The Ruining

by Anna Collomore

  The first day, I tried to talk to Dr. Clarkson about it. Libby hadn’t mentioned a roommate, I’d explained. I didn’t think I should have a roommate. I valued my privacy. I liked to be alone. I didn’t like having people in my room at night. When Dr. Clarkson asked me why, I’d told him. I’d told him about Dean and how Dean almost came in my room a few times when I was a teenager, and how now it was hard to sleep if I thought I wasn’t alone. And then Dr. Clarkson said, “I know all about your fears, Nanny.” And, “Don’t you think, Nanny, that it’s better to confront your fears?”

  But I wasn’t like the rest of the patients at Richmond-Fost. Some of them didn’t know where they were, couldn’t tell the difference between the dog they used to love and the dirty hand towel in the washroom. I started thinking I didn’t belong with these people. I was tired, sick, confused. But I wasn’t crazy. All of it—Libby, the long hours, the lack of sleep—had switched around my brain so everything overlapped and nothing was clear and in its right drawers. I just had to have some time to rest, and I would sort it out.

  I’d asked for my belongings, and they told me they were being held until I was released. In the meantime, they said, I’d be fine in the standard cotton uniform. There were only women on this ward. But a man snuck into the room the first night, maybe a male orderly, and I could hear him and Millie giggling and kissing and panting all night. I ran out of the room and told the night nurse and she sent me back in, said, “Stop causing trouble. Just go to sleep.” But she did check to make sure both our doors were locked. The man was gone by the time she came to check. The next day, Millie scratched me so hard with her fingernails that I bled. I was sent to Dr. Clarkson. I told Dr. Clarkson the whole thing and he suggested that I hurt myself, that I’d made up the story of the night visitor as a manifestation of Dean and I’d scratched myself out of self-loathing. Because the hospital would never allow men in the ladies’ rooms at night. He said I had a long way to go and I’d be better off making friends with Millie than alienating her. He gave me some medicine and told me I’d had enough settling in and I’d have to go to group classes the next day. I told him I was feeling better, asked him if I could leave, and Dr. Clarkson asked where I’d like to go. Would I go back with Libby? Would she take me back without me giving the program a real try? I realized then that I had to do it, to make myself stay. I had no other choice. And I was still so tired.

  The medicine made me sick to my stomach and hazy in my head. Worse than the Valium. That just mostly made me sleepy, but the other medicine, the cluster of yellow and white pills, it made me somebody else. It made my tongue swell up like cotton balls and made me jittery. I started having thoughts I didn’t normally have. I started wanting to smack Millie when she pointed and laughed, even though I knew she couldn’t help herself and she would point and laugh at a blank wall if that’s what happened to be in front of her. But all I felt was foggy with these bursts of violence. I wanted to tape Millie’s mouth closed so she’d quit her hacking laughter. It was the medicine. The medicine was changing me, rewiring my brain. But what if I couldn’t get back to normal? What if I stopped taking it and I stayed in an angry fog always?

  I wanted to eat a lot, too. I wound up chewing on my fingernails a lot. That’s what I did, sat and chewed on my fingernails and tried not to listen to Millie accuse me of looking at her and hearing her thoughts.

  I wasn’t sure anymore how much time had passed. I kept track of time for the first three days, and then I lost track. One day I took my pills and fell asleep and woke up and wasn’t sure if it was still that same day or the next day.

  • • •

  I HAD JUST COME BACK from group therapy. Justin had told us about his relationship with his brother. Cara had told us about her relationship with her pocket knife. I’d been invited to speak, but I’d refused. I had nothing to say. Millie was acting as though she had something to say, though.

  “You too skinny to know what it’s like,” she informed me. “You don’t even know. People think fat people, we hungry all the time. Like we have some choice in the matter. Like we choose to be fat. Like it’s some sort of immature decision-making process.”

  “You’re not fat, Millie,” I said. I immediately wished I hadn’t. Millie bared her teeth at me.

  “You don’t know I’m not fat,” she snapped. “You can’t see into my head. You lookin’ in my head again?” She eyed me suspiciously from where I sat on the twin bed opposite hers. I shook my head. I didn’t have the strength. I didn’t know how Millie kept her energy up. My medicine made me want to sleep all the time. But sometimes, like now, I couldn’t. Zoe’s face mixed with Lissa’s would flash in my head just as I was about to nod off, or my inner voice would think anxious thoughts about needing to keep myself locked up here forever.

  Kayla, the day nurse, knocked on the door, interrupting Millie’s monologue. “Visitor, Nanny,” she said. “Waiting in the rec room.” I felt a rush of adrenaline. Maybe it was Libby. I so badly wanted to see her that I nearly cried. I’d tell her to bring me home. I padded out of the room, forcing my eyes open as wide as I could make them go. They had been prone to drooping at half-mast. It was the medicine. But I didn’t mind so much. I liked the rest. I liked passing my days in a haze of sleep. It all felt imaginary, and that was good.

  “Jesus.”

  It took me a minute to register the shocked voice as Owen’s. He was sitting in a plastic chair next to one of the tables. He’d unfolded a chess board and was playing with no partner. Playing against himself, it looked like. Owen was so healthy-looking. I almost cried seeing him there like that. He stood out like a splash of energy in the cold, listless room. He looked strong and alert; his eyes were open all the way and he wore a backward baseball cap, jeans, and a T-shirt. He looked normal the way none of us did at the hospital. I wondered if he would look as normal when he left. How long would it take him to turn into everyone else? That’s what this hospital did. It made us all walking, talking, sluggish clones.

  “I had no idea.” His eyes looked watery, like he was trying not to cry. But maybe that was just my eyes. They were filmy. Every day when I woke up, I felt like I was looking through a shower curtain. “You don’t belong here, Annie,” he said quietly but intensely. “Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

  “I called you,” I said. “But you didn’t answer. And then I saw you with her. . . .”

  “Who? Saw me with who?”

  I thought hard. I couldn’t remember. Then I felt a flash of pain.

  “Alexis. You were laughing at me.” Owen looked sick to his stomach. He gestured for me to take the chair across from him.

  “Annie,” he said, taking my hand, “Alexis is my cousin. She was staying with us that week. She’d come in from Rhode Island.”

  “Wow.” I let it sink in, afraid of showing how happy I was. But he still hadn’t explained a few things. “But what about the calls?” I asked. “You never called me back. I called you a million times.”

  “I swear I don’t have any missed calls from you.”

  “That’s crazy. I called you more times than I’m comfortable admitting. Everything just kind of fell apart, Owen. I didn’t know what to do.” I swallowed back my tears, but I couldn’t control the shaking of my hands. And the temporary lucidity I felt in Owen’s presence was starting to give way to the fog that had encompassed my days since I’d arrived and started taking medicine. “Just check my phone,” I insisted. “We’ll see your calls. They’ll be on my phone.” But as soon as I said it, I realized I didn’t have my phone anymore. It had been confiscated.

  “That’s why I came, Annie,” Owen said gently. “I think something really weird is going on with the Cohens.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “They’ve been so kind to me. Are they okay? I hope they’re okay.”

  “Annie, listen to me.” Owen’s voice was low and urgent. “You don’t belong here. I think they brought you here on purpose. To keep you away. Or at the very least to damage your credibilit
y.”

  “No,” I told him, pulling away from his grasp. “No, I need to be here. I want to be here. They are very kind to be paying for my treatment. I couldn’t afford it otherwise. Now I just need to get better so Libby will let me come back.”

  “Annie, look around you!” Owen said, gesturing to the patients who sat in various states around the room. Only a few looked alert. Several were dozing or staring blankly into space. One had a large spot of blood on the back of her gown.

  “I’m not even sure they’re paying for this place at all,” Owen told me. “It’s state-run. And if you came here willingly . . .”

  “Libby knows Dr. Clarkson,” I said faintly. “He’s high up here.”

  “Annie, I went to the house looking for you. I saw you drive off with the overnight bag last week, and I got worried. So I went over there the next day, and Libby said you’d gone back home to be with your family. Why would she say that if she was planning to take you back? And then the next day I was walking Izzy, and Zoe was out in the front yard playing all by herself. I asked her if she knew where you were, and she just said ‘hospital.’ She wouldn’t say anything else. She probably doesn’t understand. So I called all the hospitals in the city until I found you. But when they told me what ward you were in . . . I couldn’t believe it.”

  I’d started crying by then, silent sobs that I could barely feel. My tears traced patterns on my cheeks, forming little rivers and inlets that separated and met up again. They made me feel alive.

  “Shhh,” Owen said. “You’ve been through so much, baby. I wish I’d known.” I leaned into his shoulder for a blessed minute, enjoying the warmth of his body. I believed him.

  “Ms. Phillips,” Dr. Clarkson’s voice connected with my ears at the same time as I registered his palm on my shoulder. “Visiting hours are over.”

  “But they end an hour from now,” I protested.

  “Sir,” Dr. Clarkson said to Owen, “I need to ask you to leave now. You’re causing a disturbance to the other patients.”

  “But—” I began again, quieting when Owen shot me a look.

  “We understand,” Owen said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Dr. Clarkson gave Owen a long look before nodding. “Just hurry and say your goodbyes,” he said, shuffling off to another patient.

  “We’re not doing anything,” I said to Owen. “What’s his problem?”

  “He’s probably supposed to be watching out for you,” Owen said. “Didn’t you say he’s the one who knows Libby? I’m serious, Annie, you need to trust me. I’m going to do some digging, figure out what the hell is going on in that house. Just stay strong. I’m going to figure everything out.”

  I nodded, feeling the weight of my anxieties lift a little.

  He bent to kiss me one last time, and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I WAITED FOR OWEN, but he didn’t come. I checked the visitors’ registers so many times that Dr. Clarkson upped my anxiety medication, leaving me feeling even more lightheaded than before. Two or three days later, I woke with the kind of headache that felt like an axe splitting my skull. I thought maybe it was one of the migraines my mother got, the kind she promised me I’d one day inherit. I made an appointment with Dr. Clarkson.

  “Tell me,” he said in a benign tone, “when did your mother experience these headaches?” He was fiddling with a pen and jotting down some notes on his tablet. His legs were crossed at the knee like a woman’s.

  “I don’t remember exactly.” I reached back into my memories of my old life but came up empty-handed. “I think maybe after she’d been drinking, or when she was in a slump.”

  “Tell me what you mean by ‘in a slump.’”

  “Depressed. Feeling low, I guess.”

  Dr. Clarkson tapped the pen against his chin thoughtfully. “Would you say you’re in a slump right now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “Maybe? Yes.” I was confused. He was confusing me.

  “What was your relationship with your mother like?” the doctor wanted to know.

  “It was good at first. But then Lissa died, and she married Dean and started drinking a lot. So we didn’t talk much anymore.”

  “You say Lissa died. Can you tell me more about Lissa?”

  “She was my little sister,” I told him.

  “When and how did your sister die, Nanny?”

  I took a deep breath. It was hard, saying all of this. I wasn’t prepared for it. “She drowned in a swimming pool when she was six and I was fourteen,” I told him. “So about four years ago.”

  “Uh-huh. And do you think that maybe being around a small child again triggered latent feelings about Lissa’s death?”

  “Maybe,” I nodded. I felt the tears deep inside my chest, long before they made their way to my eyes. “Dr. Clarkson?” I asked. “Do you think we could talk about something else?”

  “Okay, Annie. We can talk about this another time.” I nodded, grateful.

  “You know,” I said, when I’d regained my composure. “I think . . . I think some of my recent . . . stress . . . I think it has to do with Libby. She puts a lot of pressure on me.”

  “I see,” the doctor said. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “She has her own problems, I guess.”

  “Nothing to do with you? Could you have done anything to contribute to the relationship dynamic?”

  I shook my head. But then I thought hard. I thought back to that day in the garage, and how Libby had stood up for me to Walker. But after that, her behavior had become erratic, not as kind and compassionate as before.

  “There was a day,” I mentioned. “I accidentally knocked over a box in their garage, and Walker thought I was snooping.”

  “And Mrs. Cohen? How did she react?”

  “She seemed fine. She believed me when I said it was an accident. She defended me to Walker, actually. But after that, I think, is when things started getting weird.”

  “What were the contents of the box?” Dr. Clarkson asked. “Was it material of a sensitive nature?”

  “I guess so,” I agreed. “But I didn’t really see anything.”

  “Nevertheless, I think this moment is something to keep in mind. Why don’t we revisit it next time. But for now, let’s take a moment for a relaxation exercise that might help you manage your nerves.” He gestured toward my trembling hands. I hadn’t even noticed them myself. “Think of a place that makes you feel happy and calm. Focus on it, and let the air drain out of your fingertips, until they feel limp and heavy. . . .”

  I thought of the woods in Michigan where I’d gone with Lissa and my mom. I focused on that, but I couldn’t keep the other thoughts from pushing their way into my consciousness. Something about what Dr. Clarkson had said was bothering me. I thought back to the will, to that day in the garage. I felt around in my brain for whatever it was that was fighting to emerge.

  I shook my head. There was some connection I was fighting to make, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get there. Dr. Clarkson’s eyes met mine. He looked alarmed by my reaction.

  I was starting to shake.

  “Calm down, Annie,” he said. “Try to focus on the meditation.”

  “I came in here for a headache, Doctor,” I told him rudely. All I wanted was to get out of there, to be alone, to think. “Can you just give me some Excedrin and we’ll call it a day?”

  “I’d urge you to speak to me with more respect,” he said coolly. “Your headache is a manifestation of larger problems. I think there are some serious truths you need to confront.”

  “What do you mean?” I felt light-headed, nauseated. I knew I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.

  “Mrs. Cohen was kind enough to disclose everything about your recent behavior.”

  “Everything?” I asked. There was a rushing in my ears like an ocean, and the walls and the floors began to close in on me. I felt stifled, hot. “I’m fine,”
I insisted. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I just need to rest a little and then I’ll be fine.” Dr. Clarkson peered down at me from over his glasses. He glanced back down at the chart in his hand. “What did she tell you?” I asked, my voice laced with horror.

  “According to Mrs. Cohen, you were born in Detroit eighteen years ago. You lived in a low-income housing development.” He looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded. “Your father left when you were nine years old,” he continued, “and Dean moved in when you were twelve. Your mother developed an alcohol addiction a year or two after your father left.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “And Lissa died when I was fourteen. She drowned in the swimming pool. I should have been watching her more closely.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Clarkson said. “And when you came to California, your behavior was dangerous and erratic. You had violent outbursts and hallucinations. Probably PTSD.”

  “No,” I whispered. “That isn’t true. None of that is true.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” the doctor told me. “I have no reason to doubt Mrs. Cohen, Annie. And quite frankly, your reaction now only corroborates her story.”

  • • •

  ELECTROSHOCK THERAPY wasn’t as bad as I thought. I thought it was this awful, painful thing, like being in a medieval torture chamber. I thought every minute of it would be seared into my memory, that I would relive it in seconds-long segments every night in my dreams. But when it was over, I didn’t remember any of it. I remembered the anesthesia, the rubber stick they made me bite on, the gas they made me inhale . . . and then it was done, and I was being wheeled into the recovery area.

  Dr. Clarkson said it would help my depression. He said it would help me remember things, and that I wouldn’t have to do it very often. But then he gave me more medicine and all I felt was floppy, and I didn’t care what they did with my body anymore. They could shock it or sedate it or drug it up and it wouldn’t matter because I’d still be in the hospital, wrecked.