The moment I step into Wilson Stuart Psychiatric clinic, I head straight for the bathroom. I make my way to the stall furthest from the door, pull the handle, and lock it behind me. Time for some clarity assistance, I tell myself. And here it comes; I pull the lumps out of my shirt pocket, individual grains tumbling off the pile and onto my pants, the toilet seat, and the floor. In my haste to get some of it in, I break one of my own fundamental rules of cocaine etiquette: I snort. An industrial nasal suck that echoes off the marble tiles and aluminum partitions. And another, a little louder than the last. Then, most shameful of all, I allow an involuntary oh yeah to croak past my lips before I unbolt the bathroom door and step out to the sinks.

I Crank the taps until the water rushes hot and loud. When I think I can actually hear my skin start to pucker I lift my head and peer into the foggy mirror with a startled breath. My eyes catch a movement of blonde hair over my shoulder. A silent silhouette in the grey of the bathroom. A figure that hadn't been there before.

'Dr. Watson?' I hear myself saying. My heart starts to beat in painful hiccups.

Why her? Mama's doctors of all people. She probably heard me in the stall too. That would explain the slight frown of worry on her face. Suddenly I can't stop my self from sniffling. Wiping my nose with the back of my hands and palms. Both of my wrists coated in clear snot.

'You don't look so good there, Sky,'� she says screwing up her eyes.

'I'm fine, thank you,'� I shoot back, my voice sounding surprisingly firm.

Lying is an art form, I think. Good lying that is. It requires almost the same skills, techniques and energy that good acting requires. When you tell lies you step out of yourself for a while. You become another version of yourself and yet, you have to do it so the listener knows it's still you talking . . . .Who was It who had told me that? Mama.

'Really?'� Dr. Watson's arcing one eyebrow now.

'Seriously I'm'' I begin, but the lie is lost in a fainting flash of adrenaline. I shut off the water with a screech of the tap, then turn to find that Dr Watson is standing closer to me than I thought. That even if I move now, Id have to go round her if I want to get out.

'You know, Sky,'� Dr Watson says, sounding like she is contemplating on each and very word. 'If you ever want to talk about . . . . things, you can always come to me,'�

I have no idea where that comes from, and for a moment I'm taken aback. Gulping for air, cocaine tears streak down both my cheeks that I can only hope Dr. Watson mistakes for sweat. All I want to do is to get the hell out of here so I can go visit Mama.

'I'll keep that in mind,'� I say finally. I push myself away from the sink with both hands. The muscles in my legs replaced by gelatin. Heading for the space between Dr. Watson and the stalls where there might be enough space to get by with out touching. Not a very good calculation. My shoulders brush hers. I grab the door handle, the cool metal calming my heart.

'Is your dad with you today'� she asks.

'Unless he's invisible, I'd have to say no.'� I say back.

I manage to find Mamas room, and sit on a chair placed next to her, refusing to look her in the eye. 'Hi mama,'� I say, clearing my throat with a loud percolation of loose stuff. 'It's me, Sky'�

She doesn't respond, not that I expect her to. She hasn't spoken cohremtly in three whole months now. Dr. Watson says she is still suffering from the aftermath of her breakdown. That if we give her time, she'll pull through' eventually. The way she had said it, 'eventually' had seemed far off.

'How are you feeling today?'� my voice still managing to sound perky and cheerful despite myself.

No answer.

I gaze at her hunched figure rocking softly in her chair. Her arms are wrapped tightly under her breasts, as if to stop the pieces of her heart from shattering across the tiled floor. Brown, unfocused eyes dart in frenzied motions; foreign against the flux of guarded emotions that flicker cautiously over her pale face.

'It's my birthday tomorrow Mama,'� Tentatively, I brush away the few strands of matted black hair from the corner of her mouth, and take her cold hands in mine. 'I'll be seventeen. . . . same age you were when you met Dad.'� Pause a moment to wipe my face with the arm of my jacket and take two jagged breaths from the broken glass in my chest. 'Dad said I should throw a party, but I told him no. figured it wouldn't be much fun with out you there.'�


Still nothing. 'Mama?' I say, my voice strained with desperation as I clasp her hand even tighter. Trying to get some sort of recognition from her blank face.

'Why are you doing this to me?'� The question comes out barely a whisper sounding small, lost in the huge room.

Silent tears blur my vision, forcing me to look away. The many pretty pictures on her wall, pleasant country scenes, people with happy faces, bright flowers are veiled by the shadows starting to creep like lost shapes in the dark. There are fresh flowers in vases on the tables and magazines neatly organized on a rack on the right wall. On the left is a small television set. Everything feels so cozy, so warm, yet I can't stop myself from shivering. Can't control the trembling that is starting in my lower legs and slowly vibrating up into my spine.

'Oh mama! You don't belong here!'� I burst out. Unable to rein in my longing for the old her. My need for her back in my life.

Suddenly;

"Isn't he adorable?" a shaky voice asks, as though in response to my sudden outburst.

I whirl in my chair.

Mama's expression has changed completely. Her eyes are dancing with a certain twinkle, yet the desolation within scares me. Her brow gleams in the sunlight, dripping with sweat. A smile plays on her lips as she focuses on something in the distance.

Him?

Daniel?

I think about calling the doctor, worried she will start to get hysterical and rant uncontrollably like those horrid incidents I had witnessed before, but hesitate when I hear her continue in a gentler tone.

"He's just learnt to walk you know," Mama declares leaning up in her chair, suddenly filled with energy only her vision can give. "He's only a 9 months, but he's walking, isn't that amazing?"

She nods towards me with satisfaction, then swivels her eyes to the wall in wonder. I can almost see the series of memories that flash behind her eyes, none of me, all of my bother Daniel.

Daniel's dead Mama, I want to scream. I fight back the urge to grip her shoulders and shriek out from the deepest darkness of my thoughts. He killed him self and he's never coming back! No matter how many delusions your mind spins, you have to get over it. He won't come back. He's gone!

I want to say all that, yet the words somehow can't get past my lips. So I decide to play long. Decided not to fight against her cloak of deception that is slowly engulfing my mind. I rearrange my face into a mask of admiration and widen my eyes with wonder. My mouth forms a silent "oh" of surprise as I follow Mama's gaze to 'Daniel'. "It is," I agree nodding my head vigorously, trying to match her exhilaration. '�It certainly is,'� I repeat again, unable to hide the defeated slumping of my shoulders

Where does a person's mind go when it crosses the line of sanity? I wonde. What happens to all those promises, dreams of the future, when the past tragically overrides the presence? Does the mind still remain, locked away in some discarded prison, stranded in waves of a lonely black sea? Or does it just fade away, like a thin wisp of smoke fondling the air, ceasing to exist . . . never to return?

How can I be so close to you and yet . . . so far?

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