She set her purse and workbag beside the chair and then lifted the lid from the child’s meal revealing a disproportionately large serving of shepherd’s pie that made Debbie chuckle. Debbie hadn’t seen the dietary host or a meal cart on her way in, but the meal on the over-bed table was still moderately warm.
Hoping to entice her, she raised a forkful and waved it invitingly under the child’s nose. The child remained motionless, and was equally unmoved by the Jell-O and cookie. Debbie returned the cover, sat down and contemplated what would happen if the child remained nameless and unresponsive. Would they institutionalize her? There weren’t many other options as far as she knew.
Shortly past seven, as Debbie’s eyelids started to outweigh her resolve, the child shifted and slowly turned her empty hazel eyes to Debbie.
“Hi, honey,” Debbie said. “Can you hear me? Do you understand me?”
The girl turned her sights toward her dinner, then to the doorway, and then towards the bathroom door. Her movements were smooth, yet somehow mechanical, like a slowly panning camera. Debbie gave a single sharp clap of her hands and the girl gradually turned her head back to her. At least she’s not deaf.
Debbie wondered if she might be autistic or have a dissociative disorder. She could be suffering a severe case of posttraumatic stress or any of a dozen other disorders. It would take time to diagnose her condition.
The child shuffled to the edge of the bed and lowered herself to the floor. She walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. It was like watching a slow-motion film. A few moments later the toilet flushed, followed by the sound of running water in the sink. The child’s awareness of hygiene was encouraging for Debbie. The girl exited the bathroom, returned to the bed and sat in her usual spot. She pulled the over-bed table with the food tray in front of her, never looking at Debbie. Slowly and methodically, she finished most of the shepherd’s pie, a carton of chocolate milk, the cookie, but left the Jell-O.
“Honey, you must have a hollow leg,” Debbie said, astonished. “How in the world did you eat all of that?” The hazel eyes shifted ever so slightly in her direction then quickly returned to their aimless stare.
“Do you have a name, sweetie? I’m Debbie. I want to help you.”
Debbie gently rubbed her tiny back, testing for a reaction. The little girl betrayed the smallest hint of wariness at her touch, but she did not move away. Her eyes shifted slightly from her plate to her delicate hand.
“My name is Hannah,” the child said, her voice monotone and barely present—a flutter of butterfly wings—but her elocution was perfect. She pushed the over-bed table away from her and said, “I have to go.”
She spoke! Debbie was buzzing with excitement.
“Where do you have to go, Hannah?” she asked, fighting the urge to barrage her with questions.
“Back,” said Hannah, repositioning herself cross-legged. Despite Debbie’s efforts to keep her in the present, Hannah’s awareness left as fast as it had arrived. She had heard of similar cases, usually formed under extreme duress and generally in the severely abused or traumatized.
Debbie waved a hand before her face. Can she come and go at will? Debbie wondered. She rubbed Hannah’s upper lip, clearing a chocolate milk moustache, and then lifted the child into her arms, holding the child so her head rested on Debbie’s shoulder. She was so light and her legs straightened without resistance, like a loose-jointed mannequin. Debbie lowered the blanket and sheet with one hand, laid Hannah on the bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
She finally had a name, Debbie nearly rejoiced. Hannah. Quite befitting, it’s a beautiful name.
Friday
June 25, 2010
Chapter 12
Debbie entered room 433 of the psych ward, Hannah’s new room, at 6:00 am, to find her sound asleep and curled fetally with both hands fisted beneath her chin. This wasn’t unexpected, fetal being a common protective position. Her breathing was so slight that Debbie moistened her finger and held it before Hannah’s pouted lips to feel for breath… just for reassurance.
Essie arrived just minutes later carrying a coffee cup nearly as tall as she was. She stood beside Debbie watching Hannah sleep.
“I want to just hold her,” Debbie whispered.
Essie answered with a sad, knowing smile. As tempting as it was, holding her could be disastrous and potentially dissolve what little trust the child had for them, if any. Hannah had trusted Debbie with her name, which she felt was a great step in the right direction. A simple touch could catapult abuse and trauma sufferers into a panic. They should always be awake and aware of any attempts to touch them, although Debbie, Essie, and Doctor Farren had all broken that rule to some degree the previous evening. Debbie argued inwardly that picking her up and putting her in bed was different, but she knew it had been a risk. It did prove that Hannah was likely unaware of contact in her dissociative state and she had reacted with mild mistrust to touch in her conscious state, though she did not fully retreat.
The two women sat beside Hannah’s bed—Debbie near the window, Essie near the door—each of them content to wait for Hannah to awaken. Debbie opened her folder and started perusing the case file while Essie studied Hannah, looking for informative signs like hitching breaths, a change in breathing patterns, or flexing or balling of the hands. She might as well have been porcelain given how little she moved in the next hour.
“She hasn’t made a single attention-grabbing motion,” Essie said. “But it’s what she doesn’t do that’s so remarkable.”
“Like what?” Debbie asked.
“Her eyes haven’t moved a bit,” Essie quietly said as more of a reflection.
“What do you mean?”
“When she’s asleep, her eyes don’t move at all. All eyes move at some time during sleep—at least a little bit—even if it’s not REM sleep. But not Hannah’s… at least not observably so.”
“She doesn’t dream?”
“Not saying that. I’ll have to look into it, but as far as I know, eyes still move some even when a person isn’t dreaming,” Essie said.
Debbie cleared her papers from the over-bed table so the dietary host could set down Hannah’s breakfast when it arrived. She moved around the bed, stood near Essie, and watched Hannah’s eyes. As if suddenly aware that they were watching her, Hannah’s eyes sprung open. She didn’t yawn, stretch, blink, or even stir. They were closed, and then they were open and staring blankly but directly into Essie’s.
“Good morning, Honey. Are you hungry?” Essie said, shaken but maintaining her composure.
Hannah gave one slow and even blink. When her eyes reopened, they were staring straight into Debbie’s. She shifted her focus back to nothing Essie and Debbie could see, sat up, climbed silently to the floor, and headed for the bathroom.
“I have never seen anything like that before,” Essie whispered.
“That was freaking creepy,” said the food attendant. “If she levitates or her head spins, I’m outta here.”
They were so intent on Hannah that neither Debbie nor Essie had noticed that the young woman had been standing at the foot of the bed.
“That won’t be happening,” asserted Essie, eyeing the young woman dismissively.
The attendant quickly spun and left the room. Debbie didn’t know if Essie had insulted her, nor did Essie seem to care.
They silently contemplated what had just occurred with Hannah. They both perked up at the sound of the toilet flushing, and Essie chuckled.
Hannah opened the bathroom and shuffled slowly forward. Debbie spotted a hint of movement behind Hannah as the door closed. Looking up, she caught the eyes of a young boy about six standing in the shower stall and staring directly back at her. He looked about six, Hispanic, with straight brown hair and large brown eyes that shifted from fearful to terrified, as the door closed.
What the hell? Debbie wondered, rising from her chair.
Hannah shuffled by her, not acknowledging anything or anyone. Sh
e returned to the bed and her meal, as she had on Thursday.
Debbie approached the bathroom door and opened the door slowly, not wanting to scare the child. He must have wandered in before either she or Essie had arrived. She hoped no one was in a panic elsewhere in the hospital. Surely, they would know he was missing by now.
“Hello?” Debbie said quietly.
The boy stood in the shower, motionless, with his back pressed to the wall. He wasn’t Hispanic, but of Middle Eastern descent… maybe Turkish or Armenian. He watched Debbie and squeezed into the corner of the stall as she cautiously approached.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” Debbie asked him. “You’re okay. You’re safe here,” she tried to reassure him.
He shook his head wildly, raised his arms and turned his face away, as if to ward off a blow.
“Bana dokunma!” he shouted in a high, trembling voice, and then disappeared.
Debbie staggered back a step and stared at the spot where the child had just been. There was no way he could have slipped past, yet there was no sign of him.
It’s a shower stall for Christ’s sake! Was it another damned vision? Had he really been there?
“Is something wrong?” Essie called.
Baffled, Debbie walked out of the bathroom and walked back to the chair, giving the bathroom another quick glance. “I don’t know, I thought I saw… something.”
From where Essie sat, it would have been impossible for her to see into the bathroom.
“What was it you said in there?” Essie asked. “It didn’t sound English.”
“You heard that?”
“Yeah, they probably heard it on the first floor,” said Essie.
Debbie was going to say she hadn’t yelled, but decided it was better to look half-crazy for yelling like a banshee than removing any doubt by being delusional. “There was a huge spider on the floor,” Debbie lied. “I tried to step on it but it jumped and scared me. I got it the second time, though.”
Essie looked at her skeptically and said. “It must have been a tarantula. It had you talking in tongues. It didn’t even sound like you.”
“Wasn’t much,” said Debbie. “I just don’t like spiders, is all.”
“So I gather,” Essie said and huffed. She gave Debbie a dubious look and then turned her attention back to Hannah, who was stuffing a large wedge of pancake into her mouth.
“Will you talk to us, Hannah?” Essie asked her soothingly. “We’d like to get to know you.”
Hannah responded with a mild shudder, but refocused on eating the small mountain of scrambled eggs.
“Do you know where you are?” Essie asked. Hannah gave a barely perceptible nod.
Essie pointed to a magazine poking out of Debbie’s day bag. “May I?” she asked. She scanned the pages of the Psychology Today magazine. A small grin touched her lips and then melted into a miniscule smirk. Debbie felt a mild humiliation, unsure if it was the magazine, or Debbie reading the magazine, that Essie found humorous. Essie showed Hannah a picture of a lone strawberry on a large plate.
“Can you show me the strawberry, Hannah?” asked Essie.
No response.
Essie repeated the question and waited. Hannah, probably understanding that Essie would not let up until she responded, slowly pointed to the strawberry.
“Good! Excellent!” Essie patted Hannah’s leg and asked her to point to more objects. Hannah complied twice and then stopped responding.
“Try something more difficult,” Debbie suggested. “She’s shown that she knows common things.”
Essie flipped through the pages and stopped at a book club ad with numerous titles. “Can you show me Eduardo Porter’s book?” she asked.
Debbie felt the request was impractical, but Hannah surprised them both by pointing to the correct book. Fascination was evident in Essie’s eyes, though her voice gave away nothing. Essie searched through the magazine for a while and eventually found what she sought. She showed Hannah a picture of two young, blonde girls sitting on a lawn. One was about five years old, the other about three. A woman with darker, curly hair knelt between them.
“Hannah, where’s the mother?” Essie asked. It was a simple question, but Essie was more likely interested in Hannah’s reaction than her answer.
Hannah focused, still expressionless, and then slowly reached out to run her finger down the image of the mother. She repeated the gesture on the younger child who probably resembled Hannah when she was a couple years younger. A tiny, yet darker blonde, with long, pin-straight hair.
“Do you remember your mother’s name, Hannah?” Essie asked, but received no response.
Essie displayed another ad to Hannah that included numerous snapshots: a boy pushing a lawnmower, a firefighter, a businesswoman, a schoolgirl, a priest, a homeless person, a little girl holding a rabbit, and a father and son wearing matching Miami Dolphins shirts. Hannah stared at it blankly.
“Can you show me the father?” Essie asked.
An indefinable expression formed across Hannah’s face. Was it fear? Anger? Both? That was how it appeared to Debbie, an intermingling of both emotions. Hannah reached out again, but instead of pointing, she closed the magazine and pushed it gradually but firmly away to her arm’s extent, giving it an extra shove at the end. Hannah sat back, expressionless, retreating into her shell.
“Hannah, please stay with us. Can you stay with us?” Debbie asked with a touch of desperation tingeing her voice.
“Can you tell us where you go when you leave us, Hannah?” Essie asked.
Hannah started singing very softly yet clearly. Her voice was a haunting, crystalline monotone, so delicate it could shatter like glass, and so desolate it could evoke tears. Debbie recognized it as Scarborough Fair, though the lyrics were different.
“I am going to Hannahwhere.
A special place where there is no fear.
There is love and there is cheer,
And there’s no pain in Hannahwhere.”
As the song trailed off Hannah retreated far beyond reach, her moment of detachment so distinct it was palpable.
A rush of goose bumps washed over Debbie, so intense it made her back arch. “Okay, that was a little spooky,” she said.
“There’s nothing here to fear,” Essie said. “Hannah’s the one who’s frightened and hiding… not that there was any doubt.”
“The way she pushed the magazine away has me thinking daddy isn’t or wasn’t exactly a standup guy,” Debbie said. She ran her hand softly over Hannah’s head.
“Maybe… maybe not,” said Essie. “He could be a standup guy, but too painful to contend with right now. What are you hiding from, sweetie?” she asked Hannah.
There was no reply. She was a statue again.
By nine in the morning, Hannah had not moved and had barely even blinked. Essie had a full day of appointments at her office, but was reluctant to leave. She briefly considered canceling her first appointment, another miserable hour where phenom-a-mom and rad-dad (both self-assessments) tried to convince her that their rebellious and grossly obese twelve-year-old son needed Adderall or Ritalin. Essie believed in using these drugs in the more severe cases, but not when ADHD is used as a scapegoat diagnosis, as in this case. I don’t know what my kid’s problem is, so let’s call it ADHD. Even with the cause laid out in front of them, subtly and then blatantly, the parents refused to see it. Denial caused severe blindness. Essie saw it often in her practice.
Many children did suffer with ADHD, but even more had what Essie considered Spoiled Shitless Syndrome, or Where Are My Parents disease. Sadly, many parents tried to blame it on each other—or worse—on the child. She’s so distant. He’s so angry. She needs constant attention. What the kids did need was their parents to be present in their lives, not substituted by guilt-gifts like TVs, computers, cell phones, money, and carte blanche access to fully loaded refrigerators. They needed mom and dad there to direct them, hug them, cheer for them, praise them, and when they did misbehave,
discipline them. Too many children had the impression that there were no repercussions for misbehaving, be it from passive or fearful parents. Essie was often tempted to tell certain parents that there was an earlier form of Ritalin and Adderall back in the Fifties and Sixties when she was growing up. They called it the fear of dad’s boot up the ass, and it worked wonders! The beauty was that dad’s boots had never once touched Essie’s or any of her siblings’ posteriors, but there was the awareness that it could, and that there could be unpleasant consequences for bad behavior. It had kept Essie grounded.
Chapter 13
Debbie checked in with the office and then made her way to the hospital, determined to stick nearby so Hannah didn’t feel alone or abandoned, though alone seemed to be her preferred state. She seldom came across a child alone by choice. There were loners and outcasts segregated by fear, race, creed, depression, a means of protection, or myriad other reasons. These children usually longed for love, affection, friendship, and understanding. When they recognized a safe harbor—valid or not—that offered such, they accepted it hungrily. Those were usually the more accepting or less damaged children, and therefore were more open to offered comforts. The others took more time. Debbie understood why a child might be intent on being alone, especially if he or she had been mistreated or abused. She was sure Hannah wanted love and affection, too, but not loneliness.
Debbie did not like loneliness. She preferred people around, yet she lived a lonely life by choice. She appreciated what the experts said, all that psychoanalyzing and psychobabble about alone time being essential, but she loathed it. She hated the empty house, the empty bed, and the empty hours, and she damned near dreaded going home at night to no one. She was thirty-three, childless, and—apart from some random dating—four years single. Witnessing far too many bad situations—and some added common sense—made her understand that not being in a relationship was healthier than being in an abusive or self-diminishing one, but children Hannah’s age didn’t operate on common sense… hell, Debbie barely did. Bad decisions were much easier to make than smart ones, especially if they filled an inner emptiness, felt good, or fooled you into thinking that everything was A-Okay, even when your world was anything but. Debbie wondered when Hannah had last felt safe, if ever.
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