Admissions (15 page)

The weeks since Jeff’s visit are tough. I resort to my old habits, closing down, pretending I’m fine when I’m not. I feel discarded, lost. And the realization—I still believe Alexander is coming back. Jeff sold the house. Our baby will come back and his toys will be gone — his tricycle, his Playskool bus, and all the rest. And worse yet, he won’t be able to find me.

I tried to explain to Dr. Murray that, of course, I know Alexander is really gone. I know I will never rock him, feel his soft curls on my cheek. But at the same time, I expect, somehow, he will come back.
S
weat runs between my breasts. Now I’m nothing, nobody.

Ice cold water driblets land on my chest. I sit up.

“Why didn’t you come in?” Estee asks. “The water is cold, but pretty soon you’re numb and you can’t feel it.”

I know what that feels like.

Heidi squeegees the water from her hair with her hand. “Beth, did you bring a suit, or at least shorts?”

“I may roll up my pants and wade in later.”

Isabel pulls at her shorts, spreads her legs, anchors her feet into the sand while she rings water out of each leg. “I didn’t plan to get my shorts all wet. Now I don’t have anything to change into.” She plops down on the blanket, a large wet spot growing from under her seat. “Got any snacks?”

Beth pulls a bag from her beach tote, hands it to her.

“You guys working on the float?” Pretzels bounce around against her teeth.

“I’m on home leave that week,” Beth says.

“What’s this float thing?” Heidi asks.

“For Cherry Festival. They make it in OT. Then they need people to help stuff it with napkins. Sometimes, patients get to dress up and ride on the float in the parade.”

“I hear it’s a big deal.” Autumn reaches for pretzels. “The hospital won a prize last year.”

“Well, rippy skippy,” Heidi says. “Whadda ya’ expect? We got a shit load of people standin’ around with nothin’ to do. Workin’ on a float is probably the best thing in their life.”

“Oh, we’ve got stuff to do, Heidi,” Autumn says.

“Yeah, I know, work. I keep tellin’ you to get out of laundry. That’s the hardest job they got.”

“It’s part of my treatment plan, my work assignment.”

“Ask for something else.”

“I tried. They said I need supervision.”

“Dr. Murray says I may be ready to leave the hospital soon,” Beth says.

“Did you say leave?”

“No kiddin’? That’s great, kid,” Isabel says.

“We’ll see.” Beth gets up from the blanket. “I’m going to stick my toes in.”

“I’ll go with you.” I slowly get up off the blanket, pull my swimsuit into place. We walk to the edge of the water. Beth extends her leg, dips her toes.

I look out over the lake and feel as if I might simply walk in and disappear. I hear water lapping, feel the cold wet sand on my feet. A flash of stars in a night sky…muffled voices …splashes …a hand on my arm …

Beth squeezes my arm. “What am I going to do with myself?” she says in a loud whisper. “I’m going home on family leave for a month. I could be discharged. The thought of leaving the hospital makes me nauseous.” She twirls her brittle hair with her index finger.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents. They still think I’m going to Julliard in the fall. Oh god, why can’t I just get out on my own?”

“It’ll work out.”

“No, it won’t. I can’t let my folks down like that. What am I supposed to do, work in a factory, end up looking like Isabel?”

Chapter 29

I
t’s eight o’clock, time to report for gardening duty. We meet at the tool shed to check out gardening tools and pails. Those of us who tend the gardens have daily duties of deadheading, weeding, watering. Because we are some of the most trusted patients, we are allowed to spend hours outside carrying buckets of water to our beds, grooming them to perfection. The gardeners transform plots of straggly seedlings into beautiful jewels, shining against the stark buildings of the hospital.

“Good morning, Carl.”

“Morning.”

“My bed’s good on weeds. I won’t need tools today.”

“Interested in an extra job?”

“Well, sure. What?”

“Helper.”

“What’s that?”

“Goin’ with me while I make my rounds, check the beds, anything else I might need help with. It won’t require any more time on your part, unless you want it to.”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“Might as well start now. You hand out the tools, I’ll check the list. All the patients are equipped and working in their beds when we leave to pick up compost on the east end of the hospital grounds. I really need the help these days,” Carl says. “This bum leg and now my back’s goin’ out. I’m fallin’ apart since my wife died.”

“Sorry, Carl. You must miss her a lot.”

“Yup, yup, sure do. She’s been with me a long time…was with me. If it weren’t for Judy, I wouldn’t have survived my accident.”

“Was it an accident, Carl?”

“Nah, not really an accident. Got attacked by a patient. Almost killed me.”

“What happened?”

“It happened a long time ago, almost twenty years now. Well, let’s see …I was on the last half of my double shift. I traded with Joe Doremire. I shouldn’t have—meant sixteen hours straight. But, I had trouble saying no, even to the likes of Doremire. Anyway, I dragged to my dinner break, counting the minutes until 6:30. I liked getting off the ward. On graveyard shift, the dining hall was my only option. I strolled along through the tunnels. Thankfully, I knew the way with my eyes closed. I was one of a pack of moles—employees scurrying through the network of tunnels running under the hospital. I hummed to myself as I headed down the straightaway just before the left turn to the dining hall. I didn’t hear a thing until the sound of metal hitting bone.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, it was pretty bad. A loud whooshing roared in my ears, like surf crashing on rocks. I thought I heard the sound of distant voices, but I couldn’t open my eyes. Then I went unconscious.

“The voices rose again. This time, I could make out what they were saying, but I couldn’t talk. I heard the guys talking,
Hey. Hey, you okay? Is he alive?
Check his pulse.
I got a pulse. He’s breathing. Who is it?
I guess I was bleedin’ so bad, they couldn’t recognize me. We all got our name inside our back collar, but they told me the blood was as thick as tar and they couldn’t make it out. Finally identified me by my key number
. Lord have mercy, it’s Carl, Carl Reinbold. Carl, can you hear us?
By this time I heard them, tried to move my lips. The effort sent me back into blackness. I woke up two weeks later on the third floor of Munson Hospital with my wife Judy by my bedside.”

“How could a patient be down in the tunnels? What was the weapon?”

“Thought it might be a pipe, definitely something heavy. Broke my jaw, cheekbones, fractured my skull. Right kneecap was in a million pieces, shinbone broke in a couple places. They never did find out how the patient got in the tunnels. Patients aren’t allowed down there, at least not without a staff escort.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Yup. Had a rough time. Then, when I started to mend—with Judy’s help, of course my mind started playing tricks on me. I was scared all the time, couldn’t sleep, nightmares. Then I started calling in sick, just couldn’t face people. They sent me to a psychiatrist and he put me off work. I ended up taking nerve pills. I was out for almost two years. And when I came back, they made me a rover.”

“Rover? What’s that.”

“Kinda like a …well, a grunt, like in the army. They tell you what to do and you do it.”

“So, you got to do a lot of different things.”

“Can’t say as I liked it much. Never knew when I came in to work where I’d be and what I’d be doin’.”

We pass the old Soap House on our way to the tool crib.

“Hold up.” Carl stops by the front door. “Looks like that door is open, should be padlocked.”

As we peer in, I squint, adjusting to the dim interior of the boarded up building. Draped over a stack of pallets, an old blanket catches the sun, the window slats paint glowing stripes on the drab wool. Is this where it happened? I look at Carl.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothin’.” The door is loose from the hinges, the corner of it buried in the dirt outside the building. Carl lifts and pushes, the door scrapes the ground as it resists returning to the doorjamb. “Gotta’ report that door broke.”

“I heard something about this building.”

“What’s that?”

“One of the retarded patients in our hall had sex here.”

“Happens.”

“Don’t you think it’s wrong?”

“Yup.”

“I heard some girls had babies.”

“Um-humm.”

“What happens to them?”

“Some go to Stillwater first, then they go to good homes.”

“What’s Stillwater?”

“Children’s Asylum. All the babies from here go to Stillwater.”

“That’s not right! Those poor babies, nobody wanting them.” I feel the tears on my face.

Carl puts his arm around my shoulder, “People want them babies.”

“Who?”

“They’re wanted, believe me.”

Chapter 30

THE OBSERVER
            
June 10, 1969

Page 9

Leaves:

Weekend passes:	Joe Flynn
Janice Fox
Rebecca Gomez
Randy Sheets
George Littlehorn
Luanne Kilpi
Home care:
Beth Shaffer
Gordon Fife
Allen Tilsway
Isabel Jackson
Ramona Duncen
Byron Potts
Transfers:	Robert Fountain
Discharges:	Candace Reynolds
Corado Selvadoni

I
didn’t notice the rentals before.”

“Verna Fowler sold her house to a slum lord, so did Jackson Davis.”

“Since I’ve been gone?”

“No, Luanne. They’ve been rentals for a good two years now,” Mom says.

“I never noticed.” We turn down Haley Street. “Who’s parked out front? Molly got company?”

“No. It’s your family.”

“Who?”

“Just Margo and Charlene.” Mom turns into the driveway.

“Mom, I wish you hadn’t done that.” I swallow hard.

“Don’t be silly. They’ve been worried.”

“I won’t go in.”

“You’re here for a home visit. I thought …”

“You thought …what about me?” I panic, stiffen in my seat, my hand on the door handle.

“Calm down. They’ll think you don’t want to see them.”

“I don’t want to see them, Mom, I don’t!”

Mom clutches the steering wheel and stares through the windshield. “I don’t know why you’re acting this way.”

“Never mind. Tell them I took a short walk and I’ll be back in a minute.” I ram my shoulder into the door and get out.

“You won’t run away or anything …I’m sorry.”

“No, I just need some air. Just tell them that.”

I start down the street. It’s scary enough coming back for my first home visit, now I have to face my two older sisters, both of them living the American dream, husband, children. I feel like I’m seven, the little sister pest, the mistake. I hear Dr. Murray’s voice in my head.
Maybe something good could come from this tragedy.
It made me furious when the doctor said it, but maybe she’s right. Maybe this will bring me closer to my family. What if I’ve been the one who’s made the judgments, not giving
them
a chance. I’m a grown woman now, not the annoying brat tagging along, sneaking their clothes, bugging their boyfriends. My pace picks up, I feel a little stronger. I don’t have to compare myself to them, always coming up short. It isn’t their fault.

I feel disconnected, as if I’d been beamed up by aliens and dropped on the wrong planet. Somehow I cover eight blocks, two blocks in each direction, and come down Haley, approach the house. I take a deep breath and open the front door. “Hi.”

Mom’s voice sounds strained. “In the kitchen.”

Charlene and Margo are sitting at the Formica table drinking coffee, talking in whispers. “There she is.” Margo gets up and gives me a hug. “You look great.”

“It’s so good to see you, Lu,” Charlene says.

“Good to be home.” I pull out a chair and sit down.

“Coffee?” Mom asks.

“Sure, Mom. Thanks. Where’s Molly?”

“Cheerleading practice. She’ll be here soon.”

After the initial awkwardness, we settle into a familiar pattern, updates on their families, Christmas pictures. Then, the announcement.

“Lu, you’ll never guess. Charlene and I are both expecting.”

Slurping of coffee punctuates a long silence.

I try to respond, but my voice catches in my throat. “Gee …congratulations.”

“I hope you’re not hurt. We were afraid …” Charlene says.

“Hurt?” My response piggy-backs the end of Margo’s sentence. “No …no, that’s not it. I’m happy for you.” I can’t help myself, the tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I think I need to rest.” My chair bumps back from the table, almost tips over as I get up. I flee the kitchen and drag up the stairs, bracing my hands, sliding them along the cracked plaster of the stairway. I open the door to my old bedroom.

I haven’t been upstairs since Jeff and I got married. Mom moved her sewing machine into the room; stacks of fabric line the wall under the window. Hangers of pressed skirts and slacks hang on the rack in the closet—alterations ready to be picked up. Molly must have traded beds, taken the double, given Mom the single for a guest room. Skirts and slacks, dresses, suits, shiny pins at their hems, lay in neat stacks across the bedspread. There’s a card table set up in the corner. I slide aside the pattern my mother has pinned to a length of black cotton fabric. I carefully lift the piles from the bed and set them on the table. I drop onto the mattress, pull the pillow from under the spread, jam it under my head.