Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness by MaryJane Thomson Read Free Book Online Page A

hospital. You need to get a blood test.”
    I look down at my arms at the mention of a blood test, then I look back at the clouds and say, “Yeah, but they control the blood tests. They never actually tell me I have AIDS, and they never told me my tumour was malignant.”
    Several years ago, when I was with my boyfriend, I had several lumps removed from my hip. They were tested and came back non-malignant. When I get unwell I cling on to this memory, as if the lumps actually meant I had cancer.
    â€œThey never tell the truth,” I say. “They just want a sign of God, want me to have all these diseases and for me to heal from them naturally so they know he exists. I’m just an experiment. I take all these pills and they are just testing me.”
    The voice keeps trying to lie to me. “Those pills you take are for your AIDS. I want you to go and ask Waris for your cell phone.”
    I’m resistant to being asked this. “I’m not going to.”
    The voice starts speaking in a weird tone. “I didn’t want to yell at you that time. I was being threatened. Your life was in danger but it’s okay now. I’m going to come in and see you. I just want you to text me.”
    I’m trying to delay the task so I say, “I will have a cigarette and think about it.” I turn to Nora. “See you later.”
    She’s started falling asleep. “Yeah, see you, bro.”
    I grab my coffee cup. Must be about supper time. I go in and make a Milo with hot water. Nga and Hemi are sitting eating biscuits. Nga is sixteen and she’s from out of town. “I’m pregnant,” she says and puts another biscuit in her mouth.
    â€œYou going to be all right?”
    â€œYeah, I’m just going to go live with my mother.” She puts another biscuit in her mouth.
    That reminds me that my mother is coming in tomorrow, and that I don’t want to see her. Her visit could take me away from my world and what I’m doing and planning. I need to talk to the social worker about finding a council flat for when I get out of here, not that the other one really worked out; it lasted only a week.
    That was about eighteen months ago though—maybe things are different now, I think. At the time I was on really strong injections of Pipotiazine, an antipsychotic that targets schizophrenia. It was administered to me every two weeks. I was living in a council flat and wasn’t talking to my mother.
    One day I went to visit my Gran in her rest home and my mother arrived. She said, “Why don’t you come home.” She must have caught me at a weak moment because I started to reflect on how hard life was, battling the world under psych drugs that were so strong I could barely walk a block down the street. When I went to lie down it would bring a strange kind of tension, so I couldn’t relax. Just to buy cups and food for my place was a real half-day effort. I had been determined to live independently because I felt that’s what I should do, but boy, I needed a break from fighting. So I surrendered the resentments I harboured against my mother and went home.
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    I make my Milo and go outside for a cigarette. I sit on a chair next to Lester at the top of the yard. Nora comes out for a cigarette. I don’t say hello. I just sit on the chair staring at the ground, planning, plotting in my head. I can vaguely hear a guitar being played outside. It’s Jeremiah singing “Faith”. The song has a nice rhythm and makes me want to sway gently.
    â€œYou’re quiet, babe,” Lester says.
    â€œYeah, I’m thinking. Tomorrow’s going to be stressful. Have to see the doctors and my mother’s coming in.” I drag deeply on my cigarette.
    â€œOh, you not get on with your folks? Me neither, fucken cunts. They love it when I’m in here.”
    â€œYeah, my family loves me being in here too.”
    â€œYou know the nurses and the