Before I stuffed my tiny trophies into the pads, I examined them. The pad is meant to stick to underwear. After I removed the strip of thin paper to reveal the sticky area, I made a tiny hole through the adhesive and pulled out little chunks of cotton. The cotton was messy, and particles of it suspended briefly in the air. After I inserted the medication, I would stick the pad in my underwear and carry on about my day.
Five pills a day were hidden in the pad. When the pad became worn out, I’d swap it with a fresh, sturdy new one.
My new responsibility gave me a sense of purpose and control. Whenever I would transfer the pills to a new pad at night, I would first study, organize, and count them. They made me feel proud. A bit of encouragement, accompanied with a secret task, gave me a new lease on life. The only downfall was that the larger my collection grew, the sicker I got.
The withdrawals were intolerable and made me second-guess my efforts. My head pounded constantly, and I experienced exhaustive night terrors. After I had a nightmare, I would toss and turn. In the morning, I’d vomit.
After a few days, my mind began to see things more clearly. A fake cough and body aches were added to my symptoms to hide the withdrawal evidence.
Day after day, the Black Angel encouraged me to push on. He assured me that the withdrawals would soon stop.
Before I could leave, I had to speak with the weekly discharge psychologist. I answered all the questions correctly and was released.
After I packed my belongings—mostly pads, shampoo, tissue boxes, and toothpaste—I smiled and said good-bye to the Black Angel. He finally made eye contact and smiled back.
“You take care of yourself now, ya hear.”
“Okay,” I replied as I walked out the self-locking door.
“Hey! I never want to see you again!”
Seven days and thirty-five crotch-crushed pills later, I waddled out of the mental hospital.
Trevor was the only person who could pick me up. Even though we were no longer together, I was excited to see him. As he drove down the freeway, I told him I had a surprise. I reached into my pants and pulled out the large puffy feminine napkin.
When Trevor was able to comprehend my actions, he pulled his body away from me.
“Eww! What the fuck? Are you crazy?”
“Nope, just the opposite.”
The multi-colored pills were exposed as I tore open the pad.
“I hid all of my medications! That’s how I got out,” I said.
“That is so gross. Get rid of it!”
“That’s littering!” I yelled.
The pills were thrust out the window. A few tried to cling to the pad’s cotton inner lining, but a violent shake helped them take the leap. We left them scattered on the freeway, powerless. As we drove, I hoped the pills would be crushed by hot tires and never have the ability to alter anyone’s fragile mind again.
A WEEK LATER AT MY parents’ house, I continued the withdrawals. Alice bought me a pregnancy test, which I refused to use at first, because I knew I couldn’t get pregnant. According to her, all of my symptoms seemed related to pregnancy. The last straw was the night I woke up at two in the morning and hyperventilated as I begged for strawberry ice cream.
“You’re crazy to wake us up in the middle of the night for ice cream!” she yelled. Then she went back to bed.
One day, when no one was home, I decided to do the test. As I peed on it, two lines immediately showed up. Just like that, at the same time. Two lines meant I was pregnant. My heart stopped. My hand grasped the white stick tightly. I’m never going to a mental hospital again, I thought as I cried with the most joy I had ever felt in my life.
THE OBSTETRICIAN WAS SHOCKED I had gone three months without knowing I was pregnant. My pregnancy would be shorter than most, he said, since I only had six months to go.
After those six months, I delivered a beautiful baby girl. Within a few moments, I was told that she was disabled.
The photo I was left with before my baby was taken away
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Augusta
When I was pregnant, I was the happiest girl in the world. Sure, I was single, had no job or car, and lived with my parents, but I was happy. Welfare paid me four hundred dollars a month, and I received food stamps and got on a program that gave me free healthy food, like milk and eggs and cheese.
Right away, I developed my plan to be a great mom. For me, it was easy—I would just do the opposite of what my mom did. All of my unhealthy habits were replaced with good ones. When I was pregnant, I did not drink alcohol or do drugs of any kind, not even medication. If people smoked near me, I would become upset and move, because I didn’t want people to force my unborn baby to breathe secondhand smoke. My baby would be healthy, no matter what.
All of the bad stories of my life were pushed far out of my mind. My greatest fear was that the state would take my baby away if someone thought I was an unfit mother. I would prove to be very capable.
The upstairs room I had lived in as a teen was all mine when I was pregnant. For hours, I would obsess with the cleanliness and perfection of the room. A clear path was formed from the bedroom to the bathroom so that I wouldn’t fall and smash my baby in an avalanche of random crap my mom had stockpiled outside my door.
My room was beautifully decorated. A crisp white and light blue bassinet sat in the corner. The little bed was from a secondhand baby store and had only been used once. Stuffed animals from the fifty-cent claw machine at the bowling alley were positioned around the inside, and a pink embroidered blanket—a gift from a sweet, elderly bingo player—draped over the edge.
No one was allowed in the room for any reason. If I heard anyone come up the stairs, I would ask who it was and question their business. It was usually a dog or cat—immediately scolded away—but rarely a human. No person or animal would ever intrude on my overly protected nest.
WHILE PREGNANT, I STUDIED AT home with books from a local Christian school and received my GED. Whenever I had a chance, I read. Sure, they were children’s picture books, but that didn’t matter. I wanted my daughter to think I was smart. Naturally, I read them over and over so that I would sound like a good reader. When I read, I became animated, and one day my mom heard me and yelled out, “Who are you talking to up there?” Because I was embarrassed, I didn’t read aloud again for several years.
When I told my mom I was pregnant, she instantly treated me with unexpected kindness. If I had known she would be Alice throughout my entire pregnancy, I probably would have gotten pregnant when I was twelve. At the time, her sweetness prompted a yearning to have a second baby. But I only ever had one child.
Alice and I would go to the bowling alley on Wednesdays. She was in a bowling league and was quite good, even though she had bursitis in her fingers. Bursitis was painful and was probably another curse from God, she said. No matter how bad the pain, we never missed our weekly trip to the bowling alley and to bingo. Both sports required the use of her hands, but the fun always replaced the pain. Once, I even convinced her to play darts with me. Another time we played Pac-Man, and she would scream with angst any time the ghosts in the dotted maze got near her. Whoever invented the game was insane, she said, because in real life there would only be one scary ghost, not four.
Anytime her hands failed her, she blamed the bursitis. She told me she could no longer grasp things. In her defense, her fingers appeared to be damaged—knobby in areas that should have been straight and swollen in parts that should have been smaller.
Her fingers demanded my attention too frequently. Most of the time, they triggered my anxiety. Her witch-like fingers twitched and lifted off the steering wheel as she drove. She insisted she couldn’t control it, but I thought it was all for show. After bowling, we would go to the humane society to play bingo. To my surprise, her fingers never lifted off the handheld bingo dauber.
We sometimes went to thrift stores and picked out cute, baby girl clothes. Before the doctor even told me, I knew I wou
ld have a girl. I could just feel it. I also prayed at night to remind God that I wished for a girl.
MY FAVORITE PAIR OF PREGNANCY sweatpants revealed the baby’s name. The label caught my eye one day, and I imagined a sweet little blond girl with an angelic face. I spoke to her throughout my pregnancy, calling her by name, Augusta, before she was even born. It was a sign, I knew, because labels had never spoken to me before.
Alice, on the other hand, paid close attention to brand names. At the thrift stores, she would hold up ordinary clothes and yell to me, “Jennifer! This would look nice on you!”
As my hands cradled my belly, I’d slowly look up with intentionally crossed eyes. The clothes she chose were always outdated or for old ladies. If I said I didn’t like them, she murmured to herself and searched for the tag with haste. Then she would make an announcement to get my attention.
“But it’s expensive!”
She usually struggled to pronounce the names. She figured if I had never heard of it, it must be expensive. Sometimes, just to humor her, I pretended to like a shirt or dress she selected. When we placed our items on the counter to check out, I would hide a few clothing pieces somewhere and pray she wouldn’t see them. To my relief, she never did.
Alice and I had a lot of fun together when I was pregnant. Because my guard was down, I began to reveal my sense of humor. My silly antics made her laugh uncontrollably. One time, I mimicked another player at bingo and caused my mom to pee her pants. She immediately sent me to the thrift store to buy her dry bottoms.
Her laughter and happiness made me feel special. It was uncommon to see her like this. I had waited my whole life to have my mom feel like my mom, so I relished every minute.
WHILE I WAS PREGNANT, I occasionally visited Trevor. The thought that my daughter should have a father made me gravitate toward him. It became a problem that I no longer drank and he did. He was carefree. He acted like every day was his last. People loved him for that. He didn’t seem out of control, but I felt our baby deserved a sober dad.
Trevor was excited about my pregnancy and would tell everyone that I was pregnant. He rubbed and kissed my belly and treated me like I was physically disabled, which I loved. Trevor wanted to be involved with every aspect of the pregnancy. He even chose the baby’s middle name, Cree. Cree is a beautiful middle name, I thought. Augusta Cree Summers.
The burning sage in my treehouse reminds me of a discovery I made after my daughter was born. Not long after her birth, I found out that Cree was the name of one of Trevor’s ex-girlfriends. Trevor’s last name was Summers. Augusta Cree Summers became the baby’s legal name. But when I found out that Trevor pulled a fast one on me, I wanted to change her middle name to Sage. Augusta Sage Summers. When I realized her initials would be A.S.S., I decided to keep Cree.
Fantasies of the baby’s arrival and our life together consumed my thoughts. She would be my best friend. She would also be beautiful, smart, and popular. And she would own a million pretty dresses. Most of all, she would be loved. We would always be there for each other, and I would never feel alone again.
AUGUSTA’S DELIVERY DATE WAS CIRCLED on my calendar with a bright pink marker. My labor induction was set for three o’clock in the afternoon on Friday, May 17. The baby never dropped, and I was a week overdue, so I had to set an appointment to have her.
When Friday finally came, I was nervous. A bond had developed between my unborn baby, my belly, and me. I loved being pregnant. During my pregnancy, people did not judge me; they automatically liked me and treated me kindly. For nine months, I felt complete. And although I would have a brand-new baby, I knew I would miss the consistency of the pregnancy and all of its perks. When I walked into the hospital, I mourned the end of pregnant life.
The delivery room had five people present: the doctor, my mom, Trevor, his mom, and the nurse. Augusta Cree Summers arrived early in the morning on Saturday, May 18, 1996. Her birth was so magical that I cried.
When the baby was born, they placed her on my chest. She was beautiful. She had bloody, dark brown hair and large blue eyes. As she screamed, she held onto her hands and thrust her arms out. She was so new, and her fragility stunned me. The nurses cleaned her and wrapped her and gave her back to me. They helped me try to breast-feed her, but she wasn’t able. Her lungs began to gurgle. The doctor told me that the baby needed to be checked over in the ICU because he didn’t like how her lungs sounded. And then, my baby was taken away from me.
After I demanded that my family leave the room to seek answers, I begged God not to let her die. Shortly after, my mom re-entered the room with a sad look on her face.
My face grew red with fury. “What?”
“Don’t get mad at me,” she said as she looked around the room for occupants. She stood near my left shoulder and stared down at me. “If I could do it, so can you.”
My teeth grit together tightly, and my fists clenched shut. “What are you talking about?”
My mom lowered her voice. “The baby is handicapped. She’s like Jay Jay. Everything will be okay.”
My eyes did not blink, and my nostrils started to flair like a bull before it charges.
She was a liar, and I knew it.
To gain deliverance from her psychological torture, I screamed at the top of my lungs. The nurse rushed into the room, followed by the doctor, Trevor, and his mom.
As I pointed at the emotional intruder, I lost it.
“She said my baby is handicapped—that she’s disabled!”
The room grew silent, so I elaborated.
“That is what she said! She came in here and told me that my baby is handicapped.”
Everyone was shocked. My mom just stood there as if she had done nothing wrong. The nurse gently approached my side and caressed my arm. “The baby will be fine. She just has pneumonia.”
“Why did she say that?” I asked.
They all looked at my mom for an answer. She looked bewildered and shrugged her shoulders. “You never know.”
The doctor looked at her like he had had a hard day and a long night. Then he told me my daughter would be taken to another hospital to receive better care. They brought her into my room in an incubator on wheels. She was so sweet. With my hand on her tiny glass world, I whispered to her and told her I loved her. The doctor and the transport team came to get her. They took a picture of her, gave it to me, and left. Four hours later, I escaped the hospital to be with my baby.
Augusta stayed in the ICU for two weeks. After she was released, we stayed between Trevor’s mom’s house and my parents’ house. Life was beautiful and could not have been more perfect. Augusta brought us so much love and gave me a reason to live.
THE HORRIBLE EXPERIENCE IN THE desert four years earlier was now mostly a distant memory. An appropriate dose of anti-anxiety medication and antidepressants kept me stable. In public, I acted as normal as I could and mimicked other mothers. But at home, I practiced bizarre rituals daily.
One day, when Augusta was one year old, the police came to my parents’ house and asked for me. The policeman told me I had to go to the police department immediately. He explained that I should not watch TV or listen to the radio.
My mom and I arrived at the police department forty-five minutes later. After I sat at a large executive table, I looked up to see the devil. The man who had tried to kill me four years prior was right in front of me.
I was victim number five
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eight Girls
Acorns hit the top of my treehouse, and the wind gushes past as if motivated by fear. (Okay, they aren’t really acorns; they are these little beige balls that look like garbanzo beans. They fall off the desert trees when the wind is rough. Acorns sounds more interesting.) With half a glass of cabernet left, I sip and stare at the words I type.
The Double Dream strain of marijuana is fitting for this evening. I smoke it out of a fragile object that in my mind resembles a crack pipe, though I’ve never seen one. This pipe is made of glas
s and is long and thin.
As I blow out the smoke, I watch it linger before my eyes. My hair is soggy, and my makeup is smeared because I recently swam in the pool. Tonight I write while naked. Sometimes, if I feel comfortable, I will do things like this. It’s strange how vulnerability can give you a sense of power, and power is what I have.
With chemically-induced, squinted eyes, I feel alluring. The music is a perfect kind of loudness. “Something Just Like This” makes the treehouse rumble, as if The Chainsmokers and Coldplay are here in person on my deck. This song makes my soul feel safe and secure. Occasionally, music speaks to you. If you smoke a little pot and drink a bit of wine, it really speaks.
The twinkle lights hold my attention. The beauty captivates me. I want to stay in this moment, fully mesmerized by the parade of senses I experience.
But I begin to see a face. Its features are familiar—awful and unkind. As I acknowledge the man on the wall, I cock my head and sit up tall. I am a fucking badass, I think, nearly shouting it aloud. I crack a confident smile and zone in on the monster, as my treehouse reluctantly fades away.
Five photos are laid out before me while I cover my eyes with my hands. The detective instructed me to shut them, but I found that difficult to do. It would make me vulnerable to a threat. With my head down and my eyes behind my shaky hands, I imagined the devil’s ugly face.
Since she wasn’t told to shut her eyes, my mom viewed the photos first. She probably examined them and searched for a monster, but he does not look like a monster to anyone but me, so she would never guess correctly.
The Girl in the Treehouse Page 17