by Nancy Garden
Liz took a sip of wine. “No,” she said, “not foolish. Just stressed. You don’t have to decide now. Let’s see what the evaluation says; that’s the first step, I think. But while we’re waiting for that, Nora—Nora, forgive me, I know people have said it and said it, and I know you hate hearing it, but please consider yourself, too. You can’t go on throwing your life away! Whether or not I’m in your life, you can’t do that. Just keep in mind that as time goes on, if he stays with you, you’re going to have to be more and more at his beck and call. All that free time you love so much, it’ll diminish. He’s going to be more demanding now that your mother’s gone.”
“Yes.” Nora’s eyes filled with tears. “He is. But…”
“But you love him.” Liz hesitated a moment, then moved closer to Nora, holding her gently. “I know.”
“Thank you for understanding that.” She paused, then said, “You must think I’m weird. Weak and indecisive and—and…”
“No,” Liz interrupted, “I think you’re wonderful. And”—the words slipped out before Liz could weigh the wisdom of saying them at this moment—“and I love you very much.”
But Nora surprised her. “I love you, too,” she said, twisting around and looking into Liz’s face, her own expression mirroring Liz’s surprise. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Liz—oh, Liz, I never thought I’d say that to anyone!”
“And I never thought I’d say it to anyone again, or mean it so much. I never even knew it could mean so much. But there we are.”
“Yes.” Nora closed her eyes and put her head on Liz’s shoulder. “There we are.”
For a moment they sat there silently. Liz could feel Nora’s heart beating rapidly—or is it mine, she wondered.
“I want to kiss you,” Nora whispered. “Really kiss you. I want you to really kiss me.” She leaned back, tipping her face up to Liz, her eyes soft and shy and loving in the dim light. “I want to be as close to you as one person can be to another. Show me, Liz. Please. Show me how.”
Very gently Liz kissed her, holding her carefully, conscious of her hurt shoulder, then less conscious of it when she felt Nora’s soft lips yielding, opening, and as Nora, her hand on Liz’s back, pulled Liz closer.
“Shouldn’t we lie down?” Nora whispered a few moments later, moving away a little and smiling up at Liz.
“Probably,” Liz managed to answer, smiling back. She stood up, taking Nora’s hand. “If you’re still sure…”
“Oh, yes,” Nora said, also standing. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so sure of anything in my whole life.”
Hand in hand, and more than a little dazed, they walked to the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“We’ll just get him settled, Mrs…. ?”
“Miss,” Nora nervously corrected the tall psychiatric nurse. “Nora Tillot. I’m not married.”
It was a week later, the first day of Ralph’s evaluation, and Nora, still dazed and reeling, was standing uncertainly with an equally dazed and reeling Liz in a dim, mustard-colored hospital corridor that stretched down to the room where hired ambulance men had just deposited her father. The sound of thin, wavery out-of-tune singing came from a much larger room near the nurses’ station. She and Liz moved closer together as if for mutual protection in this alien place.
The nurse smiled professionally. “Miss Tillot. We’ll just get him settled and then you can see him. But only briefly. We find it’s best with evaluations for the patient not to have visitors for a while.”
Nora glanced at Liz, who was looking down the hall to Ralph’s room. Someone—a white-coated man with a clipboard—had just come out. He closed Ralph’s door and strode briskly along the hall, passing them with a brief nod. Automatically, Nora nodded back. But she hated it already, the place, the people, the atmosphere.
“Oh?” Liz was saying pleasantly to the nurse. “Why is that? I should think visitors would be helpful.”
“Many reasons.” The nurse extended her arm toward their backs as if she were going to herd them to the opposite end of the hall like schoolchildren, which indeed she did, except without touching them. “The reasons vary from patient to patient. But in general we find we get a more complete picture that way.”
“Some of the—his problems probably have to do with me,” Nora said.
“Yes, that’s likely in any family. And if so, you’ll tell us about them, and so will he, in good time.” The nurse led them past the room with the singing. Sunshine, Nora saw, peeking in, was coming through a wall of smudged windows; people, some of them pulling against or plucking at restraints of various kinds, were sitting around the room in wheelchairs, vinyl armchairs, metal folding chairs. A few of the more elderly ones were dribbling onto pastel-colored terrycloth bibs as they sang; others, not singing, both young and old, were staring vacantly into space. One agitated gray-haired woman was beating her hand, not in time to the music, against a highchair-like tray; another moaned “Nurse, nurse! I have to go!”
As the nurse shepherding them tried to hurry Nora and Liz past the open door, the gray-haired woman suddenly screeched, “I’ll pee in my pants then, you goddamn bitch!”
Nora held back, staring angrily at a young nurse who sat serenely in a corner, as if no one were shouting or seeming distressed. Another young woman, in everyday clothes, was thumping out the old song “Daisy, Daisy” at a scarred piano. “Come along, everyone, sing,” she shouted above the general din, her own and everyone else’s.
“Shouldn’t someone help her?” Nora couldn’t keep from asking their escort, who had stopped, too, as had Liz. Nora nodded toward the woman who had to go to the bathroom, and who was now crying.
“Help who? Oh, Mabel? No, it’s part of her therapy.”
“Part of her therapy not to be allowed to go to the bathroom?” Nora asked incredulously.
Liz put her hand on Nora’s arm. “Easy,” she said, so softly it was like a sigh.
“Miss Tillot,” the nurse said, facing them both, “this is a psychiatric evaluation wing. Some patients need to learn that they can’t have everything they demand. Some patients need to learn that we, not they, are in control before they’ll let us help them. I know some of our practices may seem cruel at first. But we do know best. Now”—she bustled them farther along the hall and knocked on a closed door whose nameplate read “Ruth Farnum, Social Services”—“why don’t you and your friend have a chat with Mrs. Farnum, and we’ll call you when your father is ready for visitors?” She knocked again.
“Come!” someone called cheerfully from inside the office.
The nurse opened the door. “Ruth,” she said, “this is Miss Tillot, Ralph Tillot’s daughter, and her friend. Mr. Tillot’s the new admission in 107.”
A small, neatly suited and coiffed woman came toward them, edging around a desk awash with manilla folders and a pile of loose papers held down by a large orange. “How do you do?” she said, holding out her hand—weathered, leathery skin, Liz noticed, liking her. “I’m Ruth Farnum, the social worker assigned to Mr. Tillot’s case. Come in, sit down. Thank you, Doreen,” she said as the nurse left; then she indicated two chairs in front of her desk, and closed the door. “Now,” she said, sitting back down, “which of you is which?”
***
“I hate this!” Nora whispered to Liz later when they were on their way to Ralph’s room after Mrs. Farnum had commiserated with Nora about her hurt shoulder and explained, pleasantly enough, but as if it was the most normal thing in the world, that Ralph would be given various psychological and medical tests over the next several weeks, would be seen many times by his psychiatrist, and would be closely observed by psychiatric nurses, “activities leaders,” and other personnel. “We’ll be watching him all the time, actually,” Mrs. Farnum had said, “and after today, we must ask you not to visit him for a week. You may telephone and talk to his nurse, and you may send him brief messages through her. And of course you may call me at any time, and of course the psychiatrist will share some
of his findings with you, but you must remember, and I know this is hard, that he is your father’s psychiatrist, and much of what passes between them must remain confidential.” She’d stood up then, obviously dismissing them. “I know this is very difficult,” she’d said with, Nora was sure, genuine kindness. But then why do I hate her, she’d wondered. “And I want you to know I’m here for you. Any questions, any complaints, any concerns, please feel absolutely free to bring to me. Ah, what timing!” she had exclaimed when the nurse named Doreen had knocked and then opened the door. “Is Mr. Tillot ready for his family?”
“Ready,” Doreen had said, “whenever you are. Turn right,” she’d added unnecessarily as Nora and Liz had stepped out into the hall. “Room 107,” she’d reminded them, and disappeared.
***
“I know you hate it,” Liz whispered now that they were outside Ralph’s room. “I hate it, too. But it’s got to be, Nora, and it’s best for him. You know that. Just keep telling yourself that.”
“I feel like a monster.” Nora’s face crumpled, and for a moment she leaned her head on Liz’s shoulder.
“Courage,” Liz whispered into Nora’s hair. “Courage.” She gave her a little push toward the door. “I’ll wait out here.”
“No! No, Liz, please come in.”
“Not a good idea,” Liz said lightly. “I’m a murderer, remember? I’ll just explore a bit, shall I? See what’s going on in the big room, the day room, I think they called it. Reminds me of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Nora managed to laugh a little. “Oh, God, you’re right. It all does, doesn’t it?”
“Atta girl.” Liz patted her shoulder. “Yes, it all does. Go. Then let’s go out to lunch or something. Someplace wonderful, yes?”
Nora quickly established that the hall was empty; she stretched up and kissed Liz’s cheek. “Yes.” Then she took a deep breath and went into the room.
The blinds were drawn and there was no light on. The room was bare except for the hospital bed in which Ralph lay, a small fake mahogany nightstand, a more or less matching fake mahogany dresser, and a large vinyl armchair. Ralph’s small suitcase was on the wide windowsill. Flowers, Nora thought, approaching the bed; surely they’ll let me send him flowers!
“Father?” she said. “Hi, it’s me.”
Ralph stared blankly at her, then turned away.
“Father?” She went closer, took his hand—but it was limp in hers.
“It’s Nora,” she said, loudly, as if he were deaf. Wrong, she thought, forcing her voice back to a normal conversational level. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Farnum, the social worker. She’s very nice. She said you’ll be seeing a doctor and having some tests. I think they’ll keep you pretty busy.”
Ralph ignored her.
“I heard singing coming from that big room they have, the day room, they call it. It’s bright and sunny.”
Ralph lay motionless, his hand still inert in hers, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite where Nora was standing.
Nora blinked back tears. “I’ll just open the blinds, shall I? It’s a lovely day.”
“No.”
His sudden response startled her. But at least it was a response. “What? Why not? It’s so dark in here, depressing.”
“Get out.”
“Father!”
“You and that woman, Dr. Cantor, that other doctor, you’re all against me. I’m going to kill myself. I am. You’ll be sorry. You’ll have done it. I’m not crazy. You are. You’re all crazy.”
“Father, listen, listen, please.” Nora lifted his hand, moving it up and down as if using it to punctuate her words. “You’ve had a terrible shock. Mama’s death, that’s been awful for you. No wonder you’re depressed, sad, mixed up. The doctors here are going to try to help you. They’ll find some pills that’ll make you feel better. It’s not a pretty place, here, I know, and I know you’d rather be at home, but I don’t know how to help you any more, Father. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
Ralph turned to her brusquely, his eyes both wild and cold. “Get me out of here!” he thundered. “That’s how you can help me, goddamnit! Get me out of here. I’ll die here, I’ll kill myself here.”
“You can’t, Father. Stop saying that.” Nora wiped her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, that’s probably the wrong thing to say; now he’ll look for something. Surreptitiously, she opened the nightstand drawer and removed a pencil, dropping it into her purse.
“What are you doing? What’s in there? Let me see!”
“Some paper,” Nora said, “a plastic glass, a toothbrush and hairbrush. Hospital issue, I guess; your own ones are in your suitcase. Why don’t I unpack it?” she said brightly, closing the drawer and opening the suitcase. “I’ll let you know which drawers I put things in so you can find them.
“Give me my belt,” he said.
She picked up his trousers from where they were draped over the back of the chair.
No belt.
“It’s not here,” she said, puzzled. Then it hit her why it was gone. So were his shoelaces. She opened his dressing kit. So was his razor.
“Where the hell is my belt? Let me see! Let me see my own things!” Ralph sat up, dangling his feet over the side of the bed.
Alarmed, she went to him; where was the walker? Had they taken that away, too?
“Wait, Father, I should get someone. I don’t think I can help you without the walker.”
“Well, get the goddamn walker then!”
“It doesn’t seem to be here. I’ll just go ask. You stay put.”
Nora fled into the hall, but no one was in sight except for a small wizened woman in a pink bathrobe, creeping along the wall. She grabbed Nora’s arm. “Sally,” she said breathlessly, fixing Nora with watery blue eyes. “Sally Ann! Now where is Mother? I can’t find her anywhere!”
“I don’t know,” Nora said, feeling as if she would scream if she had to stay another minute. Where was Liz? Where were the nurses? Where was Mrs. Farnum?
Ralph lurched into the doorway and Nora ran to him, holding him back. The old woman tottered up to them, grinning toothlessly, and tried to put her arms around Ralph. “Timothy,” she said. “Where is Mother? I want Mother!”
“Nurse!” Nora shouted, feeling embarrassed and foolish to be yelling like that, as if she were crazy, too. But what else could she do? She supposed her father had a call button, but there was no way she could let go of him to get it. “Help! Someone, please help!”
Liz came running down the hall, followed a moment later by two male nurses. One of them grabbed the woman (the Pink Lady, Nora called her later, describing the first part of the scene to Liz), and the other grabbed Ralph. “Hey, now, fellah,” that one said, not unkindly, “Don’t want to go AWOL, do we? Best you get back to your quarters, sir. That’s it,” he said, supporting a suddenly docile Ralph and steering him back into the room. “That’s the stuff. Best you come back another day, ma’am,” he said politely over his shoulder to Nora. “Or ask the nurse. New admission, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Nora said.
“Well, then it’ll be a few days. They’ll let you know. This your daughter, sir?” he asked Ralph. “Mighty fine-looking woman.”
“No,” Ralph said, glowering. “I don’t have a daughter. That’s two murderers there.” He raised his voice, making the words echo down the hall. “Two murderers!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Liz pointed to a table at the back of the small restaurant; they’d driven into Providence to a quiet place she’d remembered from the last couple of summers at the cabin. The waiter nodded and led them to it, handing them menus and leaving quickly.
But Liz called him back and ordered a half bottle of white wine.
Nora had cried most of the way into town and now she looked rigid, closed.
“Can you talk about it?” Liz asked gently after they’d settled.
“No daughter,” Nora whispered. “Murderers.”
“He’s sick, Nora. Mentally ill
. It’s all surfaced because of your mother’s death. He doesn’t really mean he has no daughter, I’m sure. He’s just mad at you now, because of the hospital.”
“He does mean it,” Nora said. “He hates me.”
“And you?” Liz asked. “You don’t hate him?”
The waiter arrived with the wine, holding the bottle out to Liz. She nodded, and watched Nora, not the waiter, while he poured.
“Yes,” Nora said when he’d left. “Yes, sort of. I do sort of hate him. So we’re even, is that it? A mutual hatred society?”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Liz said carefully. “But it’ll do. People say that hate,” she said, after taking a sip of wine, “is very close to love. I don’t think you can hate someone you don’t love.”
“Oh, sure you can,” Nora said. “What about, I don’t know, Hitler, mass murderers, people who abuse animals or children?”
“I don’t think it’s the same. It’s hate, I guess, but it’s abstract hate, impersonal, not as deep or as painful as when it’s someone you love or once loved. Someone who’s betrayed you.”
“As I’ve betrayed my father.”
“Nora, you really haven’t betrayed him! You’re helping him. He thinks you’ve betrayed him, but you’re doing the only possible thing anyone can do for him.”
Nora sighed and took a long swallow. “I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right. But it’s awful anyway. And it feels like betrayal.”
“That,” Liz said, opening a menu and handing it to Nora, “is exactly how he wants it to feel.”
***
“Just the ladies I want to see,” Roy said outside the post office when Nora and Liz pulled up after their very long and, it turned out, very liquid, lunch. “I can’t believe my luck.” He made great show of opening the passenger door; Liz, amused, noticed the skillful way Nora avoided the hand he offered to help her out.
“This is no place,” he said, when Liz had come around from the driver’s side, “to talk business, but Georgia and I—you know Georgia, Liz; she was handling your property, and Nora, you must know her, everyone in town seems to. Georgia and I would love it if you’d join us for dinner sometime soon.”