Sure Signs of Crazy

Home > Other > Sure Signs of Crazy > Page 17
Sure Signs of Crazy Page 17

by Karen Harrington


  Also, you would know that I’ve had to become a liar. I will lie about anything for practice so that when I lie about you it sounds genuine. Some days I say to myself that my parents are divorced and that you moved to Paris to learn to cook and make up recipes with my name in them. My favorite is Sarah à la mode. Some days I lie and say you died, but that before you did, you made me a new Easter dress every year and let me pick out the fabric from the store. You bought enough to make yourself a headband, and so everywhere we went, we’d have a little bit of the same pattern on and people would know we were mother and daughter.

  If you were here, my room would embarrass you. You would yell at me for throwing my laundry on the floor. You’d buy me a blue-and-white hamper that smelled of lavender and say would I kindly put things inside it, is it too much to ask? We’d argue, and I would slam the door and wish I could be left alone already. Then I might feel a little bit bad about arguing with you, but I’d be sure I was right. It’s my room, I can keep it messy if I want to.

  If you were here, you would always be brushing my hair, wrapping it in a warm towel, and telling me what kind of conditioner to put in it to keep it pretty. You would know how to make it just right in a nice braid or how to flat-iron it smooth as a ribbon. You would have known all about how to care for it when I got lice in the second grade instead of having Dad do all the work, which was horrible. Men do not know how to comb out a girl’s hair.

  If you were here, you’d have taken me out to dinner at a fancy place with cloth napkins. We’d talk about periods and ear piercing and boys. You’d say we’re going to the super club store, and we’d buy a year’s supply of products so I wouldn’t have to ask anyone for help.

  If you were here, the media wouldn’t think of you as a sick person in a hospital. You would just be someone’s mother trying to choose the right kind of peanut butter, adjusting your bra strap in the checkout line, and thinking about whether or not to make two birthday cakes for your twins or just one big one to share. I’ve always wanted to have two.

  If you were here, I would have normal problems like pimples and sneaking too-short shorts to school in my book bag and wanting to have a thong show above my jeans, which I only want to do because other girls do, not for the comfort of it. Then we’d have huge fights about me wanting to stay out late at Jump Town because all the other kids do and why can’t I? And the next day, you would ask me my opinion about a stolen painting you heard about on the news and my anger toward you about clothes would completely evaporate because who cared. You thought of me as someone with a brain after all. And then we’d make plans to go to the museum to look at other paintings, and you’d tell me you didn’t think it was right for people to own art, it somehow belongs to the world like clouds and rain.

  If you were here, I would know about Dad from your own words. What Dad will tell me every once in a while, after I’ve frustrated it out of him, is that he loved you very deeply. That you weren’t always sick and in need of hospital care. It’s still hard for him because he feels he still loves that person he used to know. It’s not like you died, but as if you moved away and wouldn’t tell him where.

  If you were here, I wouldn’t worry about being like you. I would have hard evidence about who you are so I could say, oh, this is the difference between Sarah and Jane. We are alike in this way, not so much in this way. As it is, I have to learn all of this on my own, don’t I?

  I’d like to hear your voice. I feel like Atticus, headed for the courtroom to defend poor Tom Robinson. (Do you know this book?) Atticus Finch knew he wasn’t going to win, but he did it anyway. That’s why I’m riding a bus to see you.

  Well, I think I’ve said everything even though it is pointless. I am about to see you in person. Maybe I can say some of these things if I keep my courage up. I’ve learned that you have to choose courage each day like you choose what shirt to wear. It is not automatic.

  Your daughter,

  Sarah

  Chapter 34

  The Wichita Falls bus station is full of people ready to go someplace else. The tattooed Marine runs across the lobby, throws his arms around a blond girl, picks her up, and swings her around. It is the sweetest thing. Someday I want this to happen to me. Someone so excited to see me they have to lift me off my feet.

  We call the number for a local taxi service and wait outside the station to be picked up. I freshen up, brush my hair, eat a Tic Tac. Dad sits on a bench. We don’t talk. That is our agreement. He called ahead and told them we were coming. That is all I need from him.

  The taxi driver arrives and gives us an are you sure? look when I tell him the address. Yes, we are sure.

  After we go through hospital security, a guard tells us to sit in the waiting area, and again I wait for a long time. I flip through magazines, and Dad studies the carpet. There is a woman working behind the registration desk now, and she calls for us.

  “Family of Jane Nelson,” she says.

  I step up to the desk before Dad can speak.

  “I’m her daughter. I’m Jane Nelson’s Sarah. Sarah Nelson.” This is the first time in my whole life I’ve said out loud that I was Jane Nelson’s daughter. It just came out as natural as you please. The woman doesn’t flinch. She’s used to being around crazy.

  She hands us badges to wear on our shirts.

  She says, “Dr. Block will be with you soon.”

  There are no fashion magazines here, all business. So I stare at a TV mounted to the wall. The news reports on a line of three hurricanes headed toward the Gulf Coast: Igor, Julia, and Karl. A large chunk of Texas should expect soaking rains. This will be good for Plant. I miss her.

  “Mr. Nelson?” I turn toward the voice. It is a nice-looking man in wire-frame glasses and a white doctor’s coat, but I shouldn’t judge him based on his looks. He might as well be a mad scientist come to study my brain.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Dad says. “It was important for Sarah to just see her, if possible.”

  “No,” I say. “Not if possible. I have to see her.”

  Dr. Block leads us into his office. We settle into two orange chairs facing his desk.

  “It’s nice to know you want to see her, Sarah,” Dr. Block says. “She’s on medication, you know.”

  “Yes,” I say. “How is she?”

  The way he smiles and clasps his hands together makes me know he’s glad someone finally asked. “Well, you know this was a difficult month, with the timing of the anniversary.”

  “I’ve written her a letter,” I tell him, patting my backpack. “I need her to have it.”

  “It would be better if I had told her you were coming a few weeks ago. Then she could have prepared for it,” he tells us. “She’s aware of how ten years have passed, which is one of the reasons she’s more fragile right now.”

  “She doesn’t need to say much. I just need to see her, give her my letter. She doesn’t need to talk so much. Maybe if she just waved to me.” I tell myself not to let my courage dry up and leave. Did I come all this way to settle for a wave? For just a glimpse? No, I did not.

  Dr. Block exchanges a look with my dad, who has remained true to his word, letting me make my own case.

  “Wait here a few minutes, Sarah.”

  There is a flutter in my stomach, a lump in my throat. The divided feeling is with me again. A tiny part of me wants to run out of here as fast as I can. A bigger part knows that if I leave now, I will regret it forever. The want to run and the need to stay fight it out inside me. This is how Atticus felt for certain.

  We’ve had to wait twenty minutes for Dr. Block to return, which is a pure eternity. Now, there is a fist in my chest, pound, pound, pounding. I tell myself to calm down. I’m at a hospital. If anything happens, they can take care of me. Bury me in the black dress and pillbox hat. It will make Mrs. Dupree even more depressed to attend two funerals in one month, though, so I can’t die now.

  Dr. Block leads us to a large glass atrium that overlooks a wide green lawn like the one
I remember from years ago.

  “She’s sitting over there having breakfast by those white tables. Do you see?”

  I follow the line of his arm. I see a woman in blue pants and a blue shirt in the distance, the space of a football field. It is close, but not too close. She sits at a white iron table. A gray curtain of hair hangs around her face. A breeze blows it back, and I can see the shape of her face. I’d like to pull her hair back, secure it with a shiny barrette. It might make her look more hopeful. She sits there, statue still. I put my hand to the glass. I can cover her up completely with the palm of my hand like the moon behind my thumb. But it is still as if I’m viewing something under glass. What I’m thinking is, I didn’t come this far just to look through a glass. I could do that at home.

  I ask to go outside, and Dr. Block says yes, we can, but all we will do is look. He thinks the conversation should take place another day. Give her time to adjust.

  We go outside, all three of us. My heart pounds so loud, I pray she’ll hear it, receive the mental thoughts I am sending her. I’m right here. I wrote you a letter. Look at me. Look at me.

  She does nothing, just sits, sips from a coffee cup.

  Turn! Turn! Turn! See me! I’m right here. I just want you to know I was here without me saying anything.

  And then, she does. She turns her head. She’s looking in my direction. Her neck and head are definitely pointed in my direction. I wonder if she will wave, but she doesn’t. She is still. Calm. A stronger breeze blows my hair back. I see a gust swing her hair back, too. I was right. It would look nice pulled back in a barrette. I take out the camera I borrowed from Grandma, snap the picture. I don’t even ask permission as I imagined I would have to do.

  I step off the concrete patio and onto the green grass. I’m not supposed to do this, but still I go forward. Let me get in trouble later. But let me do this my way. I start walking faster, toward her.

  “Sarah,” Dr. Block calls. “Come back.” But I am moving. Moving as if something else is pulling me. It is that bigger part that has the courage. It is telling the small voice inside me to sit down, be quiet. Now, I am moving toward her, the long blades of grass sweeping across my sandaled feet. I don’t have a plan. I take the pages of my letter out of my backpack and hold them, offer them.

  They are in my hands, my secret thoughts. I want more than anything for her to have them so she can know me, a part of me. The good part that does not lie. Tell me she read the same book once, wanted to name me Scout but Dad was against it.

  I stop walking. What next? I don’t know. This is as far as my plan goes. Dr. Block follows me. There is an equal span of green grass ahead of me. What do we look like to strangers? Normal? Not two people involved in a crime. People who are talked about on the news.

  It comes to me that I want to cry a pillow-soaking sob and then sleep at my grandparents’ house, on the bed, under the covers this time. Hide from everyone in a safe place. But my legs won’t move, forward or backward.

  We are not together, but we are not apart. I could ask her a million questions or I could say nothing. It is my choice. I am smack in between. If I stay here long enough, they will have to bring me food. Cover me in a blanket. Bring me an umbrella if I need it. How long can a person live on a single piece of lawn?

  Dr. Block is a few feet behind me, asking me to come inside and talk. His voice is calm and friendly. Okay, I say.

  This is not the kind of variety I’d been thinking about getting this summer. Well, what did I expect? And there’s no telling how many different ways you could describe how confused I am just now. I won’t even let my brain go into synonym mode. If Finn were here, I’d tell him to shut up. And then I would want to hug him even though he wouldn’t want me to.

  I look back once, see her standing, talking to someone. Someone else gets her words and I do not. It is so unfair. She presses the fabric of her shirt smooth just like I do. But something about the movement makes her appear beautiful and tender. I want another picture of her walking. Later, when I print out the photo, it will show two friends going for a walk, talking about what flowers to plant this summer. As if this setting is a giant backyard they’ve worked hard on to enjoy its blooms. Two people just going for a walk. Normal. I bring the camera up to snap another picture. As I do, I forget about my letter and the pages slip from my hands. The wind whips them into the sky. My thoughts. My secrets. They are lifting into the gusts like freed white birds.

  My feet move, running after them, stomping one page under my foot as it touches the grass. Another teases me and takes flight as soon as I get to it. The last page flies into the air, catches in a tree. The divided part of me screams in my head. I don’t care. I do care. I don’t want to care about what people think anymore. I am terrified about what people think.

  “Let’s go now,” Dr. Block says. “I will get someone to gather those for you.” He is so nice. I could hug him.

  I am in Dr. Block’s office, biting my tongue to keep the tears from coming. He’s placed my bent pages in a neat stack. How he got them, I have no idea.

  “Do you have any questions?” Dr. Block asks. It would be easier if Dr. Block could examine my brain and look inside at all the questions I have. There would be a new news story about me. Texas Girl’s Brain Holds World Record for Questions.

  I say to Dr. Block, “Tell her I came to see her.”

  “I will.”

  “She turned her head to me, didn’t she?” I ask.

  There is Dr. Block’s gentle smile again. “You are not what happened with your mother, you know.”

  I let the thought tumble around in my brain until it sticks like a handle on a suitcase. I know I’ll pick it up again and again. Feel it solid in my hands.

  Dr. Block says, “It’s just me and you now. You can ask me anything. Tell me anything, okay?”

  “Thank you. You’ve been kind,” I say. It sounds mature, like I knew it would. “Do you think I scared her?”

  “The truth? I think she probably did not see you.”

  Well, it’s not like I could have a normal face-to-face meeting with her. Not really. I couldn’t ask her questions for a Family Tree Project. Find that one thing we have in common. You can’t force someone to be your mother if she is sick. You have to lean on your own self. This shouldn’t surprise me right now, but it does. All this time I thought I was so bad off, but now I see she probably has it worse.

  “I just have one more question,” I say to Dr. Block. “Why do I only ever get two cards a year from her?”

  “It’s complicated, you know. She’s a bright person, but she feels she must never see her family again. What you have to understand is that just because a person has a mental illness, it doesn’t mean that they are not very intelligent. For her, it’s sometimes too painful, too destructive to remember because she understands what she did was so wrong. I know she wishes it were different. In a way, I think she believes she’s protecting you.”

  We sit silently for a few minutes and it feels good, like I can catch my breath after running for an hour.

  “There is one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think someone should brush her hair back and put a barrette in it. It would look pretty that way.”

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you for suggesting it.” He opens the file on his desk, takes his ballpoint pen from his pocket, and writes it down. Barrette for Jane. Or so I imagine.

  I will send her a barrette for Christmas. Maybe two. Lisa and I can go to Claire’s and pick them out. No pink. Blue. Blue is her color.

  “Kiddo, are you okay?”

  My whole body rushes with adrenaline as I turn to see him, his arms already open, his eyes full of the kind of tears that do not fall. We have that in common, he and I. He throws his arms around me, lifts me off the ground, and spins me around. And it is me who cries, not him, as I hug him as tightly as my arms will allow.

  “I’m sorry for what I said to you,” I tell him.

  “I’m not,” Dad
says, kneeling on one knee. His eyes meeting mine and telling me all is forgiven.

  Dr. Block shakes my father’s hand, and my father thanks him.

  As we leave, Dr. Block picks up the stack of pages. “Do you want to leave these here?”

  I had wanted to give them to her, explain what I mean, see her face as she reads it.

  “Yes. I want her to have it.”

  “Honestly, I’d have to read it first. Is that okay?” You would think this would be the worst thing to ever happen, but no, it is not.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  There is another yellow taxi waiting for us at the entrance. The rain is pouring down now. I feel light. It is strange to think you don’t know you are carrying a giant weight and you didn’t know how heavy it was until it’s gone.

  Dad has his hand to his mouth. Grief is there. I lean into him, and he tucks my hair behind my ear with his hands.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you put on Simon’s grave?”

  “A page.”

  “From the book?”

  “The part where Atticus describes courage. What it means to have it.”

  Dad tells me I’m the most courageous person he’s ever met. It goes straight to that secret place inside me where I keep my favorite words.

  Chapter 35

  Here is something else you have to learn on your own. Once you change one thing in your life, you can expect more changes. It is like pushing over the first domino. The others can’t help but fall into place. If you are lucky, you won’t mind the way they fall.

  I am lucky.

  I will have to reread my diaries to see exactly when the first piece fell. Was it the card from my mother? Or seeing her across the green grass when the wind blew her hair back? I guess all I know for sure is that my life has changed and I don’t mind.

 

‹ Prev