You can guess what I thought it looked like.
Chapter 22
Next morning news came that Eileen had been assessed and that I was allowed to visit her. Molly offered to drive me to the hospital.
The Bethesda Institute was fifty miles north of town, on a promontory overlooking a lake. It used to be known as ‘The Pool of Bethesda State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the Crippled and the Morally Delinquent’. I think I made up that last category of inmate; but though the name had changed, Bethesda remained an intimidating asylum of the old school.
The wind roared as dry and cold as a witch’s curse. It threatened to blow my legs from under me as we crossed the parking lot. Grey towers loomed above. I wondered how terrified Eileen must have been, arriving here in the middle of the night strapped to a gurney.
It was no warmer inside. Though pipes fed hot water along the lower edges of the wall, the place held the dank temperature of a root cellar. Here were corridors cut off from natural light, where the fluorescent strips burnt for twenty-four hours.
“I’ll wait here,” said Molly, patting me on the shoulder, assuming that I wanted to have a private chat with my mother. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have minded company.
I was guided into the bowels of the hospital. A nurse – or was she a guard? – opened a set of double doors, much like an airlock, and led me into a ward that smelt of disinfectant and urine, though not necessarily in that order.
Apart from the smell, the first thing that hit me was the sound of The Beach Boys. A young woman was singing ‘Surfin’ USA’ whilst accompanying herself on a Yamaha keyboard. Sat around her, in the communal space in the centre of the ward, was a group of older patients in high-back chairs. The nursing staff, dressed in white scrubs, were leading a rhythmic clapping. Most of the folk managed to contribute, though they rarely caught the beat.
Slumped amongst them was Eileen.
Perhaps you have, at one time, spied your mom from afar. Maybe she was shopping, or stepping out of a car. But you knew that at any moment she would spot you, and her face would light up. Eileen used to be like that. It was such a long time ago that the memory of it seemed like a dream. But at one time Eileen would sweep me into her arms and smother me with kisses, just like your mom does.
I had to stop hoping for that. ‘Expect nothing’ was my mantra, and to forget it would lead to painful disappointment.
Eileen stared right past me. She looked thinner, which was no bad thing because at home she often forgot that she’d eaten and would raid the cookie jar until there was nothing left. Now she appeared shrunken in her cotton bathrobe, as if she were caving inwards. She did not look out of place amongst the geriatrics.
I waited for Miss Yamaha to finish; and as the nurses led a half-hearted round of applause, I pushed forward into the circle and knelt before Eileen.
Her hand was cold, and bonier than I remembered.
“Eileen?”
Expect nothing.
Eileen’s eyes swam slowly into focus. She was too far gone to participate in an eye exam, so I did not know if she could see me. It was a problem common to older dementia sufferers. As their natural faculties – sight, hearing – failed, so they were cut off from the outside world, accelerating their decline into confusion. Eileen had a one-way ticket down the same road.
“Eileen?” I asked.
Suddenly Eileen gripped my hand.
“Scout!” she shouted, and leant forward as if anxious not to be overheard. “What am I doing with all these old people?”
“You’re in a hospital, Eileen.”
“Am I ill? I don’t feel ill.”
“You’re getting better, which is why I’m here. You’ll be coming home soon.”
But she drifted off, caught by a wail from the keyboard that approximated the string section of an orchestra. The music therapist had slowed the tempo, and now wooed her audience with ‘Moon River’. Eileen, not a member of Andy Williams’ natural constituency, was nonetheless swept away by the melody. I had to drag her back before I lost her.
“Eileen,” I said, tugging on her hand.
Her eyes wavered as she looked down at me.
Expect nothing, I told myself.
Suddenly Eileen gripped my hand like an iron vice, and shouted as if she had not seen me for weeks.
“Scout!”
She leant forward, eyes flicking from side to side, anxious not to be overheard.
“What am I doing with all these old people?”
*
I had waited two weeks to see my mom. The anticipation, as always with my mother, was better than the reality.
When I managed to drag her away from the music session, I found that the window to her room had been left wide open, and the air was filled with shards of ice. I slammed the window shut and wrapped a thin blanket around my mother’s shoulders. She shivered on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling like a young child’s.
“Eileen, I’ve got something for you.”
Eileen’s eyes lit up. She always liked a present, and she watched eagerly as I opened my bag. I’d brought her radio, and a brand-new pair of fluffy mules.
Eileen squealed in delight.
I slipped off the institutional slippers and was shocked to see the state of her feet.
“Oh my,” I said. “You’re going to need a pedicure.”
Her skin was thin and yellow, and her toes bent inward, the nails long and discoloured. The thing with mules is that they’re open-toed. Not so good for the freezing corridors of Bethesda, though perfect for revealing her ugly nails.
I realised my mistake as soon as I slipped them on, but Eileen was so overjoyed, swinging her feet back and forth, that I knew there was no way to take them back.
“You like them?” I asked.
As if in reply, Eileen jumped off the bed and waltzed around the room.
Expect nothing, I reminded myself. Not thanks, not a smile. You ain’t got nothing coming.
I watched my mom dance to the distant strains of music, and I wanted to reach out and touch her. There was so much I wanted to know from her, so much I wanted to talk about. She was the only person who had experienced what I had been going through these last few days.
A different mother would curl up with her daughter on the couch and share a bowl of popcorn and their secrets. That mom might tell stories about boys she had dated in high school. Eileen had shared none of that with me, and I didn’t miss it. All I wanted to know was why she had given up on her talent.
“Eileen?” I asked. “Why did you never tell me that you could follow people?”
There was no sign that Eileen even heard me.
“Why did you never speak to me about it?” I asked. “You found the boy, but something freaked you out. Molly told me all about it. You led them right to him. You could have been a hero, working for the police department. You had a rare talent, you know, and it could have made you famous. ’Eileen Wartzbeck, urban tracker’. I could have grown up rich! I’m sure that you would’ve worked the cases for free, but you’d’ve made money from book deals and appearing on TV. And the movie deal! I could see Julia Roberts playing you – how about that?! So why did you give it up?”
Eileen was shuffling from side to side, still possessed by the melancholy dreaminess of the moonlit river. She had her back to me, staring out of the window, though I doubt that her eyes registered the grey bulwark of the hospital wing, or the slate fields beyond.
Living with Eileen, I got used to talking to myself.
“You were scared of it, weren’t you, Eileen?” I supposed. “I can see that, because I’m scared of it too. There’s a whole world out there that only me and you can see. I’ve only scratched the surface, but what I’ve seen haunts me.
“I’m trying to find a boy. He’s called Marcus. Lived in the Lansdale projects. He’s
got two cousins. They’re nice-looking boys, about eight years old. I don’t think they should grow up thinking everything is pitiless and harsh, and that their only way to survive is with violence. Can you help me, Eileen?”
Expect nothing.
She swayed to the music from the Yamaha. Her shoulders were stooped prematurely.
“Can you hear it?” she asked. “I can’t remember the tune.”
“’Moon River’,” I replied dejectedly.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not that. There’s a tune.”
She hummed, flat and monotonously. If it were one of those quizzes where I had to guess the tune, I would have gone home without a prize.
“Sorry, Eileen, don’t recognise it.”
“You’ve heard it?”
“No, I don’t think I have,” glad at least to be having a conversation, even if it was nonsense.
Eileen turned to me, galvanised by an urgent thought.
“You must recognise it,” she insisted.
“Okay, well – hum it to me again.”
With an expression on her face that suggested it was I who was slow on the uptake, Eileen again started her toneless singing.
“Huuum, huuuum, huuuumm.”
She gritted her teeth in frustration, realising that she was not getting through to me.
“I can’t remember what it’s called!” she shouted.
“That’s fine, that’s fine,” I said, stepping forward to calm her down. Eileen backed away from my touch.
“No, it’s not fine!” she shouted, angry with herself. “I’ve got to remember it!”
One of the nurses popped her head around the door.
“Everything alright?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, as frustrated as my mother. “We’re okay.”
Eileen was dancing from foot to foot, but in anger rather than to the music playing in the communal area.
“Lunch is in ten minutes,” said the nurse. “And we like everyone to eat together.”
When she had gone, I turned back to Eileen. She was holding herself rigid, containing the anger.
“That’ll be nice,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Lunch’ll be nice; get some hot food down you.”
“I can’t remember the tune,” she wailed.
Oh, shit. She got like this sometimes, like a needle on a scratched vinyl LP, repeating the same phrase over and over again. There was no way to break the loop until she slept. I thought that maybe the food would help, so I reached forward to guide her to the door.
Eileen grabbed me by the wrist.
“You’ve got to listen for the music. That’s the last thing he heard.”
“Who heard?” I asked.
“Bobby.”
“Who’s Bobby?”
Eileen’s face softened, and her mouth crinkled as if she were about to cry. Mostly her face is slack, but now it shone with a heartbreaking emotion. Her eyes glistened, and her voice broke with a tenderness that I had rarely heard.
“Why, he’s the little boy,” she replied. “The little boy who went missing.”
Chapter 23
Waiting for me in the lobby was Molly, and a woman called Yolanda Dauphin, the assistant administrator. She ushered us into a side room, with soft chairs, carpeted floor and pastel colours on the walls.
“So, Lauren, tell me – how was your mom?” she asked.
“Cold,” I replied. “It’s very cold up there.”
“We’ve had a problem with the heating system. It’s regrettable, but it’s being fixed as we speak. We have so many old folk, we have to keep the temperature high.”
“That’s the other thing,” I said. “I want her to be with other people her own age.”
“I’m sorry, Lauren, there are no other people her own age, at least in that category. We do have younger patients, but they are dangerous, and your mom is exhibiting the symptoms usually associated with great maturity.”
“But it’s freaking her out.”
Yolanda nodded, as if understanding. I had seen enough of professional nodding to know that she had heard my complaint but not understood it.
“We have more important issues at the moment, Lauren,” Yolanda explained. “This is not a permanent home for your mom. That is for the court to decide.”
“The court? What do you mean? I thought you had assessed her, and now she can come home.”
Yolanda shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Lauren,” she said. “Your mom has been made a ward of court. Your attorney will need to petition to have her returned. At the moment, she is here for her well-being. Similar orders are made for those who self-harm.”
“Eileen’s never harmed anyone!”
Molly took my hand.
“It’s okay, Scout,” she said. “You have an attorney, and we’ll go about this the right way.”
She smiled reassuringly at me, and turned to Yolanda.
Yolanda reached for a small folder on a table to her side.
“It’s important that you have a person like Sergeant Maguire to support you,” she said. “Now, I don’t want to worry you, but the administrators have asked me to raise the question of financial support for your mom.”
“You want me to pay for my mom?” I asked, as if I had misheard her. “But you brought her here!”
“Your mom has been legally committed to our care. The emergency period is covered by state aid, but as we look towards the middle-term, and the fact that you are contesting the case, we will be asking for a financial contribution. Now, for someone like yourself who is still at high school—“
“I’m not at school.”
“At college, then?”
“Nope. No funds.”
Yolanda’s face fell.
“Okay,” she said, biting her lip. “You see, if you were in education, then there would be a way of delaying the onset of costs.”
“This is crazy!” I exploded. “I graduated a year early from high school, saving the county the cost of my education – and because of that I have to pay for my mom’s imprisonment?”
“It’s not imprisonment.”
“It’s against her will. She wants to come home – but I’m now caught in this catch. If I could afford to go to college I wouldn’t have to pay, but since I’m too broke to get the education I need you’re gonna bill me! Jesus!”
“Please, Miss Mann–“
“What? Calm down?”
“Scout,” said Molly gently, “we’ll deal with it. I’m with you on this, okay?”
She stood me up, and took the papers from Yolanda’s hand.
“We’ll find our own way out.”
*
I screamed against the howling wind.
“It’s not fair!” I shouted as we crossed the parking lot. “What are they going to do? Take my home away? That’s Eileen’s house – the safest place in the universe, with her chair and her music and her bed.”
“No one’s gonna make you homeless!” Molly shouted back, raising her voice against the battering gale.
“You should’ve seen her, Molly,” I said, an icy blast hitting me full in the face. “It was pitiful. She’s your age, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be in with ninety-year-olds. She’s no idea where she is, and no one’s talking to her.”
“I know, I know,” said Molly.
Then she took me in her arms, and I have to admit that I cried. I blubbed. I mean - it was tears and mucus. The works.
Molly hugged me to her, and the softness of her bosom and her warm motherly smell was what finally broke the levee. Up in her room Eileen had recoiled from me. For years she froze like a block of stone if I put my arms around her. She never responded, waiting patiently for me to let go, as if hugging was an alien ritual which she did not understand. I only k
issed her when she was asleep, because otherwise she would push me away and wipe the skin where my lips had touched.
Molly pulled me towards her as I cried on the collar of her bomber jacket, and held me tight.
Oh, Molly, Molly – thank you.
*
We drove in silence. She allowed me to sit shotgun, though it was against regulations. I dried my tears with a roll of blue tissue, ‘borrowed’ - she said - from the janitor to mop up unfortunate accidents in the back of the cruiser.
“You’d be surprised by the mess that we’re left with.”
“I don’t think I’d be that surprised,” I said. “I’ve met the soccer team.”
“Okay, imagine those boys were peckerwood inbreds, ten times more horny and ten times more drunk.”
I gazed in disgust through the grate at the bench seat in the rear.
“Thanks for letting me sit up front,” I said, reaching for the antiseptic handwash she kept on the dashboard.
“I get through about a gallon of that a month,” she added.
I blew my nose and wadded the tissue into my pocket.
“We’ll get your mom out,” Molly said.
“Uh-huh,” I nodded, knowing that she meant well, but feeling pretty helpless all the same.
“She said something, Molly, that made me wonder.”
“Who? Eileen?”
“What was the name of the little boy who went missing back in 1985?”
“I’ll never forget that – Robert Tumey. Born April 5th 1980.”
“Did they call him Bobby?”
“They could’a done, I suppose. What of it?” she asked.
“She called him Bobby, and she said that when she was searching for him she heard music. What could that mean?”
“It was a hot summer. You’ve been to Lansdale in the winter, but come the hot weather all the windows are open, and back then no one had air conditioning. The place just rocked with music.”
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