Admissions

by Jennifer Sowle

  “I heard that, too. Grapevine.”

  “I want to tell you how sorry I am about Judy,” she says. “I don’t know what to say. How are you doing, Carl.”

  “Not so good. Can’t sleep.”

  “I’m sure you miss her.”

  “Yup, I miss her. I sure do.” He shakes his head as he neatens the stacks of napkins.

  We finally get sick of hanging back and push onto the dance floor. We form a circle and dance the Pony to a song that vaguely resembles Bad Moon Rising. I notice Carl smile as he watches us clowning on the floor.

  After several dances I sit at the end of the refreshment table and watch the dancers. Raylene Cline, one of the social workers, comes up behind Carl and I hear her say, “Carl, do you have just a moment?”

  “Yup, sure do.”

  “Sorry to call you away at a social event, Carl, but I want you to report to Hall 6 first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Happened a couple hours ago. Another patient attack on staff.”

  “What happened?”

  “Steve Phillipon was sitting at the desk catching up on his paperwork. Of course, the patients were all doped up, locked in their rooms. He told me it felt as if somebody was watching him. He got up and looked around a couple of times, nothing seemed out of place. He had a file open on his desk when a drop of water fell onto the page. He looked up to find a patient drooling from the ceiling.”

  “What?” Carl says.

  “I don’t have all the details, how he got up there. But he was wedged in between the steam pipes and the ceiling. When Joe looked up, the patient said, I’ve been watching you. They told me to kill you. He pushed the emergency alarm as the patient sprang down. It took a couple of minutes for the attendants to arrive, but by that time, the patient had him by the throat. Could’ve killed him.” “How in heck did the patient manage to get up there without somebody seeing him? What about night check?”

  “Don’t know. They’re looking into it.”

  “Steve okay?”

  “Pretty shaken up. I wonder if you can meet with him and be a support person for him as he recovers.”

  “I’m not exactly a good example of how to recover from an attack,” Carl says.

  “I think you could be helpful, Carl. Would you be willing to meet with us in my office tomorrow morning?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m going to recommend that Steve talk to somebody who’s walked in his shoes, so to speak. He may or may not want the help.”

  “Sure, I can talk to him if you want, if the guy thinks it’s helpful.”

  Chapter 21

  THE OBSERVER June 1, 1969

  Page 10

  SELF RESPECT

  Some people are walking around the hospital looking like vagabonds. There is no reason not to be neat and clean. Ladies, please do not show up at the canteen or events with your slip showing or your lingerie straps sticking out from your dress. Don’t look like a common streetwalker. Have a little self respect.

  At Heidi’s urging, I make a trip to the emporium in the basement of the patient’s library looking for summer clothes. “I want to go upstairs after. Dr. Murray approved a library card for me.” I sort through the swimsuits.

  “I’ll go up with you. Do you need a card for magazines?”

  “Not sure.”

  “I’ll be over there, lookin’ for shorts.”

  “I’m going to try on a swimsuit, if I can find one.” I hold up a purple one-piece with a pleated skirt. They all look like old lady suits. A far cry from my bikini—not really a bikini, but a two-piece Jeff talked me into buying. I smile when I think about how he raved about me in that suit. I have to admit, I felt pretty sexy in it. But I hadn’t worn it since Alexander was born. Jeff didn’t understand why, but I did—I’m a mother now. I put the suit down. Used to be a mother.

  Heidi and I head upstairs to the patient’s library with our brown bags stuffed with clothes. “I just want to get a couple of books. I shouldn’t be long,” I tell Heidi.

  “Our passes are good until two o’clock. I’ll check out the magazines.”

  The library is huge, a scant fifteen or twenty rows of bookcases standing in the middle. The shelves are almost empty. I make my way along the first row, run my finger down the spines of the books. I pull out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and flip through it. I’d read it in sixth grade. I meander through the bookcases, pulling out a book here and there. I decide to re-read Wuthering Heights and take it up to the desk. Heidi waits by the door. She points at the ceiling.

  When I look up, high above me the domed ceiling glitters with a wide gold inlay border, circling a giant fresco of angels sitting among clouds, looking down from the heavens. Astonished, I drop my book.

  “What’s the matter?” Heidi asks.

  “That mural …”

  “Cool, huh?”

  “See that angel with his finger pointed up?”

  “Over there?” Heidi points.

  “No, the one toward the edge. He’s smiling.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s Alexander.”

  Later that week, I walk to the canteen for cigarettes and I notice the maple branches birthing small brown nodules with tightly closed yellow buds. I love spring, but I can’t help thinking about Alexander, how he loved to play outside and ride his trike. Beyond the lawns, wild flowers dot the hillside behind the fire house, popping up through remnants of snow. I see Alexander’s smiling face, holding up a bouquet of wildflowers, the stems barely peeking out from the bottom of his fist. Twilight still comes early and tints the sky chartreuse. Flocks of starlings circle for their night roosts among the trees. Foot traffic is heavy; the canteen just reopened after months of renovation. I spot the Lobster crossing the courtyard, probably on her way to her break.

  I’ve heard the Lobster grumble and complain the entire time the canteen was closed. Rumor has it that starting the Tuesday after Memorial Day, Doris Lobsinger orders an ice cream sandwich and a Coke every day until Labor Day. In the winter, she walks through the tunnels to order hot coffee and a slice of cherry pie. I notice the Lobster’s tight uniform. Her waistband measures years of breaks.

  The canteen buzzes with staff crowded around the soda fountain counter, some seated on the coveted red vinyl swivel stools, others standing behind them. The room is thick with cigarette smoke and chatter. I stand by the window, smoking a cigarette, waiting for an attendant to ask me to leave. Patients are allowed to purchase items in the canteen, but we are not allowed to loiter.

  I watch the Lobster standing in line for her order, scanning the tables for a seat. Carol, an attendant from Hall 9, motions her over. The Lobster balances her drink and ice cream, plops down at the table with other staff from Halls 5, 9 and 19. I stand about two feet from the table. I turn my back to them and listen. It’s a great way to find out what’s going on around here. Listen to staff conversations.

  “Okay. I got a story for you.” The Lobster pauses to swig back a thick Coke bottle. “Yesterday one of the retards on Hall 9, you know her, Carol …Marge. She comes up missing from her walk outside. Supposed to start her work shift and she’s nowhere to be found. Around three o’clock, she strolls in with her skirt on backwards.” She smiles, looks around the group. A couple of the aides chuckle.

  “Well, you know the punch line. She’s back at it. It’s spring and she’s spreading her legs out in the Soap House for any staffer that comes along.”

  “The old Rag and Soap House on Yellow Drive?” Dr. Murray asks.

  “That would be the Toap House. When we know she’s been out having sex, we just say, Hey Marge, been out to the Toap House?” The Lobster gulps her coke. The others stare into their coffee mugs.

  “This is Marge from Hall 9?” Dr. Murray asks.

  “Yeah Marge, the retard with the harelip.”

  “She’s having sex with staff members in the Soap House?”

  “That’s what they say.
”

  “Marge has the mental ability of a five year old. She’s a child. She’s being raped by staff members? ”

  “Well, now wait a minute. Nobody’s forcing her, she likes it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. As I said, mentally, she’s a child.”

  “Ah, well …I don’t know that much about it. It’s just kinda’ like a rumor. Ah, I don’t really even know if it’s true.”

  Dr. Murray shoves back her chair and slaps her napkin down on the table. “I’m going to check into this.”

  So that was it. I smash out my cigarette and leave. As I walk back, I think about Marge. Dr. Murray is right, we all think of her as a little girl, so innocent and loving. Damn it.

  Chapter 22

  THE OBSERVER June 15, 1969

  Page 3

  SUMMER CARNIVAL JUNE 28TH

  Plans for the Summer Carnival are well underway. Volunteers are still needed to set up. Activities include: dunk tank, three-legged race, shot-put, penny scramble for the kids, high-jump, egg toss, and ball roll for the women. Booths will sell popcorn and candy. Everybody come on out and have some summer fun!

  Good afternoon,” Dr. Murray says. “I walked across the grounds today — the flower beds are gorgeous. Do any of you work in the gardens?”

  “Isabel and I do.”

  “Great work.” Dr. Murray sits in the last empty chair in the circle.

  I’ve never seen the doctor look so healthy, relaxed. Her cheeks flushed against a deep tan and scores of freckles sit elbow to elbow on her face. Her hair is held off her neck by a leather barrette, damp wisps surrounding her head. “I hope you girls are getting outside. It’s so beautiful up here in the summer, isn’t it? Who would like to start today?”

  “I’d like to start,” Estee jumps in.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I just want to tell you all how much I appreciate your support during my relapse. It’s been a month now. I …I’m getting back to my old self.”

  “I’m glad you’re doing so well, Estee,” Dr. Murray says.

  “I don’t have visitors, so I need all your support.”

  “Can your family visit?” Beth asks.

  “They all live in the city, New York City. My grandma writes to me, though.”

  “Now what happened to your mom?” Isabel asks.

  “I guess she moved to California, nobody knows where she is. My dad brought me up here to the hospital, but he’s moved now, too. I don’t really know where.”

  “You’ve shared that your mother is mentally ill, Estee. Do you know what her diagnosis is?”

  “Paranoid Schizophrenic.”

  “Do you remember her, before her illness?”

  “From old pictures, mostly. My mom was so pretty. Before they went out to the clubs, my dad danced her around the living room, spun her around, they both laughed. She was so happy. Then she got sick.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Well, I remember my mom would always pick me up at my grandma’s after work. One day she just didn’t show up. Everybody panicked; all the relatives went out looking for her. They called the police.”

  “Was she arrested?”

  “Not that time. I guess my dad found her in a nightclub with some strange men. When they got home, my mother screamed and threw things around, tried to bite and kick my dad. It was pretty scary. She went in the hospital the next day.”

  “I worry about my kids,” Autumn says. “They remember what happened. It must have been so terrifying for them. They probably felt like you did, Estee — scared, you know.”

  “My mom came home from the hospital, but she couldn’t work. She slept most of the time. Then, she’d start getting happy again, laughing and joking. Later I’d find out she stopped taking her medication. Pretty soon she’d stopped sleeping, called people up on the phone all hours of the night … My mom had electro shock,” Estee says. “They almost gave her a lobotomy.”

  “Sounds like she was pretty sick,” Dr. Murray says.

  “Eventually, she’d get all dressed up and leave the house and we wouldn’t be able to find her. A lot of times, the police either brought her home or arrested her for indecent exposure or disorderly conduct. My dad stayed through three hospitalizations, then he left.”

  “Who took care of you?” Beth asks.

  “My grandma. She lived in the same building. My mom was in and out of Bellevue. By junior high I was pretty much on my own.”

  “It must have been so confusing for you,” Dr. Murray says.

  “I just never knew whether she’d be there when I got home from school, what kind of shape she’d be in. When she started bringing men home, I’d stay with my grandma.”

  “My kids don’t have a father either,” Autumn says.

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “I’ll try. Lord knows, it’s on my mind.”

  “Go ahead, Autumn.”

  “Well, that night. The night he came over drunk. The night it happened. Like I said, Jim started losing it, getting madder and madder. We were in the kitchen. I sent the kids to their rooms. He was on me before I knew what happened. He knocked me down and kicked me. When I got up, he grabbed me by the hair and pushed me into the bedroom.”

  “Oh, no,” Heidi says.

  “He, he …raped me.” Autumn pushes the tissue against her eyelids. “I looked up. The kids were in the doorway.” She snorts, gasps behind her hands.

  “You must have been terrified,” Dr. Murray says.

  “Yes, yes I was.” Autumn takes a deep breath. “After he was done, he held on to my wrist, made me lay there naked in front of my kids.” She reaches back for her long ponytail, bites the end of it. “The kids just stood there in the doorway for the longest time …like statues. Each one of them locked eyes with me and never wavered. We all knew what this was about …we’d been through it so many times.” Autumn starts to cry. She motions to Beth for another tissue.

  “For god’s sake,” I say, “how can a human being act like that?”

  “Jim was a monster,” Autumn says. “A real monster.”

  “There was a guy at work like that …well, not as bad as your husband, I guess. But I could’ve killed him,” Isabel says.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You don’t know me drunk.”

  “No, but …”

  “I was miserable. What’s the female name for jerk?”

  “Bitch?” Heidi offers.

  “Yeah, bitch …a real selfish bitch.”

  “Do you know why you started drinking, Isabel?” Dr. Murray asks.

  “Not really. Neither of my parents drank. Drinking was forbidden in our house. I was only eighteen when I married Bob. Then we had the boys, both of us working really hard to get our house. I guess I was too busy to drink.”

  “What changed?”

  “I …I’ve thought about this a lot.” Isabel crosses her arms. “I started feeling old and washed up. Day after day at the plant. Boys were teenagers, didn’t need me much. Bob and I sat around watching TV.”

  “Does Bob drink?” Heidi asks. “My mom and dad used to drink and do drugs together all the time. How’s that for togetherness?”

  “Bob drinks a beer once in awhile. He’s not a drunk. I can’t blame him.”

  “I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, Isabel,” Heidi says, “but my mom wanted drugs, not me. Same with my dad. Maybe your boys figured you’d rather drink than be with them.”

  “You didn’t hurt my feelings. I already know what I did and I feel like crap about it.”

  “My dad, the old drunk, ruined my childhood, too,” Autumn says. “But I have to say he would probably be mean anyway, beer or no beer. Besides, he’d never get help.”

  “This is my third time here. Believe me, I’m trying,” Isabel says.

  “You’re all here in group to support each other. All of you have problems.”

  “I feel so embarrassed. So weak,” I say. “What’s the matter with me that I can’t just handle
things like other people?”

  “You had a significant trauma, Luanne,” Dr. Murray says.

  “Holy crap, Lu. I don’t know what I’d do if one of my kids died,” Isabel says.

  “I …it …Thanks,” I whisper.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without my kids either,” Autumn says. “God, I hope they’ll be okay. Will they, Dr. Murray?”

  Chapter 23

  I edge the flower bed with a hand spade. “I found a patient passed out on the lawn yesterday. Thought she was dead at first—just overmedicated.”

  “They’re lying all over the place. Jeez, I never even knew about places like this until I came here the first time,” Isabel says. She pulls the weeds from the dry soil.

  “In high school …I think it was my freshman year, Sodality Club. Sister announced the freshmen would teach catechism to the people at the State Home and Training School.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Home for the retarded. Marlene Davis raises her hand and says, Sister, how will we teach crazy people? How will they understand us? We all cringed. Sister didn’t like it when students talked out of turn. So, Sister says, These people are retarded, Marlene. If you want to teach crazy people, you’ll have to go up to Traverse City.

  “Later I asked my older sister about it, and she told me about the nuthouse up north. I remember that’s what she called it—the nuthouse.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Isabel says.

  “You know, after the spring dance, I got to thinking about the retarded guy who asked me to dance. Man, this seems like another life, but he reminded me of the pupil I had when I taught catechism at the State Home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We went on a tour first—saw freaky-looking babies in iron cages with mismatched heads. Some of their heads were pointed, some way too tiny for the body, and some enormous like watermelons.”

  “I don’t get it. Cages? They took you freshman kids in there?”

  “I guess they were metal beds, but they had sides and a top, like a square cage. I remember my friend, Barb, her face went gray and she started to cry. Sister told her to go back to the van. I wanted to go with her, but I stayed frozen in the doorway with the rest.”