What a terrifying sight. I still cannot get used to these resurrections. "Solaris," A.Tarkovsky There was something about the bathtub. Oh yeah, he remembered what it was. It took him a few minutes. He didn't want to. His head hurt. The numb pounding at his temples made it difficult to remember what it was about the bathtub. He didn't need to open his eyes to remember because, when he turned in bed, his bare back touched his wife's bandaged arms. Now he remembered about the bathtub. He even remembered why he didn't want to, knowing that the vision of his wife sunk up to her nipples in tepid, bloodied water would persist, robbing him of his eight hours of sleep. He looked at the clock by the bed. Four a.m. He needed to sleep because he had to take his wife to the ER first thing in the morning. He knew that the amount of alcohol they consumed last night--separately (he bar-hopping with Eric, she pressing razor blades into her wrists)--would make it difficult for them to wake up early and be ready to brace the line in the ER. How the hell does one get ready to wait in line in the ER anyway?, he thought. The line consisting of fuck-ups with broken ribs, gun wounds, hernias, and unstable wives. You're never ready to wait in line in the ER. That's the whole point of the ER, where the sudden need to wait catches you off guard. They should know her name there by now, another thought came to him. He took his wife to the same ER the three times she slashed her wrists, a procedure that was accompanied by drinking half a bottle of the expensive bourbon he bought for himself, and listening to the same Beethoven adagio over and over again. The post-ER phase varied--his wife was taken to a different psychiatric institution, but the time she spent there remained the same. After seven days, her insurance ran out, and she was pronounced better, and released. He didn't think he could go through one more cycle: attempt, ER, psychiatric institution, but, in the end, he did. He had to. No one ever asked him if he would mind. His wife certainly didn't. He didn't have any choice but to come home to an occasionally unconscious, slightly moving and moaning body, parts of which he bandaged, and then waited till morning to transport it in a cab to the ER. He so dreaded those mornings. The cabs they took. The way she didn't resist being put in a cab. How they both assumed he was in charge of filling out the paperwork in the ER. He didn't know much about what happened to his wife after the doctors in the ER examined her wounds. She was wheeled off to a curtained area, and the nurse brought him a form to sign that he agreed to his wife's commitment to a psychiatric institution. At that point, her commitment became "involuntary." It meant that it was up to him whether she went there or home. Since prior to this rapid development of events he didn't get enough sleep, he didn't think whether he made the right decision and whether he enjoyed committing his wife to the looney bin by sheer power of this signature. Besides, he grew really tired of the procedure. She was tired of the procedure, too. He was sure of it. Perhaps it was her way of asking for help, the three times she drank half a bottle of the expensive bourbon he bought for himself, listening to the same Beethoven adagio over and over again. Perhaps it was instability set deep in her--not his area of expertise, really. Whatever her problems were, he could only put the bandages on her and take her to the hospital. He had his own problems, after all, problems that his ample income, and all grilled salmon barbecues of the world, and Armani suits wouldn't make go away. Why didn't she help him, he wondered. It was a rhetorical question, of course. He never pulled any suicide attempts or nervous breakdowns. His so-called problems were always on a back-burner. At least that was Eric's theory. Eric was awesome. Eric claimed to understand the reasons behind her actions, and, most importantly, Eric understood him, the husband. He was amazed, each time he and Eric got together, how well Eric understood him. He knew he didn't treasure Eric enough. At some, critical, moments, he did: When he needed to get out of the apartment because he couldn't stand fighting with his wife and opted for a night of boozing with Eric instead. Or when, after she was off to a psychiatric institution, he called Eric to tell him that things had quieted down till her insurance ran out, which was for seven days. The morning came. He woke as if from a jolt. First, there was a flash of Eric--full lips across the table, through the smoke, the beer glass, the thick, drunken despair he was then feeling. Then there was turning of his key in the lock of his apartment door. The watery, bloody puddle by the stereo (she's been playing the Beethoven adagio over and over again). He opened his eyes very slowly, and slowly turned his head. His wife was lying face down in the pillow, her blonde hair matted, bandaged arms positioned carefully alongside her body. He felt a tingle of satisfaction when he noticed how tightly and evenly the bandages were wrapped around her arms, from her wrists to her elbows. He was getting really good at bandaging her arms, even when he was drunk. There was pounding at his temples, he needed more sleep, without her next to him, waiting to be involuntarily committed, so that he could stretch on the bed, wake up late, all rested. Call Eric. Invite him to a lazy breakfast in the diner. Eat pancakes. By the way the muscles on her back tensed up when he turned his head, he could tell she was awake. He touched her between the shoulder blades. "Time to get ready for the ER. How are you feeling? Can you get dressed by yourself?" Her answer came very, very slowly, after a long pause. Even before she told him she wasn't going to the ER, he knew she would say that. That's what she said before. This time, they didn't bother to change their lines either. As before, she kept her back to him when they talked. "OK, time to call Eric," he said harshly, more to himself than to her. His meek threat just hung in the air. She didn't move. He sighed and reached for the telephone, feeling old, used and bored. If he bothered to, he could time how long it took her to refuse to go to the ER (about three minutes). She said she was sorry she didn't die this time either, damn this apartment where they ran out of hot water in half an hour, she lost a lot of blood, and wanted to be left alone. When she was done, he quietly reached for the phone again. And called Eric. And Eric showed up in twenty minutes. Eric also knew the procedure and went straight to the bedroom to assess the damage. Eric said hello to her (she was still lying face down into the pillow), carefully took her arms, undid the bandages, and rolled them away to uncover her wrists. Her husband was standing by the bed, waiting for Eric's verdict. "It's worse than the last time, but the cuts aren't too deep," Eric informed him. "She only hit one vein, on her left arm. Ready to go?" "I know, I couldn't find the vein on my right arm," she suddenly announced. "Or maybe I ran out of adagios. Or self-pity. Or bourbon. Or maybe I am just an asshole. Asshooooole." Her husband and Eric ignored her. Her husband was looking for her bra in the dresser, and then her jeans and a tshirt in the closet. Eric was staring at the back of her head, then suddenly stroked her hair, jerked his hand away, and made a face to no one in particular. Her husband thought of how, when she slashed her wrists the first time, he and Eric both couldn't bear to look at her arms, and, swallowing tears, kept bumping into each other around the apartment: consoling her, getting her clothes, calling a cab, and trying very hard to think in unison what to do with her, an unstable wife. Then he truly thought that the tragedy had struck. Now, although he was shocked by these persisting episodes that required so much physical activity on his part, it felt more like routine. Plus, Eric now showed up for the morning part and split after she was about to be transferred from the ER to a psychiatric institution. He summoned Eric one of those mornings only because they drank together the previous night, and Eric's intense stare, his unimportant stories and "call me" lingered in his mind when it was time to dress her for the cab ride to the ER. From then on, Eric dutifully showed up for the morning part. To her husband, dressing her was the worst. When he turned her limp body to put clothes on her, he would get struck by how lonely, how so fucking lonely he felt. Did he know she would make him feel this way four years ago, when she stood in front of him in the dark park, by the fountain, giggling, and asked him to marry her, his former classmate, his second love? She tricked him into this procedure, without even the slightest hint of cooperation on her part, till at least they got to the ER. In fact, she resented him from the moment he suggested getting ready for the cab ride until about the third day of being in a psychiatric institution. She refused to go to the hospital, only spoke to him when he asked her questions, and didn't attempt to contact him until the third day of being in the hospital. On the third day or so, she called him and apologized profusely for drinking his bourbon and for causing him so much pain so often. Until then, she preferred to act withdrawn and be sullen and answer doctors' questions with dismissive one-liners, or not at all. To her credit, she firmly nipped in the bud all suggestions made by doctors, who were testing the waters for possible abuse, that he, her husband, might be to blame. She didn't tell the doctors, for example, what drove her to hurt herself. She explained to her husband later why she didn't bother, by giving him a different reason each time. Sometimes, she said, it was the weakness she felt due to blood loss. Sometimes it was guilt and a sense of failure that descended upon her after he would fish her out of the bathtub. He was sure she had her reasons not to release any emotions on her husband or the doctors. He waited for the third day to come. He didn't need her apologies. He didn't believe she was sorry. He was just glad when she was happy to see him during his visits, joking with him, and telling him that she wanted to come home. It was time to get her dressed. Eric went to the living room to call a cab. When the cab came, her husband, Eric and she went downstairs. She lost a lot of blood and was hungover, swaying from side to side. He noted to himself that she had a dazzled, introverted expression on her face all morning. Her husband and Eric took her by her arms and gently dragged her down the stairs, to the first floor, through the lobby, and to the sunlit and all caught up with its morning outside. They led her to the cab. Her husband seated her between himself and Eric. She looked contented. Of course, her husband thought, the spotlight was on her. All attention of her world, currently consisting of he and Eric, was concentrated on her zebraed wrists. He himself felt relieved. In four hours and for the next seven days, there will be no Beethoven adagios and no shortage of bourbon. He and Eric will be sleeping off their hangovers. And eating pancakes. Words and photo by Tatyana Meshcheryakova, June 2000 stolen kisses