Before dawn, I put on my robe. I go to the lounge and sit on the blue couch. A nurse I don’t know follows me through the mist. She is asking questions, but I turn away from her and cover my ears. She makes electricity. Then she leaves; she’s probably going to get Mrs. Grant.
I am really scrambled. I hug my knees to try and stop the shaking. If Mrs. Hernandez comes, it means Dr. Barber is going to give me a jolt. They will take me to the treatment room and I will have to lie on the cold sheet. They will put the lotion and the electrodes on my forehead, and the rubber mouthpiece between my teeth. They will drip anesthetic into my veins. After I am unconscious, Dr. Barber will zap my brain with electric current. They will watch me flop around in a seizure. I will be like a flopping fish on a dock.
If Mrs. Hernandez comes, she will ask me if I have voided, or if I have evacuated. Hospital language is crazy language for crazy people. If I void, does that mean I vanish? Do I disappear as if the hand of God came down with a giant eraser and wiped me off the blackboard?
This thinking gives me the giggles, so now I have the shakes and the giggles at the same time. Thank God my mother can’t see me.
8/18
Dear Diary:
The hospital is a warm, safe place but there’s nothing of my father here. I need something of his. I would like Mother to bring Uncle Larry’s fatigue jacket so I can wear it in group. It isn’t really something of Father’s, but he and Uncle Larry were so close. I would love to have my Beauty and the Beast statue, but it wouldn’t do to have it here; someone might steal it or damage it.
Sometimes I have to suffer the voice. The voice comes of its own accord, like a whisper or a hiss. How is it that the voice knows my thoughts and gives me advice? The voice frightens me. I’m afraid that the voice belongs to the eye, and the eye rotates in the heavens so it has total vision.
I have to stop writing. I get such a head rush when I try and think about the voice, lights are popping in my head like tiny flashbulbs.
Mrs. Grant is beside me with my medicine. She has cleansed herself of the mist. I take my pills and ask her to look at what I’ve written.
She says, “I think this is exactly what Dr. Rowe wants you to do.”
“But I know nothing about writing a journal, I’ve never done it before. This material isn’t organized or developed.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” she says. “Dr. Rowe just wants you to write your thoughts and feelings. It’s not homework for English class.”
“Don’t forget, Mrs. Grant, that English is my best subject.”
She has a warm smile. I believe she is a dear and resourceful person. “Do you want to write some more, or would you like to take a walk?”
“I would enjoy taking a walk, but please do keep the static out of your voice.”
We are in the south hallway. The yellow line and the red line are irrelevant; it is the green line which leads to the exit which leads to the lawn. I remind Mrs. Grant of this.
“We’ll follow the green line all the way, Grace.”
“There are so many lines, sometimes it makes too much data. You have to concentrate very hard on the one which applies to you.”
“We may not need the tape at all, Grace.”
It’s a bold thought, but I fasten my eyes on the green line all the same.
The sun is warm on the lawn. I can hear the traffic noise from the highway, but I can’t hear the cattle. There are no clouds; it’s such a relief—the voice usually comes with the clouds. If there’s motion in the sky, you need the clouds to see it. At Allerton, the statue of the dying centaur is deep in the woods, far from the formal gardens. You can get there on a straight path lined by tall trees. The centaur is huge and dying, dying lonely in the woods. But his death is heroic and magnificent.
I tell Mrs. Grant how death can be misunderstood, but she says, “It depends on what you mean.”
“When the centaur dies and the leaves fall it is beautiful.”
“Leaves are beautiful when they die, but why are we talking about death?”
The sun is warm, but I can’t hear the cattle. I have a knot forming in my stomach. “Mrs. Grant, if I’m going to keep a journal, should I start out every page with dear diary?”
“If you want to, why not?”
“It seems so childish. Girls who write dear diary write about parties and proms and boyfriends.” I wish I could hear the cattle, but of course: this is midday, it’s not milking time. If my mind is this clear, I will be in control again soon. I’m getting short of breath.
“Mrs. Grant, I have to be sure about the date. If I’m going to keep a diary, I have to have accurate dates.”
“Today is Monday, the eighteenth.”
“That’s what I wrote down, but I have to be sure. I get so confused about dates.”
“You can be sure; this is the eighteenth.” She smiles.
“It seems personal though, doesn’t it, Mrs. Grant? Writing a diary and beginning each page with a greeting?”
“Yes, it does.”
My teeth are chattering. “I think we should go back inside now.”
“So soon? We’ve only been here a few minutes, Grace.”
“Yes please. Let’s go back inside now.”
“Okay. Would you like to listen to your tape?”
Her voice is full of static. She means well, but it’s something she can’t control.
“I’ve told you before, Grace; no ECT.”
“Dr. Barber gives me shocks.”
“Dr. Barber gave you shocks. This is a different hospital, and I’m not Dr. Barber.”
“Is Mrs. Hernandez coming?”
“Who is Mrs. Hernandez?”
“She’s the nurse who gets me ready when I’m going to get jolted.”
“Try to listen to what I’m telling you. This is a different hospital. We don’t give shock therapy to teenagers.”
“But the part you don’t understand is that I’m really sick now. I used to be depressed, but now I’m schizo.”
Dr. Phyllis Rowe is looking through my folder. She lights a cigarette. She blows out some smoke in streams through her nostrils. She frowns and says, “You’ve never been diagnosed schizophrenic.”
“I know, but I’m sicker now. Before, I had depression. That was when I cut myself.”
“Do you feel the urge to cut yourself now?”
“No. Not too often, I mean. Once or twice. Last night, I think it was. Can you give me something to help me sleep?”
“Yes. I’ll see that you get something. What makes you think you’re schizophrenic?”
“I know about schizophrenia. I’ve read about it and I’ve listened to other patients.”
“But why do you think it applies to you?” She blows out some smoke and crosses her other leg.
“I hear my father’s voice and I hear the sky whispering.”
“Go on.”
“I know he’s dead, but he speaks to me. He tries to speak to me. I don’t know if I should listen. There’s something important he’s trying to say to me.”
“What is the important thing?”
“The voice gives me warnings. I must be vigilant and ever alert with respect to the Surly People. There is much more than meets the eye. Semper Fidelis.”
“Grace, who are the Surly People?”
“I’ve told you about them before. I’m not sure if the voice is actually speaking to me or if I just hear it in my head. Sometimes I think the thoughts are my own thoughts, but in his voice.”
“Your father’s voice?”
“Yes.”
“What about the whispering?”
“The whispering comes from the sky, when the clouds get blown around. If the clouds move fast, the whispering gets louder.”
“What does the whispering say?”
What if the voice belongs to the eye? Should I ask her about that? I say, “I don’t know. It’s like whispering in a library, I can’t make out the words.” I feel tears coming to my eyes, and a lump in my thr
oat. I say to Dr. Rowe, “I’m really scared. If I’m schizo, then I’m not going to get any better.”
“Nonsense. If this is a schizophrenic process, then it’s reactive and sudden, which means your chances for recovery are good.” For the first time, her voice is starting to crackle and pop with electrical static, but I really don’t want to get scrambled, I need her to help me. She goes on. “I don’t like labels much, and this one scares you, so why don’t we just say that you’re going through something acute, and you need to get better?”
“Tell me I’m not schizo. Please.”
She is stubbing out her cigarette and shaking her head. “I’m not prepared to deny it or confirm it. Would it do you any good to have the label? In any case, we still don’t give ECT to teenagers.”
Her voice is crackling with static. Like a shorted radio, some of her words are loud and clear and others I can’t even hear. I’m starting to tremble, and hoping she can’t see it. I’m taking deep, deep breaths so as not to get scrambled, but I am losing it.
I have a nightmare about the train. I sit up straight in bed with the shakes. It’s five A.M. The bathtub was so very white, it was either porcelain or enamel. The blood runs down the drain, that must be where it goes. After the drain, I’m not sure how far the blood runs; it may be only a few feet, or it may be clear to the core of the earth.
I put on my robe and hurry to the lounge. There’s no daylight yet. I curl up against the back of the couch and pull my robe up tight under my chin.
Mrs. Grant comes, floating close with her blurry edges.
“Please don’t disturb me,” I say. “I’ve got the shakes.”
If Mrs. Hernandez comes, they will put me on the table and strap me down and wire me. I hope and pray she doesn’t come.
“I’m scrambled, Mrs. Grant.”
“It’s going to be okay, Grace. I’ll sit with you.” She is holding my hand.
“Be sure and anchor yourself,” I remind her. “Your gravitational field is not strong.”
The room is so misty. In the corner, Miss Ivey is sitting in front of the television set. The set is on, but there is only a bluish test pattern and a high-pitched hum. There isn’t much to Miss Ivey except skin and bone. She has disheveled white hair and she’s wearing a gray flannel nightgown. Her left hand is holding her right wrist; her right hand is vibrating in front of her face. I can’t tell if the hand holding the wrist is causing the shaking, or slowing it down.
“In a little while you will be getting your medication,” says Mrs. Grant.
The high-pitched hum from the test pattern is making my eyes ache. I wish I had the courage to turn the set off, but I wouldn’t dare; there’s no telling what Miss Ivey might do. Miss Ivey is a crone, I decide. I love archaic words. Suddenly, the word crone seems to me the funniest thing I’ve ever heard of. I am laughing so hard I’ve got tears and little convulsions. I want to say to Mrs. Grant, Miss Ivey is a crone, but I’m laughing too hard to speak, and if I try to stop it only gets worse.
Mrs. Grant is patting me on the shoulder and brushing the hair out of my eyes. The test pattern is carving in my brain like a probe; my skull is splitting open like a stone. I am out of control altogether. The laughter has turned to crying. I’m sobbing myself out but Mrs. Grant has her arm around me.
Two
“I am condemned.” My words are monotone words, like I’m not even the one speaking them. No affect. “Condemned to freedom.”
“You sound like a prisoner.”
“Of course, a prisoner. Is it any use to pretend something else? It is a lifetime sentence which can’t be suspended. No time off for good behavior, and no chance for parole.”
“Such a gloomy picture you paint. You wouldn’t rather stay in the hospital, would you?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. What difference does it make? When you’re wacko, your sentence goes whither thou goest. You could give me a lobotomy. I would have a tell-tale scar across my forehead like Frankenstein’s monster, but I would be a rock. I would be level every day. I would be so level I could make God’s Eyes every day and you could sell them in the hospital gift shop.”
Dr. Rowe lights one of her cigarettes and smiles at me. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she says.
She turns to my mother. “You and Grace have many new things in your lives,” she says.
Mother is sitting straight in her chair. Her hands are folded in her lap. “Maybe too many,” she says.
“Maybe too many indeed. A new city, a new job for you, and a new school for Grace. That’s a lot of change to deal with.”
My mother laughs nervously. “I know,” she says. “Do you have to remind me?”
Dr. Rowe smiles again. “Among other things,” she says, “we’ve been trying to remind Grace that anyone face-to-face with this much change would feel a great deal of stress.”
I just can’t believe it. She thinks I’ve been talking about stress. My stomach cranks into a knot that fills up my whole abdomen. How could she understand? In her experience, feelings are cause and effect; or is it cause and affect? How could I make her understand? What words are there that could make either one of them understand? I feel tears stinging my eyes.
“Mother will handle it,” I mumble. “She’s a rock and she will handle it.”
“You don’t really believe your mother is a rock.”
“Of course I do. Of course I don’t. Who cares, I can’t say the things that matter, not with my brain whizzed up, when I can’t think one thought after the other. When I’m not scrambled, I know my mother has feelings that other people have. But down here, in my stomach, it’s like she’s a rock.”
“Mrs. Braun, is this something the two of you talk about?”
“We’ve talked about it. I think Grace believes I’m always in control. It’s true I don’t get hysterical about things, but I still have the same feelings that other people have. I feel a lot of stress about starting a career, but I don’t lose sleep over it.”
“You hear your mother, Grace; is that how you see it?”
“My mother talks like these things are choices, but she always speaks the truth.”
“You don’t believe that feelings are choices.”
“How can I?”
“You believe that your mother will be able to handle the stress of all these changes, and you won’t.”
“It’s true,” I mumble. I do wish she’d stop talking about stress and choices; she’s missing the point. I’d give anything to be like my mother. She’s not very exciting but she’s in control. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, one day at a time, a life without fear, without panic, without getting scrambled. Her life is so sound. She knows; I’ve told her so.
Then all of a sudden with no warning at all, the tears are running down my face. I can’t help it, I can’t stop the sobs. “The Surly People are there! They ruin everything! They have no regard for things that are lovely or beautiful!”
Mother scoots her chair next to mine and puts her arm around me. I’m still sobbing. She gives me Kleenex from her purse. I’m an albatross. I’m a huge parasite sucking her blood. You are always so pale, Momma, because I take your blood.
“I don’t understand about the Surly People,” says Dr. Rowe. “What does it mean?”
Mother answers. “She’s talking about our new apartment complex. I have to admit it’s pretty slummy, but it’s what we can afford. There are a lot of hoodlums living there; at least that’s what we called them when I was in school.”
“These are the Surly People,” says Dr. Rowe. “Are they teenagers?”
“Some of them are, and some of them are a little older, old enough to be living on their own. Quite a few of them don’t actually live in our complex, they just seem to hang out there. We’ve only been there since the middle of July, but I think all of Grace’s impressions are based on these hoodlums.”
I’m blowing my nose. “My impressions aren’t based on anything. I can’t seem to get that point
across.”
Dr. Rowe corrects me politely: “What you mean is, not based on anything you can identify. Anyway, if you’ve only known these people for a month or so, why not keep an open mind? You can’t always judge a book by its cover.”
I look up and she is smiling at me. “Thank you for the cliche,” I say. “But I don’t know them, I only observe them. I wouldn’t want to know them.” I don’t want to say any more; I feel myself going flat out.
The conversation turns to the terms of my discharge. Mother asks if it’s the best time for me to be released.
Dr. Rowe says, “I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve said to Grace; I’ll give you a qualified yes. Her medication is helping, and both of us see improvement. Don’t we, Grace?”
She is looking at me. I nod my head; it’s so hard to get anything past her.
She goes on. “If this were the middle of the summer, I’d probably like to have her stay a little longer. But she’s already being held back a year at school, so I think it’s important for her to be there. Right from the first day, learning the ropes and making friends.”
I’ve tried to tell her I don’t make friends, but she ignores me.
Dr. Rowe says, “I’ve thought about keeping Grace here as a resident patient for another week or so, and having her schoolwork brought to the hospital. That’s another option we have for adolescents, and we sometimes use it. But in my opinion, if she can be in her new school from the very first day, her chances of succeeding there will be better.”
“But wouldn’t it be better for her to get well first?”
Dr. Rowe smiles. Her cigarette is out. “If we talk about well, we have to talk about sick. I’d much rather talk about having problems and getting better. I’m not trying to pull rank on you; I’ve tried to say this is partly just a matter of timing.”
I Can Hear the Mourning Dove Page 2