Admissions

by Jennifer Sowle

“Let’s get started.”

  “I’ve been thinking about our last session. Jeff.”

  “And?”

  “Divorce is the best thing …But I hate the thought of being alone.”

  “You’re strong. You’ll get stronger.”

  “I’m not so strong. There were times when I prayed Alexander would die.” I expect Dr. Murray’s disapproval.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Every day …the constant struggle …each day a little worse.” I wipe my eyes. “One Sunday we went out for a ride. We just had to get out of that house… We were a few blocks from home when Alexander began whimpering. His back hurt. I turned to Jeff and said, Boy this is really fun.” My voice quavers. “I was just so worn out and afraid.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Alexander looked up at me and smiled. This is fun, isn’t it Mommy? It just broke my heart.” I take a deep breath. “I remind myself what you told me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not perfect. I did the best I could.”

  “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  “Why did my little boy get sick?”

  Dr. Murray sits back in her chair, crosses her arms. “I don’t know, Luanne.”

  “So unfair …the suffering.” I pull a tissue from the box. “I prayed for it to end.”

  “I understand.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “No.”

  “He died without ever having a life. He wanted to ride the school bus …Is that such a big deal? He just wanted to ride the school bus …”

  “I’m so sorry.” Dr. Murray lets me cry it out.

  Finally, I take a drink of water, blow my nose, adjust in my chair. “I think I remember that night …the night I went to Ojibway Park.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “After Jeff left for work, I cried myself to sleep. I dreamed about Andy Scully.”

  “Andy Scully?”

  “A kid in my neighborhood, growing up.”

  “Go on.”

  “He drowned.”

  “What happened?”

  “We lived by the river. When I came in from playing, my mom would always say, You didn’t go near that river did you? It never failed.”

  “She was worried about you.”

  “All the mothers were. They relaxed in the winter—the river froze back then, before it was too polluted. That’s the strange part.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s when Andy drowned.”

  “His sister Becky and I usually went sledding after school. Makes me think of my old snowsuit. Man, I hated that thing. A hand-me-down from my cousin. It had three-inch acrylic fur that snagged balls of snow and made me look like a yeti.”

  “How old were you that winter?”

  “Eight.”

  “Mrs. Scully said she sent Andy out to play with us, but then he disappeared.” I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down.

  “The hole was amazingly small, sent out a beautiful pattern …like cracked glass … Andy was under the ice …moved past the hole …headed down the river toward Bay City. “

  “Oh god.”

  “Becky and I just stood there staring at the red blob moving under the ice. He wore his red jacket and snow pants, but his boots were missing. His superman hat hung around his neck by the string. His mittens floated next to his hands on their silver clips. I started crying when he bobbed up against the smoky curtain of ice, his blue eyes staring. It was so scary. His hair swirled around his face.”

  “How terrible.”

  “Andy floated quite a ways down the river before the ice broke up, and they snagged him with a long hook.”

  “You were just a kid yourself.”

  “I was devastated, had nightmares about being frozen stiff. Now this is dumb …”

  “What’s that?”

  “I slept with my sister for awhile, then when she kicked me out, I slept with a knife under my pillow.”

  “A weapon against bad luck?”

  “I guess so. For a long time, I thought it was my fault.”

  “How could that be?”

  I shrug. “I’m Catholic. I figured we should’ve been watching him.”

  “Do you feel that now?”

  “No…I don’t think so.”

  “Um-humm.”

  “I really hadn’t thought about Andy since I was a kid. I was in bed all that day …I woke up feeling different …”

  “Different?”

  “Content …calm …I knew what I could do …just float away, so peaceful, like Andy.” I turn and stare out the window.

  “And that’s when you went to the park? Luanne?”

  “Humm?”

  “You woke up knowing you would go to the park?”

  “It was a clear cold night, the river lit by a starry sky …the water made a trickling sound. Ugh …the sludge …on the bottom …grabbed my shoes as I waded in …made a sucking sound at each step.”

  “You were in the river.”

  “Yes. I remember the icy water creeping up under my jeans. I stumbled …couldn’t stand up …all the junk on the bottom. Like slow motion …I swirled around …sat down …lay back. My sweatshirt floated out behind me. The current pulled me …icy cold. I heard Alexander calling me.”

  Chapter 55

  On my way out of Dr. Murray’s office, I pull a copy of the latest Observer from the stack on the secretary’s desk. “Guess I’ll take one for the road. I’m going home today, Francine.”

  “Congratulations, honey. Good luck now.”

  I roll up the paper, and hold it in my mittened hand as I leave the administration building. I have an hour before Mom picks me up. I’ve already packed my few belongings, just have to say goodbye to Heidi and Autumn, and sign some papers.

  I stroll down by the frozen Willow Lake reflecting pool and sit on the cement bench. The knobby fingers of the oaks stretch across the sky as if they are reaching for something. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself leaving. I feel like a cork bobbing in a clean white sea, suspended, light. I open my eyes and look out over the frozen lawns, follow a flurry of powdery snow as it skims across the ice. Imagine myself blowing along with it. “Goodbye,” I say into the wind.

  Mom waits by the door as I come down the hall with my suitcase and a small box of odds and ends, books, cards and letters.

  “All set?”

  “All set, Mom.”

  “Roads are pretty bad.”

  “I’d like to drive.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The car doors slam, echo off the brick of the tall buildings. I pull away from the cottage, down Red Drive, winding in front of Building 50 and out past the cairn of river rock. STATE HOSPITAL, Traverse City, Michigan, est. 1885 carved on a cement triangle.

  “What’s that you’ve got sticking out of your purse?”

  “Observer.”

  “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Look at it all you want. It’s the last issue we’ll ever see.”

  THE OBSERVER

  December 24, 1969

  Page 6

  Leaves:

  Weekend Passes:

  Robert Price

  Thaddeus Stahl

  Franklin McNerney

  Harriet Field

  Victoria Keller

  Home Care:

  Autumn Bauer

  Rebecca King

  Salvadore Costes

  Ronald Benson

  Heidi Parsons

  Maybeth Stoke

  Phyllis Darnell

  Dennis Murphy

  Transfers:

  Frederick Donacheski

  Bernard Youngblood

  Discharges:

  Monica Benkowski

  Carmen Ruiz

  Danelle Cooper

  Freda Rosselli

  Gerald Tysen

  Luanne Kilpi

  Epilogue

  2008

  I drive my Corolla up the circle drive, park in the
shadows of Building 50. I’ve lied to the agent, now I’m counting on the halo effect.

  I hear you can tell somebody’s status by their shoes, watch, and car. I’m impeccably dressed, my outfit accessorized with my only pair of designer shoes, the ones I splurged on for Josh’s wedding. Instead of a watch, I wear the gold and emerald bracelet Jonathan gave me for our twentieth anniversary.

  I smooth my skirt. Even with the car air conditioning, the humidity leaves deep creases across my lap. I’m a half hour early. My nerves are jangled. I walk across the lawn where the Willow Lake reflecting pool once was. I sit on a water stained cement bench, could be the same one Jeff and I sat on that afternoon he told me he was leaving.

  Since the hospital closed in 1989, I’ve been back many times. I usually come alone …stroll under the oaks, staring up at the buildings, looking into broken windows, trying the doors …hoping to find one unlocked …to get back inside Building 50.

  I brought Jonathan and the kids once years ago, the children laughing as they ran across the expansive lawns, scaring each other with tales of monsters and maniacs. But Jonathan can’t understand my need to return, to get a glimpse inside Building 50. I can’t explain it. I stopped trying. Like most compulsions, it’s a lonely mission.

  “Dr. Iazetto?” The agent extends her hand.

  “Please call me Luanne, or Lu,” I say as I give her my best professional-woman handshake.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Luanne. I’m Rita Copeland.” I guess real estate agent Copeland to be in her late sixties, mat black dyed hair, skin like a saddle from too many winters in Florida, stale cigarette smoke under her expensive perfume. “How did you hear about The Village at the Commons?”

  “I lived in Traverse City years ago, and we vacation here. I’m fascinated with the old hospital, always have been.”

  “It’s an amazing place, so beautiful. To think they almost tore it down.”

  “Yes,” I agree. I’ve been watching the development and formulate a plan: pretend to be a buyer, and finagle my way into old Building 50. So far, the idea is working without a hitch.

  “I would like you to see Stella, our fine dining restaurant, and Gallery 50 at the end of the hall here in the building,” Agent Copeland drones on like a tape recording.

  “Wow, this place is something,” I schmooze as we walk toward the restaurant. “Condos, huh?” I say. “Out of this old place?”

  “The asylum is a hundred and twenty years old. A real historical gem. Our architects can work miracles, Luanne. You’d be surprised. This building will be a showplace.”

  “What’s this door?” I recognize it’s the chapel, later converted to the patient’s library. I spent time here forty years ago, searching the shelves sparsely stacked with old donated books.

  “I think it’s an auditorium or something. It’s big.”

  “Can we take a peek?”

  “We shouldn’t. I’ve been told not to enter the old part without a hard hat.”

  “Oh really?” I try to sound deeply disappointed.

  “Okay, but don’t tell anybody we did this.” Agent Copeland tackles her large bag like an arcade claw game, tipping it back and forth as she dips her hand in and out, finally snagging the key ring and carefully pulling it to the surface. She turns the key, the padlock snaps open, sending the chain clanking against the heavy door. It moans as it opens about a foot then scrapes to a stop. We both turn sideways and squeeze through.

  “Maybe this used to be the chapel.” Ms. Copeland turns slowly, looks up.

  I blink a few times. The room is dim and as cold as a walk-in freezer. The agent’s voice fades. What did she say? I’m distracted by the slide show in my head—red and cream tiled floors, a gray iron door with rivets, spinning women in blue smocks. The smell is getting to me, musty as a root cellar. And something else—the scent of cold, like wet metal. It starts again, a sickening stench brought to my senses from somewhere, body odor and blood, death. I lean against the doorjamb.

  “Are you feeling alright, Lu? You look pale.”

  “I’m just a little light-headed. I’ll be okay.” Focus on her voice. Focus. “Did you say this used to be the chapel?”

  “Yes, I think so. Look, you can still see remnants of a mural on the ceiling.”

  I look up. There it is—the arched dome of gold inlay, traces of painted clouds and angels. The fresco is faded, but the angel who reminds me of Alexander looks down through a smoky curtain, like dusty cracked glass.

  “We never know when another piece of the ceiling will let loose. We’d better go …have a cup of coffee. I’ll explain what we’re doing here at The Village.” The agent takes my elbow, turns me toward the door. “Phase I is almost completely sold out, but we’re taking reservations for Phase II.” She snaps the padlock closed.

  “Sounds good.” My stomach ripples. Concentrate. Try to sound normal. We walk to a brightly lit café down the hall. The menu is printed with colored chalk on a large chalkboard hanging on long chains. I flinch when I see the metal swivel stools with red vinyl seats. I also recognize the stainless steel bins behind the counter where they once served up cafeteria food to the hospital staff. The old canteen is now Cuppa Joe.

  “Isn’t this a wonderful retro look, Lu? We’re trying to preserve the ambiance of the period. This project is incredible. This building is almost four blocks long and will transform into condos, upscale restaurants, offices, and shops. Are you interested in an office or a residential condo?”

  I don’t skip a beat. “Residential. I live in Chicago, teach English at Northwestern, but I plan to retire soon and move back here.”

  Ms. Copeland continues chatting, “European village…towers, spires …Building 50, the centerpiece … its heyday.”

  Who could have imagined it? The sleeping giant was about to awaken and become a beauty queen.

  I shake the real estate agent’s hand and leave the building. The panic attack subsides, but I feel weak and inexplicably lonely.

  There has been talk of ghosts wandering around in the old building, appearing at the end of dark hallways. I feel something more ethereal, like smoke from ashes, a spiritual residue of thousands of lives, perhaps a stain left by their suffering.

  Now maybe I can let it go.

  One thing is certain, no matter how many times I come back or how many years have passed, when I step out of my car, it’s that snowy November morning Jeff drove down the winding drive. I’ve left a trace of myself here, the broken young mother who came here so many years ago.

  In that way maybe I, too, am a ghost.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapters 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapten 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

 
; Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue 2008