Separated from the love of her life, Martha’s heart filled with a rage her family would not tolerate. When she learned Curtis hanged himself, Martha suspected her brothers had murdered him. She decided she could no longer go on living with that knowledge and without Curtis’s love.
“Cissy, I did become a crazy person. I was a wild animal, caged up in my house. I wanted others to feel the pain I felt.”
Martha said her family put her in the hospital more out of shame than concern, though. Seemed that society frowned upon taking a straight razor to your wrists as much as loving a person of another color.
Cissy wondered how Martha could live there, day in and day out, with people who deserved to be in a mental hospital, the so-called zombies whom Dr. Guttman had ranted about. “Why won’t they let you go home?” she asked.
“I’m what you call an uncooperative patient,” Martha said. “I refuse to talk to Guttman. I fight with the patients and nurses. Anyway, it’s kind of like home now.”
Cissy asked why Martha didn’t just play by the rules so they’d believe she was better and let her go back to her family. Martha explained that when a person lives with anger for that long, the coals smolder so brightly it takes very little to ignite them into a roaring fire. And she didn’t think her family wanted her back anyway.
After a while, Cissy told Martha her truths, skipping over the details she’d locked away to keep her mind safe. She knew Martha understood because she held her hand throughout the telling.
“I don’t find you peculiar, Cissy,” she said. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”
Cissy blushed at her words. “Even though I’m just sixteen?”
“Age doesn’t mean a thing,” Martha said. “There’s a goodness in you I don’t see in myself. Maybe since we’re friends, a little of that’ll rub off on me.”
“I’m not good. I killed someone.”
“I’d say that’s courageous.”
Cissy had never thought of herself as courageous. Martha was brave enough to run away with her true love, but Cissy had just stayed silent, which seemed cowardly in hindsight.
Martha reminded her of the reason she stayed quiet, and that protecting Lily and Jessie counted as bravery in her book. She also said pulling the trigger was the most courageous thing Cissy would do in her lifetime.
Sometimes when Cissy couldn’t sleep, guilt tried to wrap itself around her mind and heart. Had she let her daddy do the things he did? Would a boy, like the one Martha loved, ever love her if he knew what had happened?
“I don’t want killing Daddy to be the most courageous thing I’ll ever do,” Cissy said. “It would be great if I could do something truly courageous—like fly across the ocean just as Amelia Earhart did, or climb Mount Everest. Perhaps those things would erase the shooting from my mind for good.”
She felt hope as she’d not felt it before.
“Don’t be so childish. Only pencil marks can be erased,” Martha said. Meanness danced about her eyes and Cissy had to look away.
* * *
Some days, Cissy felt she’d figured out why Martha could go from being kindhearted to cruel so easily. Maybe that was the type of crazy Dr. Guttman saw in her.
The regularity of those shifts, however, caused Cissy a great deal of anxiety that even counting couldn’t ease some days. It was the reason she decided not to tell Martha about God’s visits. Sharing wasn’t a good idea when you didn’t feel safe.
It was just yesterday that Martha stomped off in a huff because she thought it was a bad idea that Cissy spent so much time with Lucien, the orderly she’d met on her first day. Martha had called him a low-class dirty Cajun and made fun of his accent.
Cissy asked her why she disliked him so much, but Martha was always vague. It was almost as if she didn’t want any of the girls to speak to Lucien; like she was jealous. Cissy ignored the name-calling and decided it was best to never mention Lucien in Martha’s presence. Especially the part about him turning out to be a better friend than Martha had been recently.
The young orderly was short, but stout, and lumbered through the halls like the friendly circus bear Cissy had seen at the county fairgrounds last summer. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was among only a handful of staff who treated the patients with the utmost respect, as if they were all normal ladies out in the real world. Of course, Martha was right in that it was sometimes difficult to understand Lucien because of his accent, but Cissy loved the words of Lucien’s French ancestors. She’d made a list of her favorites, such as: canaille, meaning “sneaky”; couyon, meaning “stupid person”; and frissons, meaning the “chills,” which she always got. She had to write them out phonetically, though, since Lucien said he didn’t know the exact spelling.
At bedtime, he always apologized for turning off the TV as if he’d taken away something special from a bunch of girls who didn’t have much special in their lives anymore. Every so often, Cissy would touch him lightly on his hairy, bear-like arms and say it was okay, that they didn’t mind going to bed. She doubted he believed her because of the ruckus some girls caused, as if each evening, Lucien’s announcement came as a surprise.
She asked him if he liked to read, and he said he didn’t have much time for it seeing as how he worked night shifts at the hospital and still tried to help his mama during the day. She took in laundry and Lucien would deliver the freshly pressed garments, bundled neatly with brown paper and string. He said some days the packages radiated a warmth from his mama’s iron if she wrapped the clothing quickly and he’d hold the paper against his cheek.
Cissy guessed Lucien might not be able to read, or read very well, so she asked him one evening if he’d like her to read to him. Sensing his nervousness, she told him he should always lock her door last. That way he could stand near the door jamb and keep an eye out for the nurses while she read.
This evening, he seemed particularly happy to see her. “What are we reading tonight, Miss Cissy?” He checked the hallway one last time. “Moby Dick?”
“I was thinking another chapter or two of Jane Eyre.”
“Oh, all right.” He looked at his feet to hide his disappointment, but he didn’t do a good job of it. He liked Robinson Crusoe and Moby Dick much more than Jane Eyre, but she wanted him to be a well-rounded reader. He never complained, but she could tell his favorites from the way his eyes lit up.
Cissy picked up where she’d left off the last time she read to him. She hadn’t read two pages before Lucien shuffled from one foot to the other, agitated.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“There’s not a lot of happy in that story. I can’t hardly bear how that girl’s family treats her.”
“It has a happy ending. Well, sort of,” she said. “It just takes some time to get around to it.”
“We might grow old waiting for that to happen,” he said. “Can’t you read some more about those pischouettes? I liked that.”
He referred to the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels, although he’d used the Cajun word for runts or little people. Earlier, when he asked if they truly existed, Cissy said it was a possibility, because his question held such hope. His grins told her the stories would live on in his mind long after their visits and that’s what books were meant to do.
On more than one occasion, he’d interrupt and ask a question as if she had the same knowledge the author had when writing the book. If Cissy didn’t have an answer, she’d make one up so he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Her grandmother had met Lucien briefly when she visited the hospital. The conversation was mostly one-sided with Lucien staring at his feet, which led her grandmother to declare the boy was simple-minded. Cissy disagreed. Just because someone didn’t have book smarts didn’t mean they didn’t have interesting thoughts.
Some nights Lucien asked if Cissy would read from his prayer book. Before God visited her for the first time, she wouldn’t have been able to force herself to read scripture aft
er the atrocious treatment by the nuns at school. But knowing God personally these past few weeks had changed the way she thought about the Bible and most other things. She also knew that religion meant something to Lucien. As his friend, she had to respect that.
“Would you rather I just read from the Bible tonight?” Cissy asked.
“No,” he said. “I’d better just get on about my job tonight. But could we still say the good night prayer?”
“Sure thing,” she said. When their reading time was over, they’d say good night in the very same way and Cissy had grown to like it as well.
“‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ ” she began.
“‘I pray the Lord your soul to keep,’ ” he said.
“‘But if I should die before I wake . . .’”
“‘I pray the Lord your soul to take.’ But the Good Lord would never take someone as special as you,” he said.
Cissy smiled and sank down in her blankets, listening to his key turn in the lock. The metal doors to their rooms locked from the outside, which caused some of the patients a good deal of discomfort. Martha likened it to being in jail, but Cissy thought of it as being tucked in snuggly—a safe place to be alone with her thoughts, her books, and with God on the nights She visited.
God was already in Cissy’s room during the good night prayer that evening.
“I like Lucien,” Cissy said. “He’s on my List of Things That Make Me Happy.”
“Some folks may not understand your special relationship.” God had a worried look on Her face, which troubled Cissy because she figured God shouldn’t have a worry in the world.
Cissy wanted to defend Lucien, defend their friendship. Her face burned hot, but she knew God was just stating the obvious—people would gossip about why she cared so much for the orderly.
Most of the patients chose to ignore the whispering among staff. Doctors complained about nurses and nurses complained about orderlies and orderlies complained about patients. Judgments flew right and left about who did their job and who didn’t, as well as which patients received too much attention.
“They’re just being busybodies,” Cissy said. “I don’t like when people talk bad about Lucien or Dr. Guttman. They’re like the big brothers I never had.”
God sat at the end of the bed near Cissy’s feet. “Do you enjoy your visits with Dr. Guttman?”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t use the word enjoy. But yes, I guess most days I look forward to our visits.”
“What was that look you just gave me, Cissy?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She made her expression as blank as possible so God would stop the questioning.
But God kept staring until Cissy threw up her hands.
“All right, all right already. I don’t always like our visits. He has a way of making me talk about things I don’t want to talk about. He might unlock things I’d just as soon keep locked up for good.”
“Isn’t that how you’ll get well?” God asked.
Cissy wondered whether or not to ask the question nipping at her mind. Finally, she whispered, “Am I sick?”
God told her they’d talk later. She tucked Cissy’s blanket in around her legs and kissed her forehead. Sleep didn’t come easy for Cissy as she wondered if being peculiar was the same as being sick. She also wondered if it was such a good idea to be talking to God at all.
Chapter 15
For most of her childhood, Cissy suspected no one could know for sure if God existed. At St. John’s Parochial School, she took every opportunity to question the nuns no matter how many beatings it meant. The point she tried to make to the nuns was, “If God can control everything, why do bad things have to happen?” Of course she was talking about her daddy not having boundaries, but since grown-ups held a special sort of power, she had to keep the details to herself.
Sister Mary Agnes used to beat Cissy when she asserted bad things don’t happen just to sinners. Bad things happened to her and she wasn’t a sinner. She spent a good number of years receiving beatings from the nuns, but the other kids needn’t have felt sorry for her. The physical pain was a comfort, but this wasn’t something Cissy could share openly. It’d just make her mama certain she was feeble-minded.
Since Cissy didn’t have the regular beatings of the nuns to make her feel alive anymore, she began to use the spring in her ink pen to make small cuts on the inside of her thigh. This gave her a sense of calm whenever she had those moments of pure fright, like the deep, dark place was right behind her.
The nurses made a big commotion when they saw the cuts one morning at bath time. They took away Cissy’s pen and notebook, and placed her in a part of the hospital where they could watch her twenty-four hours a day. Squirreling her away in that area wasn’t the harsh punishment they intended because the room was as unremarkable as her own sleeping room. She stared at the same white cork ceiling tiles and dingy cinderblock walls, and lay on the same scratchy white sheets. The hardest part was that she’d probably not be allowed to have an ink pen again, at least not one with a spring.
For a week, wide leather wrist straps confined Cissy to the bed, and the shots in her thighs made her body as heavy as cement. There was no explaining to the nurses she posed no danger to herself. It made no sense for her to go and kill her daddy to rid herself of that pain and then go take her own life. And Cissy never heard of anyone killing themselves with an ink pen spring.
There were many people who’d never understand why she did what she did. Freeing herself and her sisters would always be thought of as crazy. And if they couldn’t understand it was the exact opposite of crazy, they would never understand why the little cuts made her feel alive and safe.
Dr. Guttman visited almost every day, even if only for a short while. He seemed to understand the why part, but made it clear that it was unacceptable and troubling behavior. He’d made her promise not to do it again, and she’d had to assure him several times before he seemed to believe she understood the ramifications.
While Cissy wasn’t allowed any other visitors, God came and went as She pleased because She was God and could do whatever She wanted. Being strapped down gave Cissy nothing to do all day, so God would recite from memory Cissy’s favorite passages from Cotton in My Sack, which was one of the books her grandmother would read to Cissy and her sisters when they slept over.
She loved hearing the stories of the Hutley family and Joanda, the ten-year-old daughter. The sharecropper life fascinated her in its grittiness and desperation. She identified with Joanda, who spoils her baby sister and loves books. Because Cissy grew up in a family of means, God thought it was important for her to understand how poor people lived.
Her mama was forever telling Cissy and her sisters how lucky they were that their daddy was a respected lawyer and a pillar of the community because it made their lives easier. It seemed to Cissy it would have been hard for her mama to look her in the eye and say that if she knew what he’d done.
While God spoke, Cissy would often close her eyes to listen more closely. Her voice was unlike any human voice. Each word caressed Cissy’s brow and slowed her breathing. God’s voice wasn’t loud, but it had a vibrating quality that masked all other sounds. God could have read the back of a Corn Flakes box and the words would have nurtured Cissy’s soul.
“What do you like about this story, Cissy,” She asked.
Cissy liked so many things about it she couldn’t decide what to choose first. “I guess I love the simplicity of Joanda’s life,” she said, thinking of how complicated her own life had become. God’s presence in her life was one of the larger complications because of the secret nature of their relationship.
With no chairs in the room, God had to lie down on the narrow bed with Cissy, who had to scooch over as best she could to give Her enough space to stretch out. God stayed with her both day and night, leaving when the nurses came to change her bedpan or give her a shot or spoon-feed her bland corn mash the texture of gritty baby food.
God�
�s presence couldn’t soothe all of her pains, though. By the fourth or so day of being locked up, Cissy would have sold her soul to Old Scratch to change into a clean nightgown and brush her hair. She longed to eat solid foods with her own fork and go to the bathroom on a real toilet.
“You know, if the hospital gave us fewer shots and more books we’d all be better off,” she’d say to each new nurse assigned to watch her. Suggestions like that were never taken seriously, though. The nurses never answered, as if silence was also part of the punishment. It didn’t matter. They hadn’t given Cissy one reason to believe they had interesting things to say, so the quiet was fine by her.
Talking only to God, though, grew tiresome, and Cissy’s attitude grew sassier with each day. God said that a smart mouth would do nothing to change her current circumstances. Hearing those words was like having her grandmother in the room, so she did her best to appear contrite and promised to never hurt herself again.
Cissy couldn’t remember when during that week she dreamt her grandmother visited, but it was one of the best dreams of her life. Grandmother’s words were almost as soothing as God’s, and they talked about the smells of summer and how they occupied a special place in their memories. That evening she slept the soundest she had since being hospitalized. The best part was that she could almost smell her grandmother’s perfume and see her yellow suit, even with her eyes closed.
Chapter 16
Self-mutilation. The word itself was horrific. Associating the word—the action—with Cissy seemed nonsensical.
“Mrs. Clayton? Are you all right?”
Janelle looked around the office, but nothing came into focus. Dr. Guttman’s voice was too gentle for a grown man’s, but she appreciated that its soprano tones could soften even the most devastating news.
“Yes, I’m fine. I . . . I need a moment.”
“Cutting is not unusual,” he continued, but Janelle could take no more.
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