Jo lies back on the grass, her new sneakers red with orange stripes.
'Am I not an apostle?' she asks, staring at the blue sky. Am I not free? Have I not seen Jesus Christ Our Lord?'
'I don't know. Have you?' I ask.
'I have.'
She lights a Marlboro and the flame burns yellow in her eyes. 'You know—'
'What?'
'That is the Bible I was quoting.'
'Why would a prophet end up in a mental hospital?'
'Where else would a prophet be?'
Eric stops in on his way to New York. He has been at drama school. We have Cornish hen and creamed spinach and chocolate mousse cake. I take him to the library and the pool, and he doesn't say one word about Raymond or Wayne or Mum and Dad. He says he has been reading Berthold Brecht.
'Did you talk to him about anyone?' Dr. Keats asks me afterwards.
'No.'
'Maybe he was afraid to upset you.'
'It was as if he was visiting me at school, not in a hospital. I don't know.' I shake my head. 'Maybe it's good. Maybe he just accepts me. He doesn't judge me.'
'Why would he judge you?'
'I don't know. He was there.'
'Where?'
'Everywhere. He saw us, when we were kids, and then later, doing drugs.'
'So he withdrew.'
'I guess he did.' I pause. 'I mean, it would be one thing if he had just seen me and Raymond. But he saw other things. He saw me at the dockyard, too, with other people. I wasn't like the other girls.'
'What does that mean?'
'People could tell—some people.'
'People like who?'
'Like this guy Andrew, in Antigua. He was seventeen. He worked at the dockyard and he knew, just by looking at me.'
'Knew what?'
'That I would do things with him.'
'Did you?'
'Yes. We went down to the dockyard, which was just being rebuilt then, and he took me into one of the ruins, into a square room with a stone floor and nothing on the windows or the door. He, you know—'s;
'What?'
'It's embarrassing. He, you know, fingered me.' I laugh. 'That's what they called it.'
'That's not abnormal.'
'I was nine.'
'You feel you were promiscuous?'
'Not promiscuous. Just, you know, sexual. Too sexual.'
'You felt people could sense it?'
'They could. Beck was the only one who saw me like a girl, who thought I was good.'
'Didn't you say once that you were wicked?'
I laugh. 'Probably. But I'm not wicked, either. I'm just—I don't know—worse than that. Weak.'
'I don't know anyone who would say you are weak.'
'They don't know then.'
Mum writes. She says Raymond has come home and she knows being around him is difficult for me, so whatever I decide to do—whether to come back home or move to Halfway House—is up to me.
We sailed all the way around the island, my parents and Raymond and Eric and I. We swam to shore in the morning, pulling ourselves up the hillside, through the loblolly and lantana, to a plateau where the jaquina smelled like honeysuckle.
I was afraid of the sea, of its depths and its darkness. I was afraid of rivers, of their reeds and murkiness. I did like the rain—the dusk becoming night and rain moving across the water like tiny silver fish, a hard sudden rain tapping on the sea as on a flat roof, on the canvas bimini top and the teak decks and the crow's nest, streaming down my hair and face and throat.
At home, I lay in my room at the back of the house, a small narrow room painted yellow, a small square window open on the trees. My father sat on the bed, water dripping from leaves as he read: 'Macavity Macavity. There's no one like Macavity. There never was a cat of such deceilfulness and suavity.'
Today in Session, my father says that he feels he is being manipulated. He doesn't see how he is supposed to have sympathy for me when I won't even say what Raymond did to me. I pull up my legs in my chair. I will never tell him.
Keats says I can go either to Halfway House in Arizona or to Fairley House down the street. Both have openings on the first of October.
When my parents leave, Keats tells me he won't be able to see me, even if I go to Fairley.
'You won't?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'I won't be seeing outpatients, not after September.'
'Not anyone?'
'No.'
You'd think I'd have some pride. But I didn't.
'Not even me?'
'I'm sorry.'
'God,' I say.
'I know.'
'It's like Wayne—how I, you know, made all this effort for him.'
'And now you're getting well for me?'
'Is something wrong with that?'
'I'd like you to do it for yourself.'
'For myself?' I laugh. 'I should have died—in Central Park with Raymond.'
Keats glances at the door. 'I'm not supposed to tell you this.'
'What?'
'It's not official yet. But I am leaving Fairley.'
'You are?'
'In October. Most probably.'
'Where are you going?'
'To Virginia.'
'Virginia.'
'I think we work well together. We have a good connection, don't you think? There's a charge.'
There was a charge. He had admitted it. 'If I could see you, I would. But I can't, you see.' I nod, but I want to leave the room. I do leave the room, and Keats lets me.
In August, Tara goes to Sardinia and the second wife of a famous young novelist checks in. Jo and I watch her on the sun deck, her body as thin as a finger. We go down to Rec., set up a table on the back porch, and play Scrabble.
Raymond sends me Pablo Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Keats is on vacation, and Meg tries to hang herself.
When Keats comes back, he says he is sorry about Meg. I say Meg just shows you how wrong you can be.
'She was hard to predict,' Keats says.
'She was about to go home.'
'Yes.'
'At least she had her chance.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, some people never get a chance—to get well.'
'That's true,' Keats says.
'So, she had hers.' I sound like my father.
'You sound angry.'
'Do I?'
'Maybe because I was away?'
'Maybe because Meg hanged herself.'
'Yes.'
I hold up the book Raymond sent me. 'From Raymond.'
'Ah.'
'Ah.'
'How did that make you feel?'
'You're the doctor.'
'I can't read your mind.'
'Why does he do that? Why send me presents?'
He leans forward in his chair, putting the tips of his fingers together. 'It makes him feel better about himself.'
I don't care where I am going after Fairley now I know that Keats is leaving.
'You should care.'
'Why? Because you say so?'
'Because you're worth it.'
I laugh. 'I'm worth it. Isn't that an ad for hair dye?'
Keats laughs.
'Can I even write to you?' I ask. 'Or do I just never see you again?'
'You can write.'
'I can?'
'I might not write back, but you can write.'
'I can write, but you might not write back,' I repeat. 'That's nice. That's really nice.'
I stand up and want to do something to him, to push at him or slap him or beg him for something. Instead, I take my hair clip, hot in my hand, and throw it at him.
Outside, it is perfectly still. I can feel rain in the air. The clouds are low and dark. I run down to Rec. where Jo is outside, fiddling with a new leather bracelet. We stand on the porch and watch the wind in the grass and trees. Lightning turns the sky electric white, the same white as Jo's teeth. She puts her hand on my should
er. Her eyelashes are wet and her eyes wide like the eyes of a doll.
'It's beautiful,' she says.
'Yes.'
She takes my face in her hands. Her hands are rough, yet at the same time gentle.
'Don't, Jo.'
'Can I kiss you?'
I take her hands from my face. I can feel tremors in them, like currents in water.
'No.'
She starts to cry then and I can't stand it—her heavy body her eyes so wide open and pained. I put my arms around her, around her thick dark hair smelling of grass and smoke.
'Just once?' she asks.
'Jo-'
I push her back by the shoulder. Her mouth trembles and she is going to keep crying, going to give in the way Wayne did, so I couldn't help him. 'Stop it,' I say 'stop it stop it,' my voice like Frank's in his room in the dark. I slap her so hard she flinches. She steps backwards and knocks the Scrabble set from the table.
'Get away from me.'
She holds her hand to her cheek. But I didn't hurt her. There is no red mark.
'You don't have to stay here,' she says.
'Oh, no?'
'You can come with me.'
'To where?'
'To God.'
'To God?'
'It's not so hard.'
'Then why do you want to kiss me?'
'It's lonely sometimes. Being human.'
'You are human.'
'Only with you.'
She starts running, big and awkward in the rain across the grass. I pity her, but at the same time, I hate her. I hope I never see her again. She disappears into Bishop House and I go up to Main and the nurses are rushing about, slamming windows against the rain. I don't shut mine, though. I lie soaked on the bed, until the sky is almost black, until a cold breeze drifts in and my door opens.
I see Keats's shoes and trousers.
'Betsy?' His voice is gentle, almost sorry.
'Yes.'
Vicki comes in after him and starts to take my blood pressure.
'Jo has run away.'
'Has she?'
He turns on the lamp by the bed.
'Sammy says you were together at Rec.'
'So?'
'Did something happen?'
The room is shadowy and cold.
'Actually, I hit her.' Vicki raises her eyebrows at Keats. 'I saw that,' I tell her.
'Why did you hit her?' Keats asks.
I turn onto my side on the bed, my hands between my knees.
'Betsy.'
'What?'
'Sit up.'
I groan and stand up and walk over to the desk between the open windows.
'What happened?' Keats says again. The breeze is cool and strong.
'She asked me to kiss her.'
'And did you?'
'I'm not sure that's your business, really—are you?'
Keats comes toward me. His face is pale and smooth, darkness all around him. My arms ache. The insides of my elbows ache, as bones do, before rain.
'Sit down.'
'Why should I?'
'I'm here to help.'
'You're leaving.' I am too intense. No one likes this. I like it least.
'Not right now.'
'Soon enough.'
'Come on, Betsy.'
'You don't care about me. You care about Jo, maybe, because she's missing. And you care about her kissing me. But you don't care about me.'
'That's not true.'
'You want to know what happened—you and Vicki both. It's exciting to you.'
'You're just upset.'
Vicki leaves the room.
'Where did Jo go?' Keats asks me.
'I don't know.'
Vicki comes back with another cup of liquid Haldol. I let her walk right up to me, holding out the cup. Then I slap it away. I slap it so hard it hits the wall, liquid splashing Keats's shirt, sliding down the glossy blue painted wall.
'That's enough,' Keats decides.
'Oh, is it?'
'You need to calm down.'
I have an urge to slap him. I lift my hand, but he catches it.
'I hate you,' I say. 'Did you know that?'
He flinches. I have hurt him and I am half glad.
'You don't mean that.'
'I do.'
Though I don't, of course. Though I just cannot believe he would leave, how it will be, again, after this.
'Get a Special,' Keats tells Vicki.
Specials are for psychotics. Specials follow you everywhere, all the time.
'What?' I ask. 'Are you afraid of me?'
Wally comes in then, 6'1", 240 pounds, half Special and half: Security. Lola from Jamaica follows him.
'Bastard,' I say to Keats as they hold me down and Vicki injects me.
PART VI
The sky is misty when I wake. Ash gray light fills the spaces between leaves. I go down the hallway in my pale blue nightgown. Lola is my Special and follows me, her skin black and luminous in her white uniform and white knee socks. We sit on the paisley couch and she lights my cigarette for me, puts it out when I am done.
Later, I take a shower and Lola goes through my closet, picking out clothes for me to wear. I choose a pink skirt I just charged at the gift shop. Pink is not a color I usually wear, but I don’t want to be like Robin with her all-black painting. Outside, it starts to rain and a nurse brings me my meds. Lola gets our breakfast and at seven a.m., Dr. Keats comes in.
‘You’re angry,’ he says, and I don’t answer. Or I can’t, because who knows what I might say, what it could start. Still, I am glad he is not angry at me.
Kenneth drives me to Morning Group. Lola and Adam ride with me and Lola tries to sit me between them, like some unruly child. I wouldn’t care, if it was just Lola. But Adam is my age, Adam is handsome, with his curly dark hair. ‘Oh, for godsakes,’ I say and lunge for the door. I open it so the air floods in, hot and humid, so the black tar road rushes beneath us. Lola pulls the door shut and Kenneth stops the car. Kenneth turns around and heads back to Main House.
They move me to a room off the nurses’ station, so they can watch me better. It is a small dark room, a blue drape hanging over the window. Keats must be in session, because another doctor—Jo’s doctor—comes to see me. Her name is Dr. Caroline Spiro and she is from Connecticut. Her hair is straight and blond like my mother’s, only shorter. She is wearing a summer suit, like someone in corporate relations.
She has a Klonopan for me. I can see it inside a plastic cup.
‘Why did you open the car door?’ she asks.
‘Is that for me?’
‘Bring a cup of water,’ Dr. Spiro tells Lola. She goes to the bathroom and we wait for her to come back. Then Spiro hands me the pill and the cup of water.
‘Thank you,’ I say and swallow the pill. ‘Frankly, I didn’t think I needed three people to take me to Group.’
‘That’s what your doctor ordered.’
I shrug.
‘This is a psychiatric hospital, Betsy.’ She has an engagement ring in the shape of a pear. She looks like nothing bad has happened to her, ever. ‘You can’t go around opening moving car doors.’
‘Oh.’
‘I understand you were in Dobson House—’
‘So?’
‘Were you trying to get more drugs?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I say this the way we said it at Houghton, real sarcastic.
‘It’s not uncommon for people to create a disturbance in order to get more medication.’
‘I’d like to see Dr. Keats.’
‘I’m afraid he’s busy.’
‘You’re Jo’s doctor aren’t you? Jo Whelan?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s not doing too well, is she?’
The bed is lumpy and damp and old smelling. Even the blanket is old smelling, wool and dark green. I have a feeling that someone has died here, perhaps recently. When Vicki comes by I ask her about this. She can’t remember anyone dying, though.
I lie in bed
and then I fall asleep, the way I always do with Klonopan or Haldol. When I wake up, Dr. Keats has come. ‘Feeling better?’ he asks, pulling out the wooden desk chair.
I sit up on the bed. ‘I was fine to begin with.’
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk in the nurses’ station.’
Part of me wants to stay where we are, to have him sit in the chair beside my bed, to have us all alone. The other part is scared of this, as if I might say something I should not, as if my heart, which is full with him, might grow too big inside my chest.
We go to a desk by the blood pressure monitor. As usual with Keats, I am wide awake suddenly.
‘So, you saw Dr. Spiro.’
‘I did.’
‘You didn’t like her too much.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why did you open the car door?’
Adam is on desk-duty, pretending to read a textbook.
‘Hi, Adam,’ I say, smiling at him so he actually blushes.
‘Why did you open the car door?’ Keats asks again.
‘I don’t know why.’
‘You can do better than that.’
‘Adam was there. Ask Adam.’
‘Adam,’ Keats says, ‘would you give us a minute?’
‘Sure.’ He goes out of the room.
‘He’s cute,’ I tell Keats.
‘Is he?’
‘I didn’t mean to open it. I didn’t plan it.’
‘Did you plan to jump out?’
‘I didn’t really think about it.’
‘You just can’t do things like that.’
‘I know—Dr. Spiro told me.’
‘You scare people.’
I laugh. ‘Do I?’
‘You scared me, when I heard.’
I feel bad then. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can you try something for me?’
‘What?’
‘I’d like you to think back to the moment just before you opened the door. Can you remember what you were feeling?’
‘I don’t know. I was embarrassed.’
‘Because?’
‘Because, I don’t know. Adam is my age. Lola was all over me.’
‘That’s her job.’
‘It just—it was embarrassing.’
‘So the next time you feel that way I’d like you to stop for a minute, to try to identify what you’re feeling, and then express yourself.’
Since You Ask Page 17