“Why are you putting so much energy into this?” Hannah asks. “She’s a grown woman.”
“She’s not in her right mind,” I start, but then Elizabeth and I look at each other and take a deep breath. Maybe Hannah’s right. Maybe we should relax a bit, not let our mom hijack our entire day. Maybe we should try to enjoy settling in with Asher, so warm in my arms.
I tell myself to stay off the computer the rest of the day, to focus on the people around me. I tell myself to try to not worry. To trust the police will find her.
As evening falls, I feel a deep tug to check my e-mail. It feels important, necessary—my body wants to do it as fiercely as it wanted to push Asher out into the world. I excuse myself and log on to Gmail. Below a stack of requests for year-end donations, I find an e-mail sent five hours ago with the subject line “Your Mom” from someone named Duke Bristow. I open it, blood zipping. It reads:
Your mother came by our house in Sherman Oaks and asked me to take her to union station which i did. I dropped her here and have parked, now looking for her.
She spoke of you and your new baby and did not want to bother you today.
I am concerned since if this was my mother and the roles were reversed I would want you to contact me.
She says she has money, she has no luggage and no planned destination.
Duke K. Bristow, Ph.D.
I kick myself for staying off the computer for so long. If I had found this sooner, I could have told the police to check Union Station. We could have found her hours ago. Now she could be anywhere a train could take her. I immediately write back and leave my number, then search for Duke Bristow online. I learn he is an associate professor of clinical finance and business economics at the USC Marshall School of Business. Had my mom sought him out for his financial expertise? Did she think he could help her find the millions she thought Dad was hiding?
I share the e-mail with my family.
“I had a feeling about Union Station,” says Michael, and I don’t doubt it. He can be eerily perceptive. “I should have said something.”
I notice a phone number at the bottom of his e-mail; I don’t have to wait for Duke Bristow to call—I can call him, myself. When I do, Duke tells me my mom showed up in his front yard as he was mowing the lawn. She said she was the victim of domestic violence and needed to find a safe house. She asked for a ride to the train station. She was carrying a lot of money.
“How much?” I ask him.
“A lot,” he says and leaves it at that. I worry—will someone find out and try to mug her? How much money is she actually carrying? Where did it come from? I picture her with a briefcase full of cash, like the kind people use to pay a ransom in the movies, stacks of crisp bills banded together. A thought flashes through my mind—maybe she found the motherlode she’s been searching for—before I shake it away.
“She thinks my dad is hiding millions of dollars from her,” I tell him. “She’s not really being abused.”
He seems stunned. “She’s very elegant,” he tells me. He tells me how proud she is of me—he was able to find me because she told him about my novels and he contacted me through my website—how proud she is of the new baby. He tells me she said, “Asher Whitman Brandeis” sounds like the name of a Nobel laureate or a Supreme Court justice. She has great ambitions for her new grandson. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Duke Bristow offers to be of assistance in any way he can. I give him the name and number of the police officer I spoke to; I give him her case number. He promises to call.
My mom thinks everyone is out to get her, that everyone is against her, but everyone we talk to only wants to help, only wants to get her home, safe. I wish she could know this, could somehow feel it in her bones. I try to feel her in my own bones, try to imagine how she must be feeling right now. She must be so scared; she must feel so alone. I dip my nose onto Asher’s head and take a deep whiff of his scalp. The top of a baby’s head is like a sedative, the sweetest drug I know. I take another deep draught of it and try to imagine sending its calming power to my mom, wherever she may be.
[Cut to a closeup of paintings, the crack between them.]
ARLENE: I think this painting just shows the disorientation I felt. I felt I was just going down the rabbit hole and the whole world seemed to just go mad, and then finally I said, “We have to take her out of this hospital; they’re going to kill this child if we don’t take her out,” and we moved her to another hospital, and she was in terrible shape. She had lost an enormous amount of weight; she was in a wheelchair because all of her muscle mass was gone, and her hip, because of the Ehlers-Danlos, couldn’t hold the bone in its socket, so she couldn’t walk. So she went into the hospital walking and in really good nutritional shape and left there like they created an eating disorder for her. So it was maddening. It was the most horrific experience of my life.
Mom,
I would often find you sitting in the living room with a glass of Scotch when Elizabeth was in the hospital. You would just sit there, frozen, not acknowledging me, completely zoned out. I had never seen you drink Scotch before this; you were always a Chardonnay kind of woman, and only at restaurants, at dinner. This was the middle of the day. I started to wonder if you had done this when I was in the hospital, too. I had pictured you always busy with your mother-of-the-sick-girl quests, research spurred on by a sense of purpose. I hadn’t pictured this—you sitting with a glass of Scotch, stony-faced, wanting to disappear. I had always thought my illness was a moment of glory for you, a shining moment for us both, a chance for you to gleam with righteous anger.
One day, you were late picking me up after school. I waited at the curb for over an hour, telling myself that if three red cars went past, it meant you had died. Three red cars went past, and I told myself that three more red cars had to go past for it to be real. One red car, then two . . . I told myself that if four blue cars went past, I should start walking home. Four blue cars came and went, and you still weren’t there, but I didn’t move; I didn’t start walking; I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to be alive or dead, wasn’t sure if I wanted you to come or not. I started to cry, but I wasn’t sure why. Finally, you careened up to the curb. You didn’t apologize. Your breath smelled fruity. I told you that; I said, “Your breath smells fruity.” You didn’t say anything. You just drove me home, seething, as if I had done something wrong by standing on the curb, counting cars, imagining your death. I found myself getting mad, too, as we drove home, more and more mad, but I didn’t say anything. Neither of us said a word. We got home and you went straight up to your bedroom, and I tried to think of the most destructive thing I could do. I decided I would huff some nitrous oxide. I had never done it before, but there was a can of whipped cream in the fridge. I had heard that if you pressed the tip in a certain way, the nitrous would come out. I tried; I sucked in sweetened air. I tried again; more sweet air. No effect. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t even know how to get high. I squirted a mountain of whipped cream into my mouth instead, and let it melt slowly on my tongue, the extent of my rebellion.
When I was sick, Elizabeth ran away. Her best friend had moved to New Jersey. Elizabeth stole your credit card, took a cab to the airport, got on a People’s Express flight to New York, back when you could buy a ticket right on the plane, and took off. No one questioned her. She was ten years old. You tracked her down via your credit card company, had our brother Jon, who lived in New York, meet her as she got off the plane. You ended up letting her get on another flight to New Jersey. She had been through a lot while I was sick; she deserved to see her best friend.
She had chutzpah; you had wine breath; I had a mouthful of whipped cream, dissolving into nothing.
NOVEMBER 29, 2009
None of us sleep much. We aren’t sure what to do with ourselves in the morning. The police don’t have any updates. Elizabeth walks to the children’s bookstore downtown to get a gift for Michael’s nephew, who turns eight today; Michael’s sister and both b
oys are coming over later to meet Asher. Michael wonders if he should go to Union Station to do his own sleuthing before their visit. After Elizabeth returns with a gift-wrapped book, an unfamiliar number with a 213 area code calls. My pulse is strong in my ears as I flip open my phone.
“Congratulations! I hear you had a baby!” a man’s voice booms, hearty and jolly; his accent is strong but I can’t place it.
“Thank you,” I say hesitantly. “Who is this?” I wonder if it’s a telemarketer trying to sell subscription diaper service or life insurance or baby portrait packages.
“My name is Pablo Paschal,” he says. “I have your mother.”
“Oh, thank God,” I blurt, heart surging, even though I don’t believe in a traditional God, even though there’s something slightly sinister in “I have your mother.” Had he kidnapped her? Could all her money be some sort of ransom, after all? “Is she okay?” I ask.
“She is fine,” he says, “but you need to love and support her. You need to say ‘You can sleep on my couch, Mommy.’” For this last part, he makes his voice sound high, like a little girl’s. Like how he thinks I should sound.
A stranger has called to make me feel even more guilty, even more like a bad daughter?
“Can I talk to her?” I ask. I can hear her in the background, but can’t tell what she’s saying.
“I’ll put her on speaker phone,” he says.
“Hello, Gayle.” Her voice is cold. She only calls me “Gayle” if she’s mad at me—otherwise, it’s Gayley or honey. I dissolve into tears, anyway.
“Oh Mom, oh Mom,” I weep. “I’m so glad you’re okay. We’ve been so worried.”
Elizabeth and Michael stand nearby, on edge, waiting.
“You should be worried,” she says. “I’m in grave danger.”
I hear Pablo Paschal in the background, saying, “Remember, be positive. Be positive.”
“Where are you?” I ask, and that’s how I learn that my Jewish mother has gone to La Placita, Our Lady Queen of Angels, the oldest church in Los Angeles, for sanctuary. It’s right near Union Station, on historic Olvera Street, the “Birthplace of Los Angeles.” She didn’t get on a train at all; she just walked across the street. Had she slept there last night? The man who called me is Father Paschal, it turns out, not Pablo Paschal.
“She’s at a church in LA,” I whisper to my family and watch their eyebrows lift.
“Tell her I’ll go get her,” Elizabeth whispers back.
My mom launches into her spiel about being followed, being poisoned, about Dad being behind it, all things I’ve heard before, all things she can’t seem to stop herself from saying. In the background, Father Paschal says, “Find a positive solution, Mom. Find a positive solution.” As a result, she slows down her voice but says the same exact thing. “I know it sounds fanciful,” she says again, this time with all the vowels drawn out, her voice deeper than usual, as if a tape of her normal voice has been slowed, and again I wish for fanciful, for unicorns, for fairies dancing from flower to flower. This isn’t fanciful. This is excruciating. She tells me that in the hospital, a Middle Eastern couple had been staring at her, that the woman had sprayed poison at her with her cell phone; that’s why my mom had ripped out her IVs; that’s why she left without telling anyone. But now she’s found a safe place. Father Paschal has been nothing but kind.
“I’m so glad,” I tell her. “Stay there. Elizabeth will come get you. We love you so much.”
Elizabeth calls Sandra, our mom’s therapist, who helps arrange for a psychiatric evaluation team to meet her and our mom at La Placita. If Sandra hadn’t seen our mom’s delusions before, she sure sees them now. As Elizabeth gets ready to take off, the air feels tense, charged, like she’s leaving for war; we hug as if we’re never going to see each other again.
I hope La Placita is keeping our mom placid for the time being. I assume Placita means “the most peaceful,” which seems both perfect and completely ironic, but when I look it up, I learn it means “plaza,” “marketplace,” “public square,” pretty much the opposite of peaceful.
About an hour later, I get a call—Elizabeth is lost. Downtown LA is confusing, especially where the 10, 110, and 101 freeways converge. I try to give her directions, but my brain feels scrambled; I’m not able to offer the best advice. She phones again a while later, still lost, starting to get frantic. While we’re talking, a call waiting beep comes from our mom. I tell Elizabeth I’ll call her right back.
“Gayle.” My mom’s voice shakes with anger. “Are you planning to put me on a twenty-four-hour hold?”
“No,” I say, my own voice starting to tremble. It’s not a lie, this “No.” We ideally want her to be held much longer than twenty-four hours.
“You can’t do this to me!” she yells. “I have a plan! I need to get my case together!”
“Mom,” I start, but I don’t know what to say.
“You can’t do this to me,” she yells again.
“Mom,” I say, “we just want you to get the help you need.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I regret it. I’ve always had trouble being honest with my mom—why in the world would I blurt out the truth now?
“For once in your life, give me the benefit of the doubt,” she cries, her voice getting higher and higher. “For once in your LIFE!” The phone goes dead. I try to call back, but there’s no answer.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth calls; she’s talked to Father Paschal. Our mom has taken off, running down Cesar Chavez Ave. She ran so fast, the priest, much younger than her, wasn’t able to catch up.
“I see an exit for Cesar Chavez,” she says. “Should I take it?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s a pretty long street—I don’t think the exit is close to the church.”
My heart is hammering. What have I done?
Elizabeth gets to La Placita around the same time as the two women Sandra had arranged to do the psychiatric evaluation. Ten minutes after our mom ran away.
ARLENE: It turned out after the second hospital, they realized, they said especially with a diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos, that they never should have done that to her, treated her for an eating disorder, so fortunately she was in a good place, she had a wonderful woman gastroenterologist, a woman who sent her home with a gastric feeding tube that she put down her own nose every night—this twelve-year-old kid hooked herself up to this pump and this liquid nourishment and managed it until it stopped, and she called me at work one day and said, “I had breakfast and it stayed down—will you come home?” And of course I just tore out of there and went home, and it stopped.
Mom,
You drove me to the Old Orchard movie theater complex one night so I could meet my friends at the premiere of The Breakfast Club. The movie had been based on the early morning detention at my high school. John Hughes was there for an after-the-show panel discussion, as was Anthony Michael Hall and my potential movie-of-the-week alter ego, Ally Sheedy.
I got in your car after the movie all abuzz. I felt like I had just been part of something significant. You were silent the whole ride home as I rattled on and on about the ills of society and how we’re really all the same under the surface, but our culture wants to separate us into all these cliques and blah blah blah. Finally, you came to a screeching halt at a stoplight by the White Hen Pantry and turned to me.
“Your sister might be dying,” you said, your voice icy. “And you’re talking about society?! Your sister’s vitals are dropping, and you’re worried about our culture? Get your priorities straight, Gayle!”
I hadn’t ever entertained the possibility that Elizabeth might really die. I felt like a knife had been plunged into my stomach.
A thought entered my mind: If she does die, she’ll die innocent, pure. She won’t ever have to deal with the seamier side of life. I felt guilty thinking that, but part of me meant it. I didn’t want to grow up and I didn’t want her—the purest link to my own childhood—to grow up, either. She had been in such a hurry
to get older, to seem older, and I was strangely grateful her illness had put the brakes on that for a while. If she was in the hospital, she couldn’t smoke cigarettes or drink wine coolers or wear makeup or make out with boys or run away. And I would have witnessed her whole life. Her whole pure and innocent life.
The fact that Elizabeth didn’t die makes me want to kiss each inch of the ground in gratitude. I can’t imagine being on this planet without her.
Unlike me, she became more famous after her hospitalization than during it. She was skinny now; she became instantly popular, embraced by the girls in her eighth-grade class at Washburne who had shunned her before. Our lives barely intersected once she returned.
When we were younger, we lived in the bubble of our collective imagination. We lived in that bubble right until my illness began. Once we started creating our own illnesses, we stopped creating shared worlds.
NOVEMBER 29, 2009
Elizabeth calls me back as she waits for police to arrive. The women Sandra had sent were both very kind—one had peeling orange nail polish and a smoker’s voice, Elizabeth tells me; she seems like she’s had a rough life but has pulled it together. The other mostly did paperwork. Father Paschal is a beautiful, moon-faced Nigerian man, Elizabeth says, and I feel a sudden pang that I don’t get to meet this cast of characters with her. I haven’t been out of the house since Asher was born; I don’t feel capable of being out in the world yet, my body still aching and leaking, but I long to be there with my sister, to try to find our mom together.
Our mom had left a note for Father Paschal to give to us. Elizabeth reads it to me:
The Art of Misdiagnosis Page 10