Ruthie

Ruthie

by J.C. Graham

Journal entry:

The man with the cane said that I have to start journalling everyday about my experiences here. What was it, Mr. Cane? Self-awareness? Grounding? Whatever it was, it’s not going to help. No offense to you, Mr. Cane, I just have my doubts about this journalling thing, and honestly I just miss my wife.

What am I even supposed to write about? The cinderblock walls? The peeling paint? How creaky the door is every time Henry opens it for me? Should I write about you, Mr. Cane? Your drab little frown and that little pill you bring in every morning for my stomachaches? How you ask and ask and ask about what happened even though I’ve told you a million times? And how you give me stupid journalling assignments like this one?

Henry! I’ll talk about him. Because he’s staring at me again. He’s always peeking at me through the little square-shaped window in the door. I can always see him in my periphery—like when I’m looking down at a notebook—but he always disappears as soon as I look up. He does talk to me a little. He says things sometimes when he gives me my food, but he hasn’t even looked at me long enough for me to see the color of his eyes! Just slips my meal tray under the door and steps out of sight.

Well—food! There’s a subject I can talk on. The food here is better than I would have expected. The ziti’s not very good, and neither is the nacho cheese that turns all solid at the top of the Styrofoam cup. But most everything else is okay. Today for breakfast, I got a blueberry muffin, some milk (the blue carton), and some oranges. They make you take a fruit, even if you end up throwing it away, which I think is bad for waste and things, but I don’t mind personally because I do like oranges. They remind me of my wife, Ruthie.

The muffin has a little streusel crumble at the top, and it tastes sort of brown-sugary and it makes me cough if I eat it too fast. I don’t like the paper around the bottom of the muffin because it always feels a little wet and oily. The blueberries inside don’t really taste like blueberries, more like the blandness of grapes. The cake is pretty good though—is it cake inside muffins? Maybe it’s bread. It’s soft and bouncy and it tastes sweet but not too sweet, and I like that.

You may wonder why I get the blue carton of milk, and it’s because it’s vanilla milkshake milk. It’s true. All-white is regular milk, brown is chocolate, pink is strawberry, and blue is vanilla milkshake. It tastes like a vanilla milkshake, or at least it’s supposed to. It tastes more like milk plus some vanilla and sugar which is probably what it is.

I know I’m allergic to something here because I’ve had this terrible nausea ever since I came in. It’s easy to ignore when I’m walking around, but harder when I lay in my room by myself, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Ruthie. I guess that’s what the pills are for.

That’s all I’ve got, Mr. Cane. And I feel very self-aware and very grounded, so maybe no more journalling?

Second journal entry:

Well, I guess my writing wasn’t good enough because you told me to keep journalling. It can’t hurt, is what you said. Well, it does hurt, Mr. Cane. My eyes are all crossed and my hand is cramped from writing with this little pencil.

And Henry is getting mean. Meaner. You might want to look into reprimanding him, Mr. Cane. You know what he said to me today as he handed me my breakfast? He said, How can you even eat, you? He said, what kind of man can eat after something like that? I told him I didn’t get it, and he just slammed the door and almost caught my fingers in it. And he still hasn’t looked me in the eyes once! I just think we could use some more social guards is all.

Speaking of guards, what is it you’re guarding me from? I assume you’ll answer my questions in our session tomorrow? I asked Henry the first day I got here, and he said, from other people. Why? What are they trying to do?

If there is one person I’d like to see, it’s Ruthie. Mr. Cane, you would just love her. She has the sweetest smile and the prettiest blue eyes. She really hated her skin though. It had some dots and acne and stretch marks on it, and she thought it was ugly, but I thought it was beautiful, and I would do anything to feel her skin under my fingers again. And the most gorgeous smile, Mr. Cane. It’s like the whole world is in daytime when she smiles. I would do anything to make her smile. When do you think I can see her? I assume she’s in the hospital. Did the doctors say when she’ll be ready to visit me?

Well, food today was croissants. They came with little pieces of bacon and cheese inside of them, but I took them out because I don’t like bacon. I do like cheese, but all the cheese had little bits of bacon stuck to it. And they were out of the blue milk, so I got the pink one instead. And oranges of course.

Is that enough? My hand is getting tired.

Here you go: 

I’m running out of things to write about. What do you want to know? Well, I guess I can tell you this new medicine you put me on is terrible. My stomachaches are getting worse! And on top of that, I feel kind of buzzed, kind of on edge. I always think someone’s following me. And, don’t laugh, but I sort of cried a little earlier. Not even sure why. I was just eating my oranges and then looked in the mirror and there were tears on my cheeks.

What else? What else? Well, I guess I’ll tell you about breakfast as always. I could tell you about the other meals too, but they’re less exciting, and they have ziti too much and really the only good thing is the chocolate donuts they sometimes put in the dessert tray. I think they come right out of the paper bag with the little girl on the front, but I don’t mind. They’re still good.

But for breakfast at least, today was eggs. Most people got cheese on theirs, but they ran out of cheese by the time they got to me, so I just had regular plain eggs. They make them weird here—they’re in these little yellow squares, like they’re cooked up in a sheet pan. I did get one of those salt and pepper packets, which made it a lot better. Blue milk was back today, but it tasted sort of sour. And oranges, obviously.

I would really like some news on Ruthie, Mr. Cane. I’ve tried to talk to Henry about it, but he won’t say anything. I’ve just started to worry that they forgot to check on her when they took me away. What if she’s still there? All by herself and in pain? I asked Henry if you called her yet, and he said no. And then I asked if you’d call her today, and he said no to that too. What, do I have to pay for it or something? Can you just lend me a few quarters? I’ll pay you back as soon as I get out, I promise. I just need to make sure she’s okay.

Entry

I thought of something I can write about because I was talking to Henry about him earlier. His name is Melbourne. I thought I remembered him visiting me when I first got here, but Henry said he hasn’t seen him. But anyways, Melbourne is my friend, and he’s the one who helped me with Ruthie. That’s how we met, actually. I was trying to figure out what was wrong with her, and Melbourne is actually an expert on Ruthie’s condition! He showed up at just the right time. I’m really grateful for that.

Maybe he could come visit me? I don’t have his phone number, but there can’t be that many Melbourne’s around here. You could search him up in some database. 

Anyway, breakfast today was back to the muffins, but I got a chocolate chip one instead. Boy, was that a mistake. The blueberry ones are nothing special, but the chocolate chip ones kind of taste like how a garbage disposal smells. And the chocolate inside was really hard, like the muffin was filled with seeds or something. But they did have the blue milk, so that was good. And of course I got the oranges. Sometimes when I peel them I wonder if it hurts.

Journalling

Write down what I remember? Write down what I remember? What else can I tell you? I’ve told you everything. Did you just forget to write it down? I guess I can understand that—you know how much I hate writing things down.

Fine. I don’t know what else to do with my time.

It’s pretty simple: Ruthie got sick, Melbourne taught me the procedure to fix her, we did the procedure, and now I’m here! Because of those stupid cops who broke my newly-painted front door and pulled me out of my house without even asking my name. They said, the neighbors heard screaming. Well, obviously they heard screaming. That’s the whole point!

I don’t want to write about this anymore. My stomachaches are already worse than ever, and I just feel so much more nauseous when I think about it.

Mr. Cane, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything to see her. Please let me see her. I miss her so much, Mr. Cane. I’m so worried about her.

But what could you possibly understand? You’re not even married, are you? You know what, if I had never been in love with the most perfect woman in the world, with pretty blue eyes and soft skin, maybe I wouldn’t let her come visit. Maybe I would let my patient just sit alone in his room all day eating disgusting muffins and throwing up in this little trash can.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Nowadays I just feel angry all the time. But writing it down does help a little, I think. There, I said it. The writing helps. You were right. About some things at least.

Writing

Write more about Ruthie, you say. Why? Just call her up here yourself and talk to her! Write more about her sickness before? I don’t like thinking about it, Mr. Cane! It makes my stomach hurt thinking of her like that. I fixed it. I fixed it, so I don’t know why you still want to talk about it.

She was sad. That’s it. She had this job at a little bakery, and she loved it there. She liked decorating the cupcakes and the cookies, and sometimes she would bring some home and say, don’t tell anyone I took these, and we’d eat them in secret in our kitchen. And sometimes she would put sour cream in the middle to tease me because I hate sour cream.

But then she lost her job. And that’s when she got sick. She couldn’t get out of bed or eat. She wouldn’t let me hug her or kiss her on her soft skin. And then Melbourne and I fixed it. What else do you need to know?

Entry

These stomachaches! Mr. Cane, when can I just get out of here and see my wife? If only you didn’t make me show you my tongue after, and I wouldn’t actually swallow the pill. They’re just making me feel worse. My whole body feels like it’s twisted up. The only thing I like is the oranges. Everything else makes me vomit. But I can take the oranges, and I ate them today.

They’re so sweet. Sometimes you think they’re sour for just a moment at the beginning, but then they turn sweet in your mouth. I like how they leave that smell on my fingertips after I eat them. Sometimes I don’t wash my hands for a long time so I can keep smelling them.

Entry

Write down what you did to Ruthie. I told you I don’t like to talk about it. And you said, well, if you can’t talk, then write it down. I don’t want to do that either! It was awful! It was terrible seeing her like that. But Melbourne said it was the only way to let the sickness out. Otherwise it would stay locked up inside of her. Do you think I wanted to see my wife screaming like that? Do you think I wanted to see her all red and raw? I just did what I had to do to fix her. I missed my Ruthie. I miss my Ruthie now. I love her so much.

Journal entry:

I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, and I can’t get this citrus smell off my fingers. My nails are still yellowish underneath from all the oranges. No matter how much I scrub, it’s still there. I wish it was easier to peel an orange. I don’t like how the peel sticks so much to the fruit. If you didn’t have to pull at it so much, it wouldn’t make your fingers all yellow!

Fine, even if Ruthie can’t come visit me, just tell me if she’s okay! Henry won’t tell me if she’s better or not. He just stares at me. And his eyes look just like Ruthie’s, which just makes it so much worse. If she’s too sick to get out of bed, let me visit her! Henry can come along if you’re scared of people hurting me.

Writing today

I think sometimes about trusting Melbourne. I hardly knew the man. Hardly knew him. But when he told me to do that to Ruthie, I did it. Without hesitating. I wonder sometimes if I went too far. What if Melbourne didn’t really know what he was talking about?

I just wanted her to feel better. I just wanted to dance with her in the kitchen and eat cupcakes and go on walks by the duck pond. She loves the ducks.

You’re a doctor, right, Mr. Cane? Do you think I went too far? How long will it take for it all to grow back?

entry

I spent a long time staring at my fingernails today. I ate oranges this morning, but I vomited them up. But they’re still here under my fingernails. All yellow. I remember looking at my fingernails like this when I first got here. It was like this. It was like this, but red.

I think I’m dying. The stomachaches are everywhere. All I can think about is Ruthie. I loved her. I loved her so much.