in a plastic cup.
Instead, I studied the sweep of headlights and the short clap of brake lights. None of the people in the parking lot looked up. They did not see me standing here, tips of fingers resting against cool glass.
I watched, formulating questions and theories. Red lights and the people were driving away, tapping to stop at the sign before moving forward, gathering speed and leaving the hospital parking lot. How many left alone?
Others rushed in, yellow headlights hunting out a parking space close to the emergency room entrance. They didn’t register a lone woman backlit in a fourth-floor window. They had no idea of the hours I’d spent staring out into the dark parking lot before catching sight of my watery, flickering shadow in the glass. Living here in Ellie’s room, watching for her to wake. Seeing but not seen.
Hating but not hated. Ellie has told me over and over how much she hates me and always has. But there were other times when she sang out that she loved me with something close to cheer in her voice. It reminded me of the game Two Truths and a Lie. She swore that people felt sorry for her because she has the shittiest mother, and I am fucking crazy. It wasn’t always this way. Why, my lovely daughter, my beloved one, why all the drugs? I could try to count back to the days when Ellie started using, and the voices of her boyfriends supplanted her own good sense. Come out of this and talk to me. Don’t scream, call me names, or lie. Just tell me about your day.
Headlights brushed lightly over the hedges standing at the ready and lining the curb. A dark-haired woman ran around to the other side of the car and helped her pregnant wife to maneuver out and stand up. At least, I wanted to believe they were married. The pregnant wife wrapped her arms around to the underside of her immense belly as if to hold in the kicking squall of new life about to erupt from between her legs. The dark-haired wife’s head bobbed, perhaps counting breaths, perhaps encouraging her dearest one to make another step. To bring them all closer to being the perfect family.
And then I did look back at my daughter. One foot with painted blue toenails exposed because she’d kicked her blankets aside. A careless hand curled over her stomach.
You, who quickened my insides with your spins and secret flutters. You were once fish, cave dweller, flower. That was how I first knew you. You, who made my heart beat faster and faster, only to crush it and know the power of dust pouring through your fingers.
Powder, not power. I refuse to give everything away.
The pair of wives stopped. They huddled in the middle of the sidewalk. They breathed together — counting, timing, and hoping all would go well. The dark-haired wife made to move toward the door, maybe to bring help, someone who knows what to do in these situations. But the pregnant wife grabbed at her. She clutched first at the air and then found her beloved’s hand. This small motion held the enormity of knowing that she will not be abandoned, she will not be left standing alone, even though pain has temporarily rendered her immobile.
There are certain kinds of pain we imagine welcoming into our lives. Going into labor, sore and crampy calf muscles after the first run of the season, the lover’s teeth on a nipple. Don’t listen to this part, daughter. Because pain is pain, and the nerve endings sear and sizzle, and, eventually, we all jerk away, even when we’re sure we can stand it. Listen to your body, my daughter. It knows when to flee, when to endure, and when to ripple with pleasure.
I rested my forehead against the cool glass in order to see farther and follow the progress of the wives. A nurse rolled out a wheelchair and, though seated, the pregnant wife still clutched the oversized egg of her belly. The dark-haired wife remembered to turn and click the key in the direction of the car. Lights flashed, first yellow and then red. I watched these women, breathing in concentration and unison. No one is alone.

Deborah Harada

Deborah Harada was born and raised in New Jersey. She's gradually made her way west and now resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii. Her poetry has been published in Rattle, Spillway, The Comstock Review, and included in the anthology, Beyond the Lyric Moment. She is an alumna of the Faber Academy workshop “Edit and Submit Your Novel” and was recently invited to attend a manuscript workshop focused on intersectionality. She is deep in the middle of revising her second novel, Mercy Is the Knife. Find her online at deborah-harada.com.

Headshot: Ariel Barber

Photo Credit: Staff