An Act of Love

by Nancy Thayer

  “Sweetheart,” Linda whispered, gently touching her child’s cheek, and then she rose and moved to the chair near the opposite wall.

  “I’m sure you have some questions you’d like to ask,” Dr. Travis prompted.

  Linda cleared her throat. “Emily. What’s wrong?”

  Emily didn’t reply.

  “Please, Emily, tell us this much. Was this an accident? Or were you really trying to …” Linda looked to the counselor for help, but Dr. Travis remained silent.

  The last time Linda was in a hospital with Emily had been when she was born. She had been a breech baby and in some amount of distress, and so they had taken her from Linda and kept her in an ICU for twenty-four hours. Linda had slipped from her bed and shuffled down the hall and leaned against the window, peering in at her tiny endangered daughter, weeping with hope and fear.

  Now she said, “Emily, we love you. Whatever you did. And we want to help.”

  Emily didn’t answer.

  Quietly Dr. Travis spoke: “Emily’s probably too tired to talk right now. We’d like her to stay with us for a while. She’ll need to sleep today, but she’ll probably feel up to seeing some visitors this evening. You could return then, and bring her some necessities while you’re at it. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and so on.”

  “Is there anything special you want?” Owen asked. “A book …?” He waited, but Emily did not respond, so he rose. “Well, then, we’ll leave you to rest. We’ll be back later.”

  “ ’Bye, Emily,” Linda said. “I love you.”

  Emily’s eyelids trembled, but she didn’t speak.

  In the hall Linda and Owen waited as Dr. Travis went behind the nurses’ station to gather up some papers, then they followed her into her office, which after the impersonality of the corridor nearly exploded upon their senses with shapes and color. The furniture was standard issue: metal desk, metal filing cabinets, inexpensive brown armchairs, oatmeal-colored rug and drapes. But the walls were plastered with posters covered with stars, rainbows, blue skies, fluffy clouds, and quotes:

  “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  “It is always one’s virtues and not one’s vices that precipitate one into disaster.”

  —Rebecca West

  “Well, if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone?”

  —James Thurber

  Dr. Travis sat behind her desk and indicated with a graceful gesture the small armchairs facing her. Knowing he was thinking critically, even cruelly, in a way that would anger Linda, Owen observed that the psychologist weighed close to two hundred pounds. Her hair, an unusual color, sort of orange, flew off her head like curly ribbon.

  How smart is this woman, Owen wondered. How stable? Certainly her manner of dress—gypsyish colors, flowing skirts, ropes of beads—seemed peculiar. Would that perhaps make those with emotional problems feel at home with her?

  “First,” Dr. Travis began, reaching across the desk to hand Owen and Linda each a pamphlet, “I’d like to give you a booklet to read about West Four. This unit is called, simply, West Four, because it’s the west wing and the fourth floor of Basingstoke Hospital. This way there is no description—thus, no judgment—attached to the name of the wing.”

  Obediently Owen looked down at the slender leaflet. The cover read: WELCOME TO WEST FOUR.

  Linda asked, “How long will Emily be here?”

  “We can’t say definitely yet. A few days at the least. We’ll see.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Owen asked.

  “Only the little I know. A little after noon Emily’s roommate Cordelia found Emily comatose on her bed. Cordelia called the dorm parent, who notified the dean of students, and Emily was brought here by ambulance. She was admitted by Dr. Gable, the emergency room doctor, who treated her and sent her up here. I don’t yet have the entire lab report, but I can tell you that on admittance this morning Emily’s blood alcohol level measured point thirty-three.” She paused, then added gently, “Point four is comatose …”

  Owen said, “Dear God.”

  Dr. Travis continued. “There was no note. When she was brought to the hospital and revived, she tried to run away. When I spoke with Emily, she told me she had attempted suicide because she considers herself ‘too gross to live.’ Do you know of any reason for her to feel this way?”

  They responded together. “No.”

  “Clearly she is a danger to herself. We want to keep her here. We haven’t had a chance to evaluate her yet. We’ll be doing that today. I’ll need some information right now, however.” She looked at Linda. “You’re Emily’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are her father?”

  Owen shook his head. “Stepfather.”

  “Her father lives elsewhere?”

  Linda answered. “Pennsylvania. He’s a cellist. He doesn’t communicate much with his daughter.”

  “Are there other children?”

  “Just one,” Owen replied. “My son, Bruce. He’s seventeen, almost eighteen. He’s a senior at Hedden.”

  “And his mother?”

  Owen shrugged. “She’s usually traveling. We seldom hear from her.”

  “How long have you two been married?”

  Linda and Owen spoke simultaneously. “Seven years.”

  “Happily?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Travis looked at Owen. “What’s your relationship with Emily like?”

  Owen considered. He tried in all things never to lie or exaggerate. “Good. I’d say good.”

  “And you, Mrs. McFarland? With your daughter?”

  “We’re very close. We’ve always been. I thought—I thought we still were.”

  “Do you have any idea why Emily did all this?”

  “No. I’m completely stunned.”

  “Can you give me a profile of your daughter?”

  “Of course.” Linda leaned forward, eager. “She’s like the sun. She’s bright and energetic, full of ideas and plans. She loves school and her friends. She loves books and movies and food and animals and music and her teachers. She’s a very happy person.” Her words made her pause. “At least I thought she was. I can’t imagine why this happened.”

  “Have you anything to add?” Dr. Travis asked Owen.

  After a moment’s deliberation, Owen said, “Emily can be impulsive. Impetuous. She often acts without fully thinking things through first.”

  Linda shifted in her chair. “Owen, that’s part of the basic definition of an adolescent.”

  Owen looked at his wife, then proceeded. “She’s ambitious. Too tough on herself. Drives herself hard, sets standards that are hard to keep.”

  “But she’s hardly the type to kill herself over bad grades!” Linda objected.

  “No,” Owen agreed. “I’d say Emily’s an optimist. A fighter as well. She likes a good challenge. But she does tend to take on more than she can handle.”

  Linda pondered this. “But at any rate, it’s too early in the semester for her to be worried about her grades … It has to be something else.”

  Dr. Travis asked, “Has Emily ever spent time in a psychiatric ward before?”

  “No!” Linda realized she felt vaguely insulted by the question.

  “Has she ever seen a psychiatrist or therapist or counselor?”

  “No.”

  “Has she ever been prescribed medication for problems such as mania, depression, anorexia, anxiety, that sort of nervous disorder?”

  “No.”

  “Has she ever attempted suicide before?”

  “No, absolutely.”

  “How about blackouts, fainting spells, memory loss?”

  “No. No, she’s just been completely normal.”

  Dr. Travis wrote in her folder, then looked up at them both, smiling. “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll talk more with Emily this afternoon, after she’s rested a bit.”

  “Can we do anything?
” Linda asked.

  “Yes, actually. As I said, we’ll need for you to pick up some things for Emily from school. Hygienic necessities, perhaps a book, pajamas, a change of clothing.”

  Owen and Linda nodded.

  “When you return with her things, you’ll need to give them to a nurse when you come in, so they can be checked over.” Reading their expressions, she hastened to explain. “Often we can spot something that the parents might not realize is potentially dangerous.”

  “Potentially dangerous,” Linda echoed.

  “Emily is here on a voluntary basis. That means she has signed herself in. She will be seen by a multidisciplinary group of professionals, including the psychiatric director of the team, the counselors and nurses, our social worker, and myself. I am the program coordinator. After we speak with Emily, we’ll determine how we can be of help to her, and how long we’ll want her to remain with us. For the time being, she will be restricted to this ward. She will be kept safe here. If she stays here long enough, she will be gradually given privileges to leave the ward and go out for a walk on the grounds.”

  Puzzled, Linda asked, “When will she be allowed to return to school?”

  “Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?” Dr. Travis suggested. “Your daughter has some problems that are interfering with her ability to stay alive. We’ve got to sort all that out first.”

  “Can we visit her?”

  “Of course. Visiting hours are printed in the brochure I gave you. We especially like the parents to be here on Wednesday nights for Family Group.”

  “Can we call her?”

  “Certainly. The three pay telephones are down the hall. They’re turned off during group session and after eleven at night. You will probably want to write down the numbers. You’ll need to fill out the insurance forms at the desk. We’ll need that done immediately.”

  Dr. Travis rose and ushered them to the door. As dumb as a pair of sheep, Owen and Linda let themselves be herded out of the office and to the nurses’ station, where sparrow-nurse handed them a long questionnaire.

  “There are desks at the other end of the hall for writing,” she said as she pointed them out.

  Owen sat watching as Linda filled out the forms. Emily’s father’s university covered her health insurance. Linda had the health insurance card in her wallet.

  Linda furrowed her brow. “I hope it covers this particular kind of illness in this particular kind of hospital ward.”

  “If not, then the school insurance will kick in,” Owen reminded her.

  Inscribing the necessary information in a wavery hand, Linda completed the form and returned it to the nurse, and then she and Owen stood befuddled, staring around. Dr. Travis had disappeared. The nurse was on the phone. Through the glass of the walled “living room” three people stared zombielike at a soap opera.

  “Let’s go over to the school and get Emily’s things and make some appointments,” Owen said.

  Linda nodded. Together they walked down the linoleum hallway and out through the ward’s wide doors.

  Chapter Four

  When Dr. Travis opened the door, Emily came awake instantly.

  “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

  “Better,” Emily admitted. “I didn’t read the pamphlet,” she apologized. “I guess I just fell back asleep.”

  “That’s good. That’s what your body needed to do. You’ll have plenty of time to read the brochure.” Dr. Travis didn’t enter but instead stood in the doorway, holding it open. “I thought you might like to come see some of the ward.”

  Emily sat up and was overcome by a wave of dizziness.

  “Take your time,” Dr. Travis advised, as if she could see into Emily’s body. “When you feel like it, we’ll go to the dining room and you can have a little snack. You must be hungry.”

  In response Emily’s stomach growled furiously. She cringed and clasped her hands over her belly. Traitorous belly. Like the shrink would believe she really wanted to die when here she was, a fat pig ready to eat.

  “You won’t want much,” Dr. Travis continued, “but you need something to keep your blood sugar level up. Come on. I’ve convinced them to send you up some toast.”

  Dutifully Emily rose. At the doorway, Dr. Travis lightly put her hand on her back, guiding her.

  “Nurses’ station, offices, conference rooms.” Slowly they went down the corridor. “Here’s the bedroom you’ll be in tomorrow.”

  Emily stuck her head around the door. “Looks bare.”

  “You’ll be able to put cards, photos, on the bulletin board above your bed.”

  “No TV. No phone.”

  “There’s a television in our common living room, just down this way. And there are three pay phones in this hall. This is where you’ll receive and make all personal calls.”

  “Not much privacy.”

  Dr. Travis smiled. “That’s right. You may place calls between seven A.M. and eleven P.M., but we ask you to keep the conversations short, no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, because there are so many others who will need to use the phones. And they will be shut off during group sessions. Here are the bathrooms. Your parents will bring you a toothbrush and toothpaste, which you may keep in your room and bring to the bathroom with you. The dining room.”

  Emily looked into a large cheerful room set with long tables and chairs, empty now of people. “Where does the food come from?”

  “The hospital cafeteria. I’ve heard that it’s edible, but a strong incentive for getting well.”

  For the second time that day, Dr. Travis’s gentle sarcasm made Emily smile, made her feel not quite so … so fucking pathetic.

  Dr. Travis walked over to a metal cart. “Here’s your toast. And some more 7UP. If you go through this door, you’ll come to the ward’s own little kitchen. We don’t prepare entire meals here, but we do have a microwave for popcorn, and a stove and oven so the patients can make desserts for our family nights.”

  They sat together at a table looking out a picture window at the grounds. To the right all was pastoral—sweeping lawns, walking paths through low hedges, trees valiantly clinging to their last shreds of leaves—but to the left, behind a high retaining wall, the bright metal of speeding cars glittered from the highway.

  “We have twenty-seven beds here,” Dr. Travis informed her. “At the moment there are twelve patients. Five of them are around your age, the others are young adults in their twenties. None of the people is dangerous. In fact, I think you’ll like them.”

  Emily looked around. “Where are they now?”

  “Most of them are in task-oriented group therapy. Quite a few are in chemical dependency rehabilitation programs, especially for those involved with drug abuse and alcohol. The chem depps, which is what they informally call themselves, have their own specific problems. But each person here has a schedule worked out especially for her.”

  The toast was cold, the butter or margarine congealed in yellow globules on the surface of the barely browned bread, but when Emily spread it with grape jelly from a little plastic packet and took a bite, she was amazed at how good it tasted.

  “We’ve found that working in groups is helpful to everyone, so when you read our pamphlet you’ll see that most of our meetings are group. Many of the problems that bring people here are shared by others.”

  “Not mine.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dr. Travis disagreed. “Adolescence can be a difficult time. And all families have problems of one kind or another.”

  Emily sipped her 7UP and did not reply.

  “Through? Shall we go on?” Dr. Travis rose, showed Emily where to toss her trash and where the cart was for her plate and utensils, and then they walked on down the corridor.

  “The smoking room.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good. The small group discussion room. The crafts room. Exercise room. The kitchen. Wednesday evenings the patients usually make some kind of dessert to be eaten du
ring Family Group.”

  “Family Group?”

  “Parents are invited to join us on Wednesday evenings, to discuss general problems, to ask questions about the hospital, and so on.”

  “What if you don’t want to have your family come?”

  “Let me answer that in a roundabout way. Tomorrow after you have a complete physical, you’ll meet with the adolescent team psychiatrist for some tests, and you and I will talk some more, intensively. We’ll see if we can discover what brought you here, what your special concerns are, what goals you’d like to achieve while you’re here in the hospital. On your pamphlet you’ll see we’ve left space for you to record your goals and the progress you’re making toward them. What you write won’t be judged; it won’t even be read. It’s for you to keep notes about what’s going on with you. We find it’s helpful for the family to visit, once a week, to remind our patients of the life they will be returning to, so they might start discussing and thinking of options for changing their lives, often in relation to their families.”

  They had walked in a rectangle and now were back at Emily’s room, and Emily was glad, because suddenly she was exhausted. Dr. Travis was nice enough and certainly eager to help. It wasn’t her fault that no one could help, that nothing could ever fix Emily’s life.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Then rest. Someone will wake you for dinner. And you might have visitors this evening.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Your parents are going to return with some of your clothing and personal necessities. At that time you can ask them to bring you anything else you might need. And after Thanksgiving vacation, they can bring you your homework and school books.”

  “You think I’m going to be here for a long time.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “Will I go home for Christmas?”

  Dr. Travis looked at Emily for a long moment before replying, “Let’s not think that far ahead until we’ve done a more thorough intake on you, okay?”

  Emily shrugged. Weak with fatigue, she sank onto the bed, put her hand over her eyes to block out the light, and hurried back into the protection of sleep. She heard Dr. Travis close the door.