Since September Page 7

  “My husband made me take off my wedding ring and says I need to get over him and I’ve been drinking too much and stuff,” Hilda said it all in one breath, then stopped and looked at me. I was amazed at the readiness with which she told her story to complete strangers. Mark nodded and looked at me as well. They were waiting for me to answer the question.

  “Oh, I…I sort of lost it at my mom’s funeral yesterday, that’s all.”

  “Shit! Your mom died?” Hilda said, sadness creeping back into her big brown eyes. “That sucks.”

  “Bummer,” Mark said. “I’ve been here three times now. I keep thinking one of these times I’m gonna go home and find my old lady gone.” He paused to take another drink. “At least that’s what I’m hoping.” He winked at Hilda. She giggled.

  Two men in white aprons came into the room then with big carts filled with trays of food. The smell of eggs filled the air. One by one they called out the names on the trays until all had been claimed. They sat two pots of coffee on the counter and left the room. There was no milk or cream, not even the fake stuff. We all took the tops off our individual trays to find plastic utensils, a small portion of scrambled eggs, dry toast (with a little tub of grape jelly) and a tiny cup of orange juice. The eggs and toast were cold, the juice was half frozen, and black coffee gave me a stomachache.

  “Damn,” Hilda said, taking a bite of the cold, greasy eggs. “Is it always like this?”

  “Nope,” Mark said, stuffing a spoonful of eggs into that mouth with the missing tooth. “Sometimes it’s much worse.”

  After breakfast, Hilda and I retreated back to our room while Marge stayed in what I now knew was called the Day Room. It was where we ate, watched movies, and basically just sat around wasting time until the next scheduled event. No sooner had Hilda and I both gotten comfortable on our temporary beds than a pretty blonde lady walked into the room. She was dragging a big black garbage bag behind her, her round cherub face bursting with excitement, her cheeks pink with life. If she’d been wearing a red cap with a fuzzy white pom-pom on the tip I’d have sworn she was Santa’s daughter. The cheery, blonde stranger hoisted the bag onto Hilda’s bed and pulled out two large Ziploc bags, handing one to my new roommate and tossing the other to me. Each bag contained one of those travel-sized folding toothbrushes, a travel-sized tube of Crest, a tiny bottle of generic shampoo, a black barbershop comb that didn’t have a chance in hell of getting through my rat’s nest without snapping like a twig, and a little bar of soap like you’d find in a hotel. Hilda and I exchanged glances.

  “I’m Bonnie,” she said. “I got you girls a few things.” Smiling from ear to ear, Bonnie pulled out various articles of clothing, one item at a time, holding each one up before deciding whom to toss it to. I got a pair of faded jeans that were way too big for me, three thin cotton turtlenecks (one with blue and mauve snowflakes scattered all over it), a pair of plaid pajama pants with no matching top, some socks, and a huge, thick, ugly gray sweater.

  “Oh!” Bonnie cried, pulling out the last item. “Look at this! It’s an Eddie Bauer and I bet it would look stunning with your coloring!” She held it up to my face, her eyes sparkling with joy. It was a soft, periwinkle blue vest with a black zipper. It was quite pretty really, but expecting it to make me look stunning was a bit optimistic.

  With the clothing sorted, Bonnie filled us in a little more on the rules. Curling irons, flat irons, hair dryers, makeup, and razors were all forbidden in the ward. You could borrow a razor at designated times, but only if a nurse was available to watch you use it.

  “Watch us?” Hilda asked.

  “Yes, at bath time.”

  “They want to watch us take a bath?” Hilda shot me another look. “Seriously?”

  “It’s not a matter of want.” Bonnie’s smile was fading. “They have to make sure everyone stays safe. Some of the people here are in a very bad way. We just want to make sure everybody is safe.”

  “Safety 101,” I told Hilda, trying to help Bonnie out a little. “Never leave a mental patient alone with a sharp object.”

  “Fuck. Well, thanks for all the stuff anyway.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the stuff,” I repeated.

  “Sure!” Smiling Bonnie was back. “And you get to keep it all, too! You get to take it with you when you go home!” I stared at the pile of clothing that was my new wardrobe. “Just let the nurse know if you need anything else.”

  And then she was gone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I chose the snowflake turtleneck and periwinkle Eddie Bauer vest to wear to dinner that night after taking a bath. I’d opted out of shaving my legs no matter how badly the stubble was starting to itch. The idea of having some nurse sit and watch me shave, making sure I didn’t slit my wrists with the razor, me naked in the tub, totally exposed like that, was appalling. It was bad enough having to bathe and use the toilet in a room with no lock on the door and a bunch of crazy people loose in the halls. Any one of them could wander into our bedroom and open our bathroom door. The thought terrified me. Whenever I sat on the toilet I stretched my right leg out as far as it could go so that my toes pressed against the door. My eyes never left the doorknob.

  With the snowflake top and vest I was forced to wear the same pants I’d worn to Mother’s funeral. Most of the dirt had come off on the bed sheets the night before so now they just looked sort of dusty. I’d tried on the jeans Bonnie brought but they were so big they refused to stay up. And, of course, belts were forbidden. The pajama bottoms had been much too short so I’d traded them with Marge for the socks she’d loaned me.

  Although it was only September, the scattered snowflake design on the turtleneck was comforting. It reminded me of times spent sitting around the fireplace with my parents during snowstorms. Mother would make hot chocolate, my dad would turn on the radio to catch the news, and there we’d sit, the snow swirling around outside the window, the wind blowing and howling, the fire crackling and warm. In moments like those, we were the perfect, normal, loving family.

  Taking a look in the mirror before heading to the Day Room, I was horrified by how dreadful I looked. My eyes were blood shot with dark circles underneath. My face was a pasty mess of freckles, and my hair was completely out of control. As I’d expected, the flimsy barbershop comb Bonnie had brought for me to use snapped like a twig when I tried to gently work it through the knots in my hair. I did the best I could with my fingers and then stuck it back with one of Marge’s hair clips. When I’d done all I could do with what little I had to work with I headed down the hall to the Day Room and found Hilda and Mark at the corner table closest to the entrance. Mark was doing an ink drawing of a rose while Hilda watched in awe, a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

  “That’s nice, Mark,” I offered. It was actually more than nice. It was quite beautiful.

  “Ten minutes to smoke break,” Hilda announced. She was antsy, shifting back and forth in her chair, jonesing for nicotine.

  Smoke breaks, like everything else, happened at designated intervals and were marked on a big chalkboard along with the times for group therapy, daily meals, and lights out. The women got to smoke first and would start lining up five minutes before it was time for the nurse to come open the smoking room door. If she were even a minute late, the women would yell and holler until someone came with a key to let them in. Once they were inside, happy as pigs in mud, puffing and sucking on cigarette after cigarette to inhale as much nicotine as possible in the ten-minute time frame, the men would start to line up, making faces at the women through the tiny window in the door.

  “Isn’t it odd that they won’t let us drink in here but they let you smoke?” I asked. Hilda’s hand reached up to touch the cigarette behind her ear, checking to make sure it was still there. “I mean, you know I don’t smoke,” I continued. “But I sure could use a drink.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Hilda said, still fingering her cigarette. “I need a beer like you wouldn’t believe, but I ain’t givi
ng up my smokes.”

  Mark looked up from his artwork and smiled at me. “You don’t ever want to see these people when they haven’t had their smoke.”

  “But it’s not right. People are addicted to smoking just like they’re addicted to alcohol and anything else. If we can’t have a Bloody Mary with lunch why the hell should anyone get to smoke a cigarette?”

  Mark laughed. “You really are beautiful, you know that?” I felt my face redden.

  “Five minutes!” called out one of the other women. I’d heard some of the others call her Wild Rose. She was about my age, with curly blonde hair and stormy, dark blue eyes. She had this way of walking, like a toddler, as though she might take a tumble at any moment, swaying ever so slightly as she moved along with quick, tiny steps. All her movements were like that – quick and frantic. She carried a notepad and pen around with her all the time, filling page after page with who-knew-what. As she sprinted past our table to start the smoking line I caught the first few words scrawled across the top of her notepad: My mind is frazzled. Honestly, I’d been hoping for something a little less obvious.

  “God,” Wild Rose sighed. “I’m so damn hungry. Has anybody got any cookies or anything? Bananas? Anything?”

  “All she’s done since she got here is eat,” Mark told us.

  “It’s her nerves,” offered a plump older woman with a full head of gray hair and faded blue eyes that looked foggy behind her glasses. Mark rolled his eyes at us. “I always eat more when I’m nervous,” she continued. She wore camel-colored sweat pants, the pockets stuffed so full they made big bulges on either side of her generous hips. As she walked, little bottles of lotion wiggled their way out of her pockets, falling to the floor. She stopped to pick them up, stuffing them back into her pockets as deep as they’d go.

  “Crazy Daisy!” Rose called out from the front of the line that had formed behind her. “Why do you carry all that shit around with you anyway? You afraid someone’s gonna steal it from your room?”

  “I know what goes on around here,” she answered. “You can’t trust nobody.”

  “Well, you got any cookies or anything in those pockets of yours?”

  “You can’t have my stuff!”

  “Damn, Daisy,” Mark said, still working on his ink drawing, coloring in the rose to make shading. “Nobody wants any of your shit. The girl wants a cookie, that’s all.”

  “Okay, okay, Mark, Rose, watch your language now.” One of the nurses came in to unlock the door for the smokers. All of the women except Daisy and me were lined up, unlit cigarettes dangling from their mouths. A few of them cheered when the door opened, rushing inside the tiny room to sit, elbow to elbow, on the small bench.

  “Yeah! Watch your language!” Daisy yelled at the closed door. “Just smoke your cigarettes and stop trying to steal my stuff!”

  “Was someone really trying to steal your things, Daisy?” the nurse asked her. “Or are you exaggerating again?”

  “Don’t you tell me I’m exaggerating,” Daisy warned. “I know what you’re up to, Crystal. I know you took my money.”

  “Now, we’ve been over this before, remember?” The nurse told her, sternly. She was little, with short black hair. She reminded me of Winona Ryder. “Nobody took your money.”

  “They may call me Crazy Daisy,” Daisy said, raising her voice. “But I know a beer belly when I see one.” Mark rolled his eyes again. “I’ve got the law on my side and I’m gonna get my money back,” she yelled. “Fifty thousand dollars! I changed Crystal’s poopy diapers. I know what she’s capable of!” Spit pooled in the corners of her mouth, white and foamy.

  “That’s enough!” The nurse commanded. Daisy sat down, pouting, her arms folded across her chest. “I’ll be back to let you in when it’s your turn, guys.” She walked back across the hall to the nurse’s station, giving Daisy a pat on the head as she passed. “Settle down now, Daisy. Watch some TV.”

  “That woman’s a wack-job,” Mark whispered, nodding his head in Daisy’s direction. He got up to join the rest of the guys who’d already formed their line at the door. Now that Nurse Crystal was gone, they began the usual teasing of the women smokers through the glass window in the door, sticking out their tongues and crossing their eyes. The women giggled.

  “You know you want us!” one of them yelled from inside the closet-sized room. More giggling, then hacking as one of the smokers coughed up a lung.

  This was flirting in the psych ward.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Things were moderately quiet the next afternoon in the Day Room. Hilda, Mark, Wild Rose, Marge, and some of the others were gathered around the television that hung from the wall in the corner. They were watching some stupid Will Ferrell movie, laughing too loudly at times, but otherwise somewhat sedated. Daisy had nodded off in her chair about halfway through the movie, bottles of lotions and creams scattered on the floor around her. I’d found a book of crossword puzzles amongst the magazines and board games in the cabinet and was struggling to come up with a four-letter word for Fruit from Down Under when someone said my name. I looked up to find Nurse Crystal hovering over me.

  “Dr. Jain is ready for you now.”

  “Who?” I’d never heard of Dr. Jain.

  “Dr. Jain. Come now. I’ll show you to her office.”

  “Jain’s the shrink!” Mark shouted from across the room. “You ain’t officially one of us until Jain says so.”

  “Come on, Sheridan. The doctor’s waiting.”

  I left my crossword puzzle on the chair and followed Nurse Crystal to a big, thick wooden door behind the nurse’s station. She gave three quick knocks and a short, thin, dark woman opened the door. She peered at us over glasses with leopard print frames, her dark brown eyes focused and intense. She wore a simple brown dress, her thick black hair pulled back into a bun. On her arm were leopard print bangles that matched her glasses perfectly. I wondered if she wore the glasses every day or if maybe she had different glasses for different outfits. Red frames on days when she felt like wearing a red dress, blue when she wore blue.

  “Dr. Jain,” Nurse Crystal said. “This is Sheridan St. John.” I tried to force a smile.

  “Yes, yes.” Dr. Jain lifted her glasses off her nose and let them hang from the gold chain around her neck. “Please take a seat, Sheridan.” She pointed to an over-stuffed chair in the corner, heavily worn from years of use, the blue tweed fabric frayed at the arms. I sat, folding my hands in my lap. “Thank you, nurse.” Dr. Jain closed the door and sat behind a large oak desk piled high with files and papers. The room smelled of cinnamon. Cinnamon and cloves, but I saw no candles or air fresheners. On the wall next to me was one of those motivational posters - bright orange tulips on a solid black background and the words Think Positive in bold white letters across the bottom. Dr. Jain lifted her glasses back onto her nose and opened one of the files. “I see you recently spent some time at General before coming here.” Her voice was soft, with just a touch of foreign accent. Indian, I suspected.

  “Yes.”

  “You saw Dr. Chute?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you like him?” She looked at me over her glasses again, her eyes so dark they were almost black.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ve looked over his notes. It seems you had a seizure. Can you tell me about that?”

  “No, not really.” Dr. Jain made a note on her pad. Noncompliance? Uncooperative? “I mean, I don’t remember it,” I added quickly. I squeezed my hands together in my lap. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to answer any questions. I just wanted to go home.

  “You have no recollection of the seizure?” I shook my head. “Tell me what you do remember from that night.”

  “My mom,” I said. “She was killed.” My left hand started to itch and I rubbed it against my pants. The same pants I’d worn to Mother’s funeral. How long ago now? Three days? Had I been here that long? Three days and nobody had thought to bring me a change
of clothing? Where the hell was my dad? And Cyndi?

  “Yes,” Dr. Jain let her leopard print glasses fall to her chest once again. “Tell me how that made you feel.”

  “Sad,” I answered. How the hell did she think it made me feel?

  “Of course,” she whispered. “What else?”

  “Confused. Sad and confused.”

  “Confused?” She made another note in her file. The itch in my hand intensified, buried somewhere deep under the skin. I rubbed and rubbed.

  “Because of how she died.” I watched for her reaction but she was a master of the poker face. Surely though, confusion was perfectly normal under such circumstances. No need to tell her about the woman who was harassing me; the woman only I could hear and no one seemed to be able to see. “I don’t know how something like that can happen,” I said. “I mean, who would do that?” The itching had grown so intense I was clawing at my left hand with the nails on my right, desperate for some relief. Dr. Jain looked down at my hands, then up into my eyes. I shoved both hands under my thighs.

  “So you were having trouble processing her death,” she said. “And how are you feeling now?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “The same, I guess.”

  “Close your eyes,” she instructed. “And take a deep breath for me.” I did as she asked, feeling silly sitting there in front of her with my eyes closed. My hand still itched like crazy and I wiggled it ever so slightly under my leg, rubbing it against the rough tweed on the chair. “Now,” she said, her voice as soft as a mother’s to her newborn. “Tell me what you’re feeling, right this second.”

  “Fear.” The word flew out of my mouth and I immediately ached to take it back.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Being here.” The itch spread up my arm and I pulled my hands out from under my legs to scratch again. I didn’t care what she thought or what she wrote in her notes. I couldn’t stand it. I had to make it stop itching.