Darling Clementine Read Free Page A

very careful to explain to him because I want to be as honest about everything as I can, I don’t really know whether I meant to kill myself or not or whether I just meant to pretend to kill myself. This is a big problem with me: I am never sure if I’m pretending to be something or if I am or if there’s a difference.
    Take my drinking, for example. For a while, I wanted everyone to think of me as this tough, cynical, hard-drinking gal who just doesn’t give a damn. So I put on a good show, drinking, puking, the whole bit whenever I get a chance. By the time of my suicide attempt, I am up to almost a fifth of scotch a day, and I still think it’s just an act to get my friends to respect and pity me.
    On the other hand, there’s sex: I have often played the hyper-experienced, seen-everything dame who has slept with more men than I care to count when really, there have only been four men in my entire life—and one was a bit of an if—excluding Arthur, and the only way I could get myself to come—even to get wet sometimes—with any of them was by thinking up elaborate fantasies like the one I described to Dr. Blumenthal.
    As for my suicide attempt, what can I say? Here I still am, of course, but on the other hand if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth, who knows?
    I did have half a fifth of Clan MacGregor in me, and I did take an entire bottle of Demerol, which is God knows how many thousands of milligrams. But when I lay back on the bed, I was anticipating how good it was going to feel to have all my friends weeping over me when they found my body in the morning, and the exclamations of gratitude that would pour forth from them when they took me to the hospital and brought me back to life.
    I do know for certain, I tell Blumenthal, that I was not expecting anyone when Elizabeth came in a few minutes later. Elizabeth Harding (of Lansky fame) is an art teacher at The School of Visual Arts. She is 33, and I would describe her as being very together. Actually, I would describe her as a goddess, my second mother—which is giving the first too much credit—my guiding light, but anyway, you get the idea. She is tall and thin and has long brown hair which is very silky and falls down her back and all these wonderful character lines on her face that make her look very kind and wise.
    She comes in, using her key and calling: “Cover him up, Sam, I left my portfolio here and I need …”
    I am trying to get out of bed but there is an anvil on my forehead. I smile at her and lie back.
    Elizabeth comes over to the bedside, looks at the bottle of Clan MacGregor and the bottle of Demerol.
    Then she says: “Shit.”
    She grabs me by the shirt collar with both hands and hauls me out of bed. She yanks me into the bathroom—I have not even got my feet under me, they are just skittering across the floor. She grabs my face in her hands, and pulls my head down over the toilet. With one hand, she squeezes my cheeks until my mouth opens, with the other, she sticks her fingers down my throat while I claw at her arms trying to stop her.
    I vomit—tons of undigested capsules and amber scotch—I vomit forever, all over the toilet, over Elizabeth, over myself. Finally, I am on my knees, retching, and there is nothing left.
    Then Elizabeth grabs me by the hair and says, “Get up,” and pulls me to my feet. I see her face is very red and her cobalt eyes are burning. I do not think I have ever seen her this angry. She slaps me in the face so hard my head snaps back, my hair flying. I put up my hands but she knocks them down and slaps me again. I am crying and groaning—I feel awful—and Elizabeth is screaming, “How dare you?” over and over again in a voice that does not even sound like hers. She cuffs me a good one on the side of the head, and then she throws me against the wall and screams, “I’m sick of you, Sam. Go to hell. Do you understand? Just