The Road at My Door

by Lori Windsor Mohr

  I yanked Cyrano into my lap and stroked his ears.

  “You know, Reese, I might understand what you’re going through, what you’re feeling, emotionally,” he said, “and I’m a first class listener.”

  Brother McPherson leaned forward in the chair, hands on his knees, the same immaculate, soft–looking hands as FD. How I had longed to confide in him, dreamed of resting my head on his broad shoulder and letting him comfort me. I knew, just as I had with Petra, the truth would sound beyond credibility. I would lose whatever friendship I had with my beloved teacher.

  “I’m sure you are a great listener. This is something I have to work out on my own.”

  He nodded and sat up straight. “Hey, I brought you something I think might cheer you up.” Two hefty volumes of poetry came out of the book bag—Gerard Manley Hopkins and William Butler Yeats. The third was a thin one of Robert Frost.

  “Are these for assignments?”

  “No. These are friends I turn to when I’m down.”

  “I didn’t think holy men ever felt down.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  “You turn to poets for answers instead of God?”

  “He leaves a lot of it to us.”

  “Or in my case, all of it.”

  “I doubt that,” he chuckled. “The Lord is there for you as much as me.”

  There was no point telling him God had abandoned me without explaining why. It might as well have been Dr. Granzow in the chair instead of Brother McPherson.

  “I’ve bookmarked a few poems I think you’ll find especially meaningful. Maybe we can talk about them next time. That is, if I’m welcome back.” He fiddled with his fingernails. “You and I are kindred spirits, Reese. And now that I’ve confessed I’m still searching for answers, I’m going to keep reminding you what I keep reminding myself—they’re not out there. They’re in here.”

  Kindred spirits? Not likely. I suspect part of Brother McPherson’s youthful demeanor resulted from having lived his twentysomething life sequestered from treachery, any fire and ice emotional experience acquired vicariously through literature. Sensing no response from me to his comment and perhaps feeling a little embarrassed because of it, Brother McPherson stood up and returned his chair to the desk. “The nurse said I shouldn’t stay long this first time.”

  I thanked him for the visit and the books, then waited for the heavy outer door to clang shut with a click. I opened Yeats to the first bookmark.

  To a Child Dancing in the Wind

  Dance there upon the shore;

  What need have you to care

  For wind or water’s roar?

  And tumble out your hair

  That the salt drops have wet;

  Being young you have not known

  The fool’s triumph, nor yet

  Love lost as soon as won,

  Nor the best labourer dead

  And all the sheaves to bind.

  What need have you to dread

  The monstrous crying of the wind?

  Tim’s visits became the highlight of long days filled with what increasingly felt like pointless activities—art therapy, school work, silent visits with Dr. Granzow, even playing ping pong with Derrick. It was Tim’s evening visits in the soft lamplight of my room that offered comfort, an hour searching for answers to life in iambic pentameter.

  One day after lunch Shirley motioned me to wait before returning to the open unit. The other patients had left the table. I had been regaling them with reports of beating Derrick at ping pong. The victory smile faded. Shirley had a serious look.

  “Hon, Dr. Granzow reported to the nursing staff that you’re not making progress in your session. It’s been four weeks and you still refuse to talk.”

  I slid the pepper shaker back and forth between my hands.

  “All of us share his concern, hon. For whatever reason, you won’t let anyone into that head of yours.” She reached across and stopped the sliding salt shaker. “If you want to get well, you have to let us help you…with words. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  She let go of the salt. “Some new medications have been shown effective in patients with major depression. Dr. Granzow feels this might be a way to help you.”

  “What kind of medication?”

  “Antidepressants, not the kind used in the past that made people dopey. These new ones elevate chemicals in the brain that are low in depressed patients.”

  “Dr. Granzow is punishing me because I’m making him look like a failure.”

  “No hon, that’s not why. He believes he can relieve the depression so you can talk about the things you’ve been struggling to cope with on your own.”

  I threw her a questioning smirk and turned my face to the window.

  “Hon. You can’t live here forever. A pretty girl like you should be going out with friends, dating, going to football games and dances. This medication just might be the answer.”

  I already knew the answer—turn back the clock to a time when I didn’t have my terrible secret, make me into a normal girl whose mother loves her. Could an antidepressant do that?

  Yeats had been wrong in his poem. I most certainly did have to fear the monstrous crying of the wind. That monstrous crying was the sound of demons whispering their warning that my father would kill FD and go to prison if he were to learn the truth. One slip of the tongue, those demons repeated day in and day out, and you will annihilate everyone you love.

  “I obviously have no choice in the matter. Dr. Granzow is going to drug me whether I agree to it or not.”

  I pushed the chair away from the table and went to my room, frightened, trapped. Later that day I had my first dose. For the next week I was so sleepy it was all I could do to eat. Homework was impossible, much less participating in activities on the open unit. During sessions with Dr. Granzow, I curled up on the couch until Ian escorted me back.

  The doctor assured me the side effects would wear off in a week or two. They didn’t. He lowered the dose. That didn’t help. He stopped that medication and switched to another in the same class, eliminating the time gap between trials. The result was no different.

  Tim’s visits dwindled to fifteen minutes since I could barely stay awake. He would read to me in the soft light and construct conversations we might have had. I could see the sadness in his eyes every time he looked at me. If I fell asleep before he left, he’d leave a volume open to a particular poem. He was especially keen on Gerard Manley Hopkins.

  Peace

  When will you ever, Peace, wild wood dove, shy wings shut,

  Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?

  Poor Brother McPherson. If he only knew, he would stop trying to comfort me. Not only would I find no peace, things were as bad as they could get. Or so I thought.

  There’s no way I could’ve seen what was coming.

  12 God Reconsiders

  It was all I could manage to keep up with homework. There was no point in my parents visiting. Most of the time, I slept through without awareness they were in the room. Dad delivered my assignments to the nurses’ station on the open unit during the week without bothering to come back to the locked unit. Mom and FD stopped visiting altogether. I couldn’t say I blamed them.

  Worst of all to everyone’s frustration, including my own, there was no improvement in my mood after the third antidepressant. Dr. Granzow weaned me off medication.

  My energy returned as the drugs left my system. I resumed group therapy with trademark silence and ping pong with Derrick. My rapport with staff was never the same. I became guarded even with Shirley and Ian, consumed with dread at what Dr. Granzow might have in mind for the next step in my treatment plan.

  An excursion with staff wasn’t uncommon, the goal to build trust outside the clinical setting. Derrick approached the doctor with the idea of taking me to a movie with him and his fiancée. Dr. Granzow wrote a one-time order.

  The next Saturday Derrick and Janet p
icked me up. It was strange seeing him in a different setting, just as it had been visiting with Tim outside of school. Janet was a beauty with long, straight hair and a patrician nose. Derrick introduced her as his brainy-UCLA-graduate-student-fiancé. Outgoing and chatty, she put me at ease right away.

  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? was playing in Westwood. After the movie we piled into Derrick’s car babbling about its wallop as social commentary. I forgot about the hospital.

  “Hey, it’s only eight-thirty. Anybody for a cup of java?” Derrick asked.

  “Not me, baby. You forgot I have a seven-thirty meeting with my advisor in the morning.”

  Derrick snapped his fingers and inhaled out loud through clenched teeth. “Right. Well, I know you won’t turn it down,” he said to me. “Anything to stay out longer, huh? We’ll come back to that little coffee shop next to the theater after we drop off the party pooper.”

  Derrick wrapped Janet in his arms for a long kiss, then he and I doubled back toward Westwood. He seemed nervous alone with me. That was odd. I had always been comfortable with both Ian and Derrick and couldn’t understand why he would be tense.

  Derrick started telling me personal details about his and Janet’s relationship, how Janet was a devout Catholic and refused to have sex before marriage. I figured Derrick was just like Mom with her favorite subject, oblivious to the fact it was totally inappropriate for the sixteen-year-old patient in his care.

  I grew increasingly uneasy with his tales of past sexual activities. I wished he hadn’t brought up the whole idea of coffee. The Saturday night traffic on Wilshire slowed as we approached Westwood. Instead of moving into the left turn lane in the direction of the theater and coffee shop, Derrick made a right. The bustling, well-lit college town was replaced by a dark, deserted residential street. He drove to the end and switched off the ignition.

  “Why didn’t you go left into downtown? There’s no coffee shop around here.”

  “I just wanted to talk.” His voice was thick.

  “That’s why we were going to a coffee shop. Anyway, it’s almost nine. I should probably get back.” I stiffened and searched the neighborhood for signs of life.

  “Hey, you and I are buds, right? The truth is, Reese, your doctor and the nursing staff hoped that by getting out for a few hours you might open up and talk. You’re real good about keeping things to yourself, isn’t that right?” He reached across the bench seat and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  I jerked away and squeezed against the passenger door. A lump closed my throat. “Actually, Derrick, I don’t really feel like coffee. I think we should—”

  He lunged sideways and grabbed my shoulders. I was so taken aback there wasn’t much I could do. The expression on his face was pure evil. My back pressed against the door in retreat. He cornered me and shoved his tongue deep in my mouth.

  I pushed back with both hands. “Derrick, get off me!”

  “I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you, Reese. I know you like me. And you sure don’t seem sick.” His tongue was in my mouth again, his hand under my bra.

  I wriggled side to side and dislodged him from my face. “Don’t!”

  His eyes darkened with anger. In rapid moves he pulled my hips toward him until I was flat. My head hit the door handle. With one massive arm pinned across my chest he unhooked his pants, then ripped mine open. He tugged until they were all the way off.

  “Stop! I mean it!”

  In one fast movement his hand was over my mouth. He rammed himself inside me, pushing, pushing. I thrashed and grunted until his hand slid off my mouth.

  “HELP! Somebod—stop! You’re hurting me!” He covered my mouth again and kept pushing. My head banged against the door handle over and over. I struggled for air.

  One loud grunt with an extra hard thrust and everything stopped. His hand slid from my mouth and fell limp to the floor. The full weight of his body collapsed on me. I held my breath and listened to his panting slow down. He didn’t move.

  “I promise not to scream. Please get off. You’re crushing me. I can’t breathe.” He didn’t respond. I willed myself to stay calm, praying it was over. He lay quiet for several minutes. I thought he had fallen asleep. Then he lifted up and I was sure he was getting off me. Instead he started again.

  I looked beyond the window clouded white with steam. The world fell quiet. I heard nothing. I felt nothing. My body relaxed and drifted with the current. Swells rolled in gentle sway beneath me. The first buoy bobbed in the water next to me, then the second, the third, the fourth, until I lost count. I had no awareness of the present, no sense of the past, no physical sensation other than floating, floating.

  A crushing blow brought me back as Derrick’s flaccid body hit my chest. I tried to inhale. My lungs refused to work. “You’re smothering me, Derrick. Please, get off. I can’t breathe.”

  He pushed himself off and dropped back in the driver’s seat. Jagged breaths heaved his stomach. He cracked the window. Cold night air expanded my lungs. The knot on my head was already beginning to swell. My entire body ached. Derrick pulled up his pants and zipped them.

  I let the fresh air bring me to my wits and picked up my pants from the floor. It was then I noticed the blood smeared on my thighs.

  The clock on the dashboard lit up when Derrick turned on the ignition. It was ten-thirty.

  “Reese, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were a virgin. You’ve been coming on to me and—”

  “Take me back.”

  “Sure, sure. Are you okay? I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Take me back to the hospital.”

  “Yeah, okay, first listen. This is important. You need to promise me something. You can’t tell anyone. This could cost me my job, or worse, my license.”

  I stared straight ahead.

  “I’m not the only one who could get hurt. If anyone found out, your behavior would be seen as sexual acting out. Do you know where they send patients who can’t be controlled?”

  My mouth dropped. I squinted at him in disbelief. Was this a threat?

  “Camarillo State Hospital, that’s where. Believe me, that dungeon is a hell hole. They have kids from the criminal court system, mean kids. Rebellious patients get put in restraints and locked in isolation. Patients like you, depressed and uncooperative, get shock treatments. People die in that place, or get attacked by other patients because it’s so understaffed. A nice girl like you? They’d eat you alive.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He slid the car into gear. “One more thing—take a shower and wash real good. Ask the nurse for a Tampax. You can use the cardboard tube as a plunger and douche.”

  The car rolled into the staff lot. “I’ll sign you back in and—”

  I was out the door and halfway up the steps before he could finish his sentence. I pounded for someone to let me in. Derrick stopped at the back door and talked to the night nurse. By the time he walked down the hall I was in the locked unit.

  “How’d it go, the big outing? You look flushed.”

  “Hi, Amelia. It’s freezing out there. The outing was fun. Janet’s really nice and the movie was terrific.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracey, Katharine Hepburn.”

  “No one in report said it was a double feature. I guessed that was okay. You were safe being with staff. What was the other movie?”

  “The other movie? Oh, some boring thing, a documentary about Africa I think. Anyway, I’m going to hit the shower and fall into bed. Goodnight.”

  Alone in my room I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to calm my nerves. I remembered Derrick’s instructions and returned to Amelia for a Tampax.

  She unlocked a cupboard and handed it to me. “Reese, you’re shaking.”

  “I’m still cold. I’d better get in that shower, pronto. Goodnight again.”

  I peeled off my clothes as if they were contaminated and got in the shower wi
thout waiting for it to get hot. Bursts of water shot from my mouth as I spit out gulp after gulp. My fingernails scraped the skin raw from scrubbing my thighs so hard.

  The bar of soap slipped. I bent to retrieve it. My shaking legs gave way and I slumped to the floor. I stayed there, sobbing. Water red with blood swirled the drain and disappeared.

  *

  In the morning every part of me hurt. My bottom lip was red and swollen. The knot on my head smarted with each stroke of the brush. Bruises like twin blue moons rested over my hips. A matched set of thumbprints emblazoned my arms. An ugly knot on my knee from repeatedly knocking the steering wheel throbbed at the slightest bend of my leg.

  Adding to my generalized agony was the prospect of facing Derrick. I complained of cramps to Shirley and asked to stay behind. There had to be a better way to avoid ever again stepping foot on the open unit. Cramps had been all I could think of at the moment. I would figure out a better excuse. Once Dr. Granzow heard I had withdrawn from activities, he would assume the outing hadn’t resulted in the desired outcome and write an order restricting me to the locked unit until my mood status improved. I would ask for another antidepressant trial if that’s what it took.

  The conscientious night nurse had reported my comments about enjoying the outing. Participation in group activities on the open unit remained a standing order.

  Group therapy met in a room near the back door. The hallway looked a mile long as I hunkered behind Shirley. We were halfway down the hall when the nurses’ station door opened and Derrick appeared.

  It happened so fast there was no way to avoid looking at him. I stopped cold. He stood in freeze frame with his hand on the door knob. Our eyes caught in mutual shock. Anyone passing might’ve wondered at the odd tableau. The hallway was empty except for my small posse, which had kept moving.

  A heatwave of anger and utter humiliation shot through my body. I didn’t flinch.

  Derrick thawed into his professional role, the clipboard unsteady in trembling hands the only sign of emotion. “Good morning, Ping Pong Warrior. On your way to group?”

  “Reese, they’re waiting for you,” Shirley called.