Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  Instinctively, my eyes drop to her arm. “But I still need to look out for you.”

  My heart pounds. Totally wrong thing to say, proven by the hurt in her eyes. I reach for her hand, but she pulls back. “Katy.”

  “Stop,” she warns.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m terrified, and attacking me doesn’t change what’s happening with you.”

  She chugs seltzer without meeting my gaze. “Dr. Grant says I should have control over my life. If you aren’t going to listen to her, why send me there?”

  “I have been listening and letting you decide for weeks, but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about your feelings first.”

  She sighs, whipping a hank of wet hair behind her shoulder. “Why do you care if I do the art show?”

  “Because you were excited about it. And because I don’t want this incident to set a precedent of handling setbacks by quitting.”

  “Why can’t I quit? You and Dad did,” she mumbles.

  My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at that deflection. “What?”

  She tucks her chin, glancing up from beneath her lashes. “Dad left, and you did nothing. Worse, actually. You ran away and made me come with you.”

  She might as well have pulled my chair out from beneath me. These past few weeks her behavior toward Gram and me, time in the studio, and acceptance of my interest in Dan led me to believe we’d moved forward.

  “Katy, I’m trying my best here, but you can’t insult me over and over like I have no feelings. And you can’t keep blaming your father and me for everything that isn’t going well in your life. You want to make decisions, then learn to own responsibility for them. You have almost everything a person could want or need—brains, beauty, talent—to build a wonderful life. Nothing is in your way—”

  “Stop, Mom. Just stop.” She pounds on her chest. “Look at me!” She thrusts her forearm so close to my face the stitches almost tickle my nose. “Look! I’m not full of potential. I’m a fraud, and all the pep talks in the world can’t make me special.”

  The sound of her heavy breath silences me, then my own lungs seem to collapse. I retreat to Dr. Grant’s advice of letting her feel what she feels.

  A tear rolls down Katy’s cheek while she finishes her rice. I slump, my limbs too heavy to move, and stare at my uneaten salmon while listening to the sound of her fork scrape the plate. My impotence leaves me filled with hopelessness.

  “Thanks for dinner.” Katy risks a glance at me, likely sensing I’ve no fight left. “Can I go do homework?”

  Though my heart is lodged in my throat and my brain is scrambling to think about what potential weapons she could find up there to hurt herself with, I manage, “Yes.”

  Katy takes her things to the kitchen while I remain motionless at the table. A moment later, she’s slung her backpack over her shoulder and is heading toward her room.

  I’ve no idea how long I sit in silence, gazing at the painting above the buffet, replaying the conversation that went sideways so fast it was like being swallowed by an avalanche. Rubbing my temples is not helping to quiet Dr. Grant’s opinions about the damage my doting—or hovering, as Katy would claim—set in motion sixteen years ago. Changing my behavior is damn hard work.

  What if I can’t reverse our course before more devastating consequences destroy my child?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MARIE

  This is what’s left to me. Lying in bed, watching the shadows of branches and leaves dance on my walls like some hypnotic movie. Lonna should’ve let me die so I could be with Billy. Now I’m stuck here in this prison.

  So many regrets, mistakes, loss.

  Wish I could sleep forever.

  A sudden knock on the door makes me flinch. It’s too soon for another session with Dr. Morgan. If I never have another, it’ll still be too many. There has to be a way out of this place.

  I rise up on one elbow to see which jailer has come, then frown. Who is this woman? Her face seems familiar. I’ll pretend until it comes to me. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” She shifts the weight of books in her arms, studying me like she’s looking for some kind of clue. “It’s me, Annie.”

  I don’t know anyone named Annie. She must be a new nurse, yet her clothes are all wrong. Unusual, actually. She’s not in uniform, and I’ve never seen ankle boots quite like those before. Still, I’ll play along. “Of course, Annie. What’s in your arms?”

  She raises the stack. “I brought back the photo albums Katy borrowed.”

  Oh my. She must be a patient. The poor thing is delusional, talking to me like we’re friends when I have no idea who Katy is and don’t own those albums. “Those aren’t mine.”

  “Sure they are. Actually, I had fun leafing through them and seeing the whole family. Made me miss Grandpa, though.” She spins in place, looking around. Grandpa? She’s not Lonna, and she doesn’t look like any of my cousins . . . well, maybe a little, but that hair is too dark. “Shall I put them in that cabinet?”

  Cabinet? I see a bookshelf unit against a wall. It must be new. What’s happening? I should stop taking all the pills they force on me. “Sure.”

  When she stoops to put the thick books away, I sit up and hug my pillow to my chest while studying Annie. There’s something sweet about her. Something easy and kind. Biddable, even. Maybe she’d be willing to help me escape.

  Annie turns around and approaches me with such familiarity. I go stiff when she bends to drop a kiss on my head, then she sits on the mattress and strokes my shin. “How are you today?”

  “Not good,” I admit. I glance over her shoulder to see if a nurse is there, but Annie wandered in here all alone. There’s nothing to lose by taking my chance. “Can you help me?”

  “Of course, although I admit I came today hoping you could help me.” She pats my leg. Her lips may be curved upward, but concern weighs down her eyes.

  “Me help you?” I narrow my gaze. “Tell the truth, are you a patient?”

  She chuckles. “No, silly. I’m here to visit.”

  A visitor who’s clearly mistaken me for someone else. I’m sure of it. But she is kind. She might help anyway.

  “I’ll do anything you want if you get me out of here. I can’t take another treatment. I ache all over.” Tears clog my throat, but I won’t cry. There’s no time for that.

  “Treatment?” Her jaw tenses, like she’s a true friend. Like Billy. Without warning, she touches the back of her hand to my forehead as if I’m a child. “I think you’re getting confused. Maybe you should rest.”

  “No. I have to leave. My father won’t listen to me, because he trusts Dr. Morgan.” I fist the blanket in my hands. “He doesn’t know what it’s like. Please. Help me get out of here.”

  “All right. Stay calm. But before we go, tell me more about these treatments.” Her posture is relaxed, but her voice is shaky. “If I understand the problem, I can help convince your father.”

  Good idea. An ally. And if Daddy doesn’t listen, then I’ll run away, even if I have to sell my ring for bus fare. Billy would understand. He wouldn’t want me to suffer here. “What do you want to know?”

  “What is the treatment? Shots?”

  I shake my head. “I wish that were all.”

  “What else, then?” She scooches closer, leaning in, lip caught beneath her teeth.

  It’s embarrassing, but I close my eyes, determined to do what I must to escape. “They hold me to the bed, then the doctor puts paddles with wet sponges around my head and charges them. Next thing, I’m mostly out of it, but there are lingering tremors, gauze is stuck in my mouth, and they hold me extra tight.” I open my eyes to find Annie holding her breath. “My whole body hurts after, and I worry about what it’s doing to my brain.”

  Annie covers her chin, mouth, and cheek with one hand. “Oh, Gram. I’m so sorry.”

  Graham?

  She pities me. I don’t like that, but if it helps me, I won’t complain. “Don’t
be sorry. Just help me. Please!”

  “I will. But why are they giving you shock therapy?” She waits for an answer. I don’t know why that matters, but there’s no other choice but to trust her.

  “For ‘depression.’”

  She nods solemnly. “Depression . . . because of Billy.”

  I scramble back against the wall, my breath quick. “Who told you about Billy?”

  “You did, and then I found his obituary. He was your husband, who died in the Korean War.”

  She refers to it funny, like the war’s already over. I haven’t seen a newspaper in weeks, but no war ends that fast.

  “I don’t remember telling you anything.” I rub my temple to erase thoughts about Billy and the baby. My head is pounding as hard as my heart.

  “It’s all right. It helps me understand more about you. But shock therapy seems extreme for grief. Is there more to it? Another diagnosis, perhaps?”

  I hang my head. She must be a nurse in disguise or something to be asking me these questions. Maybe if I tell the truth, she’ll think I’m getting better and let me go sooner. “It’s all in the file.”

  She sucks her lips inward, nodding. “I’d rather not waste time digging for the file when you’re so eager to leave. Can you just remind me? Is it bipolar disorder? Schizophrenia?”

  “No.” I shake my head, scowling. “One night I took all the pills in Daddy’s medicine bag. My sister found me, and now I’m here indefinitely.”

  Annie gathers me into a hug. “Oh, Gram. I’m sorry you were so devastated—that you suffered, but I’m glad you lived.”

  I have no idea why she keeps calling me Graham, nor do I care. I just want to leave. “You said you’d help me.”

  Her eyes are red. “I did, and I will.” She stands, tapping her mouth with her fingers. “Put on some clothes and then we’ll go.”

  Oh my goodness. Freedom is at my fingertips. I could cry. “Go where?”

  “To my house. Change out of those jammies while I deal with the nurses.” She nods.

  I reach for her. “Wait! They won’t let me walk out. We’ll have to sneak out.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll listen to me.” She pats my hand. “Trust me. I promise everything will be fine.”

  Her certainty and honest face make me believe her. I get out of bed and change into a comfortable if dowdy dress. Nothing in this closet looks familiar. The styles are strange, too, but I’ll make do.

  Annie is taking a long time to come back. She was probably some crazy patient who’s been taken back to her own room. I’ll never get out of here.

  I sink onto a chair, deflated. Then Annie reappears.

  “All set?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I rise, oddly unsteady. “Can we leave?”

  “I have special permission, so don’t be nervous.” She cradles my arm like I’m a geezer. I don’t fight, though. If she can walk me past the guards, I’ll do whatever she wants.

  When we leave the room, nothing about these halls looks right. It’s all new, and I don’t remember this lobby at all. The front porch is gone, too. Now I’m confused, so I stop.

  “What’s wrong?” Annie asks, halting.

  “It’s all different.” I rub my head again, convinced I can smell the bay. The sun is low in the sky, and my stomach rumbles.

  “It’s okay.” She tugs at my arm. “You can close your eyes while I drive. Maybe things will clear up when you wake.”

  “All right.” I let her lead me to her car, which is small and sleek and nothing like my father’s and friends’ cars. This must be a dream, and when I wake up, I’ll still be stuck in my hospital bed.

  She settles me in my seat. “Close your eyes and rest.”

  I’m a little afraid, but the sun beams through the window to warm my face. With my eyes closed, I strategize. The truth is that I’ll do whatever my dad says I have to do to avoid going back to Allcot. I’ll go to college. I’ll marry the right sort of person and have the right sort of family. Anything he wants, as long as I never have to be shocked again.

  Annie touches my shoulder after she parks the car. “We’re here.”

  I open my eyes and can’t breathe. That house might be glowing in the rosy sunset like some beacon of joy, but I’d know it anywhere. “This is my father’s house.”

  “It’s my house, I promise.” She walks around the car to open my door and help me out. I look at the teal blue front door and whitewashed brick of the Cape Cod–style house. That’s new, but everything else looks familiar.

  “This looks like my father’s house,” I say to no one.

  She guides me up the steps and we go inside, where it’s nothing like Daddy’s house. The carpets and wallpaper are gone. The fireplace is in the same place, but it’s completely different. I’ve never seen appliances like hers—never.

  “Well?” she asks. “Do you like the changes?”

  I shrug. I don’t want to insult her, but this furniture and the light fixtures are odd. Maybe she’s from Europe or California.

  The door blows open behind us, and a sweat-soaked young girl comes in carrying plastic bags that smell like food—salty food.

  I blink.

  Katy! She’s a spitfire, like I was at her age.

  “Hi, Grammy.” She sets the bags on a dining table, then looks at her mom. “I got dinner like you asked and used the change to top off my car.”

  I chuckle. “You’re a sly one, Katy.”

  Annie’s eyes widen. “You recognize her?”

  “Of course I do.” What’s the matter with Annie, thinking I don’t know my own great-granddaughter? The real question is how I got here, but I won’t ask. It will only worry Annie if she thinks I can’t keep track of my comings and goings. “She’s a photographer, like me.”

  There’s an odd pause—and a lot of tension. I recognize the atmosphere from my teen years, but then Annie claps her hands together like I’m a toddler taking first steps. “Actually, I turned Grandpa’s shed into an art studio. Would you like to see it?”

  I nod. “All right.”

  Annie waves for Katy to join us. “Come on, Katy. Let’s show Gram the studio.”

  Katy doesn’t look very excited, though, but I don’t ask why. Nothing worse than being forced to talk about things.

  Annie has added new steps to the terraced yard and an open firepit. It’s all quite pretty. I miss sitting at my kitchen table and watching the birds here in the privacy of my own property. I wouldn’t recognize Martin’s old shed now that it’s been painted that peacock blue and given fancy french doors.

  We step inside the bright space, which feels airy thanks to pale walls and a skylight.

  “Lucky for Martin I never imagined a shed could look like this or he would’ve had to find someplace else to store his mower and our patio furniture.” I chuckle. It feels good to laugh.

  “You would’ve been ahead of your time if you had,” Annie says.

  In some ways I had been ahead of my time, but not strong enough—or maybe not passionate enough—to overcome setbacks and pursue my youthful dreams.

  A painting in progress sits on the easel. It looks like dark boxes, but I’m sure they’re symbolic of something else. Annie never did like painting things exactly as they are. Still, my heart fills to see it. “You’re back at it after all this time.”

  “Relearning the basics,” she demurs.

  I pat her hand, which is lightly clutching my arm, presumably to keep me from stumbling. “Be patient with yourself. Persevere and it will happen.”

  Annie nods, but she and Katy carefully avoid looking at each other.

  “Katy, don’t you have a school project?” My memory is vague, but she talked to me about that, didn’t she?

  “Not at the moment,” she answers, then abruptly changes the subject. “I’m hungry, and the food is getting cold.”

  “Let’s eat, then.” Annie turns off the light, and we all return to the house.

  Annie goes to the kitchen to get plates and sil
verware while Katy rips open the bags. One by one, she sets out all the little white takeout boxes.

  While waiting for them to settle into their seats, I study the painting above the buffet. It’s soothing. Another of Annie’s, I suspect. When I encouraged her to dedicate herself to helping Katy years ago, I never thought she’d stop painting altogether. I should’ve known better, especially when I’d let one horrible summer color my entire outlook for decades. Martin blamed the ECT, yet sometimes I wonder if I used that excuse to cover apprehension that existed before a single paddle touched my head.

  Annie returns and fixes me a plate with vegetable lo mein. She and Martin had loved lo mein when she was young. I never did crave Asian food like they had, but anything beats the soggy meals at the care center.

  When Katy reaches for the rice container, I see stitches on her arm.

  I point. “What happened to you?”

  She withdraws her arm like my question is a bear trap, and glances at her mom. “I cut myself.”

  “You should be more careful.” I sever my lo mein into manageable lengths.

  “Yeah.” She falls quiet, and so does Annie.

  The tension ramps up, again reminding me of many dinners in this room with my parents. Maybe no family gets through adolescence without drama and pain.

  I keep eating, still unsure how I got here. The changes Annie made do make my home more stylish. She’s always been stylish, I suppose. And everything changes with time.

  Katy pushes her plate away. “I should shower.”

  “Wait,” Annie says. “Gram is still here. How about you spare us a little more time?”

  Katy stretches out, crossing her arms and ankles. Pretending to be relaxed—maybe believing she is. She reminds me of myself at that age, poor child. But I get it. Old people aren’t interesting.

  “Nothing changes,” I say, resigned to the absurdity of life.

  “What do you mean?” Annie asks before sipping from her glass.

  “Families.” I choke for a minute when my water goes down the wrong tube.

  “Gram?” Annie juts forward, but I wave her off.

  “Stop worrying,” I say when I can talk. “When my time comes, it comes. Let God take care of the rest.”