Forgiveness Road

by Mandy Mikulencak

“Please. Please no words.” She rose and walked to the one window open in the room, directly behind his desk. Proper etiquette dictated she ask permission to invade his personal space, but she’d grown accustomed to a world without rules in the last few weeks. She stood, gloved hands on the sill, coaxing the uncooperative breeze to push through the wire mesh. September was masquerading in July’s god-awful heat. Janelle’s scalp itched from perspiration mingled with hairspray, but she welcomed the discomfort and its uncanny ability to distract. She counted the seconds she could bear the irritation before scratching, a counting game Cissy would approve of.

  The weight of Dr. Guttman’s hand on her shoulder was almost imperceptible, just enough to cause her to lose count. She allowed his lapse in decorum because she’d trespassed behind the desk that stood as the sole barrier between him and distraught family members like herself.

  “Please sit down so that we can talk further,” he said. “May I get you a glass of water?”

  She shook her head no and returned to the wooden chair in front of his desk. The dusty sill had left ovals of gray on the fingertips of her white gloves. Janelle felt fingerprinted, so she removed them and put them in her purse.

  “Will Cissy try to hurt herself again?” she asked. “Would she take . . .”

  “No, I don’t believe your granddaughter is suicidal,” Dr. Guttman said. “Cissy exhibits a strong sense of self. She’s no longer in danger of her father and quite honestly doesn’t show much remorse for her actions. I believe she is at peace with her decision to end her father’s life.”

  “Then why did she cut her thighs?” Janelle asked. That she’d resorted to using an ink pen spring alarmed her even more so because it’d escaped the hospital’s scrutiny as something dangerous.

  “I believe it’s just one of the many ways that Cissy soothes her anxieties, much like the counting and list-making,” he said. “It’s more akin to self-medicating than self-mutilation.”

  The hospital had isolated Cissy after discovering the cuts, and Janelle was called soon after to meet with Dr. Guttman. He said it was procedure to inform family when a patient was transferred out of the unit and placed in restraints.

  “How do you know she’ll not do this again?” she asked.

  “I’ve had several conversations with Cissy,” he said. “She’s well aware her actions brought on the solitary confinement and restriction of the activities she enjoys, like reading and drawing and socializing with other patients. Cissy is extremely intelligent, well beyond her years. I trust she understands the ramifications of her actions.”

  Janelle had no firsthand experience with psychiatry and so could not trust nor distrust Dr. Guttman’s assessment. Their meetings and phone calls left her cheeks stinging with inadequacy and her thoughts jumbled, yet she feigned understanding. She longed to disprove her granddaughter’s mental illness but in speaking up, she risked an argument she could never win.

  “May I see Cissy?”

  “The point of isolation is to allow the patient to reflect on her actions without interruption from normal activities,” he said.

  “If you weren’t going to allow me to see her, you could have told me all of this over the phone,” she said. “Are you so cruel to put me within feet of my granddaughter and not allow me at least a few moments with her?”

  Dr. Guttman removed his glasses and rubbed his temples against a headache she seemed to have brought on. Janelle didn’t care one lick about his headache, though. She’d gone up against Ruth and Caroline, who railed when she told them of her planned trip to Meridian. Neither spoke to her for two days, and she assumed both were still fuming. Janelle hadn’t told them about the cutting, so they assumed it was just a visit to check on Cissy’s general welfare.

  “I suppose a few minutes couldn’t hurt,” he said. “But just a few, Mrs. Clayton. Please trust me that I have Cissy’s best interests at heart.”

  Dr. Guttman guided her through the recreation area and down a corridor that led back to the center of the T-shaped building and over to an adjacent wing. The smells of the hospital changed perceptibly between the public and private areas. Janelle could both smell and taste a foulness when they passed through the door into the isolation ward.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Dr. Guttman said when she placed a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “Patients must use bedpans because they are restrained to their beds. The bedpans are changed frequently, but the odor is still quite pervasive.”

  Perhaps his daily contact with such smells had dulled the ability to discern the many scents united in their assault. Yes, urine and feces, but more. Body odor, bleach, pine.

  A cry behind one closed door caused Janelle’s knees to give way and she stumbled against Dr. Guttman. Throaty and sonorous, yet clearly a girl’s pleading. God in Heaven, please not Cissy. Her hearing sharpened, and she picked up other muffled cries and soft moans. The hallway proved to be an emotional gauntlet. Dr. Guttman’s hold on her elbow drove her forward. When he stopped and reached for his keys, she thought she might weep in relief.

  “I have to lock the door behind you, but you’ll be safe,” he said.

  “Dr. Guttman, I am not and have never been afraid of Cissy,” she said. “You needn’t assure me of my safety.”

  “I’m sorry, but of course,” he mumbled, red-faced. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  The door clanged shut behind her, but Cissy didn’t react. She resembled a corpse, covered by a sheet, only her head and her leather-bound wrists and ankles exposed.

  “Cissy, are you awake?” Janelle asked, and held her breath.

  “God, is that you?” Cissy mumbled, turning her head toward Janelle’s voice.

  “It’s Grandmother.”

  Cissy’s disorientation stunned Janelle so much that she approached cautiously, not wanting to scare her if she was waking from a dream. The room held a chill. Why wasn’t she covered with a blanket?

  “Grandmother? I didn’t think I was allowed visitors.”

  Matted strands of hair clung to Cissy’s forehead and cheeks, so Janelle brushed them out of the way.

  “I’m going to insist they bring you a blanket right this instant.” She straightened the sheet and pulled it up toward Cissy’s face.

  “No, Grandmother. I’m fine. Don’t ruffle any feathers on my account,” she said.

  “Demanding proper care is not ruffling feathers.”

  “No, but insisting wooden stalls be built around toilets is,” Cissy said, and smiled.

  Janelle hadn’t thought to follow up with Mr. Carnell about the project, although her check had cleared and she assumed he’d get to it as soon as he could. She made a mental note to thank him for his expediency. Maybe she’d stop by his office later if she felt up to it.

  “Please, Grandmother. Let’s just talk. Will you hold my hand?”

  Janelle moved the wide band of leather so that she could grasp Cissy’s whole palm. With her forefinger, she traced the lines from fingertip to wrist and back again.

  “Are you a palm reader, Grandmother?” Her smile dissolved the awkwardness Janelle had carried into the room.

  “Actually, yes.” She peered more closely. “It says you have a strong spirit that will reach amazing heights in your lifetime. I see much happiness in your future.”

  “Can you really see that? I wish I could see my palm.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” Janelle said.

  A lone tear escaped the corner of Cissy’s eye and disappeared into her hairline. “They don’t understand, Grandmother,” she said.

  “What don’t they understand?”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I can’t explain why it felt good except that it made things slow down. Everything seemed simple again.”

  “That doesn’t matter, child,” she assured her. “As long as you promise not to do it again, everything will be fine.” Janelle had become comfortable with making pronouncements as if she’d never be called out on their validity.

 
“I want to take a bath, Grandmother. And put on a clean nightgown. I don’t like the smell in here.”

  “Dr. Guttman said you have two more full days to go. Be strong, Cissy. I know you can do it.”

  “Let’s talk about other smells, then,” Cissy said. “Summer has the best smells, but they’re all outdoors and I’m not allowed outside. I’m afraid I’ll forget the smell of the ocean if I stay here much longer.”

  “Well, let’s remember together. Close your eyes, dear.”

  Only by shutting their eyes did Janelle feel they could escape the grimness of the room and its chalky cinderblock walls. Its distorted shape—narrow in width and depth, yet with towering twelve-foot walls—gave the illusion of being trapped at the bottom of a cracker box.

  “The water smells like brine, a salty stew of all the marine life we can’t see beneath the surface,” Janelle said. She hadn’t been to the beach in twenty years and had always refused Caroline’s invitation to join her and the girls on their outings. Yet, she could remember the exact scent carried off the Gulf on a hot July day.

  “I smell Coppertone and wet straw from my sun hat,” Cissy said. “And sometimes a bad fish smell when one has died and washed up on the beach.”

  “Sunshine has a scent, too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sunshine is the best smell of all because it stays on your skin and in your clothes,” Cissy said. “Then you can remember the day at the beach for a long time.”

  A key rasped against the lock, so Janelle leaned in to kiss Cissy’s forehead, slick with sweat. Her granddaughter wasn’t cold after all.

  “I’ll be back soon, child,” she whispered in her ear. “And, Cissy . . . I do understand.”

  When Janelle turned for the door, Cissy called out. “Grandmother, you have a special smell in my memories, too.”

  Janelle blew her a kiss and followed Dr. Guttman into the hall.

  Chapter 17

  Caroline had been curious about her mother’s latest visit with Cissy, but had dug in her heels and refused to call. When she couldn’t take the silence any longer, she decided to talk to her in person. It was so early that Janelle was sitting on the porch swing, still in her housecoat, and hadn’t put on makeup.

  “Ruth said you’ve been feeling stronger lately.” Caroline stood on the porch steps, hands tucked in her back pockets.

  “Yes, the cooler weather helps my breathing a bit if you can call eighty-five degrees cooler,” Janelle said. “I can’t remember September ever being so warm.”

  “And the drive went well?” Caroline asked.

  “If you mean, did my visit with your daughter go well, then yes, Cissy’s doing fine,” Janelle said.

  “You could’ve called to tell me how she was doing,” Caroline said. “At least give me some idea of how she’s coping.”

  “I just said she was fine.”

  Caroline had called Dr. Guttman the day before, hoping he’d divulge some details, but he, too, was vague. Almost too vague. It’d begun to alarm Caroline that they weren’t sharing information because they were convinced she didn’t care. Her mother’s terseness only added to Caroline’s worry. She hadn’t fought her mother’s wishes to become Cissy’s guardian all those weeks ago, but in doing so, she’d given up more rights than she imagined.

  “I called the hospital to check on her myself,” she said.

  Her mother stiffened. “And?”

  “Her doctor said she’s doing well, that your visit meant a lot to her.”

  “She asks about you and the girls. Speaking of which, how are Lily and Jessie? School should be starting soon.”

  “It started two weeks ago.” Caroline made her way up the stairs and over to the swing at the end of the porch where Janelle sat. Her mother said Ruth had insisted on hosing down the cushions from the wicker rockers this morning and they were still drying in the sun.

  “How did they say the first few days went?” Janelle asked.

  “Lily gets more taunting than Jessie. I guess Jessie’s classmates are a little young to know what happened,” she said. “Sister Joseph called to say Lily had pinned down a classmate and given her a bloody nose. Thank God she didn’t expel Lily. Probably feels sorry for her.”

  “Children can be so cruel,” Janelle said. “I’m proud of your girls. They’ll be fine.”

  Caroline didn’t know that for sure. Nine weeks had passed since Richard’s death. Grief had a way of making days so unbearably long you begged God to end your life.

  “You look rested, Caroline. Your color is back.”

  Caroline said she’d had a few nights of sleep uninterrupted by nightmares and it did her some good. She said she was still surprised, though, that she could function at all. Yet each day, Caroline got out of bed, drove her children to school, bought groceries, and paid bills. Life had a way of using mundane matters to propel them forward even when a single step felt impossible.

  “I like you without makeup, Mother. I don’t think I can recall a day you didn’t put your face on, even when staying at home. You’re still a beautiful woman.” Said aloud, the compliment felt awkward, but it was true.

  “Primping has felt like too much trouble lately. And besides, who’s looking at an old woman anyway.” Janelle touched her face.

  “You’re not old. Your mother lived to be ninety,” Caroline said. “You got a lot of years to cause trouble on this earth.”

  Caroline lifted her legs straight in front of her and the swing pitched them backward. Her mother raised an eyebrow and pointed at Caroline’s toenails, which had been painted with purple glittered polish.

  “Oh, that,” Caroline said. “The girls wanted pedicures last night so we all had pedicures.”

  Her mother had treated herself to professional manicures and pedicures for most of her life. Caroline couldn’t remember ever seeing them chipped or unpolished. Today, Janelle’s nails were neatly trimmed and painted with only clear polish. It suited her.

  “Mimi wants the house back,” Caroline said.

  “Wha . . . What do you mean she wants the house back? Who in the goddamn hell does Mimi think she is?”

  “Richard and I never owned the house outright. Mimi and Charles kept it in their names, but they said the house was their gift to us. I never thought it’d become an issue.” In hindsight, Caroline could admit she didn’t want to rock the boat. Mimi planned to leave them a fortune when she passed. She and Richard would not have had to worry about money again.

  “Does she care so little for her granddaughters? I’ll talk to Mimi and set her straight,” Janelle said, fire returning to her cheeks.

  “No, Mother, please don’t.” Caroline couldn’t stand the thought of being in the middle of another fight between her mother and mother-in-law. They’d never gotten along, but Richard’s death had turned their indifference toward each other into hatred.

  “Well, you’ll have to move back here, then,” Janelle said. “There’s plenty of room, even for Bess.”

  “I’d like to see Ruth and Bess living under the same roof,” Caroline joked weakly. “Bess is used to having the run of our home.”

  “No, I guess two housekeepers in one house might be asking too much.”

  Caroline did concede that she and the girls could move in temporarily, at least until she figured out if they were staying in Mississippi at all. Bess could stay at her brother’s home if she decided not to go with them.

  “Move? Out of Mississippi?”

  “Mother, you had to know I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “It’s hard for the girls. It’s hard for me. Maybe we need a fresh start.”

  Caroline’s heart broke, though, at the thought of moving farther away from her mother. Although Janelle hadn’t admitted it, Caroline was certain she was more sick than she let on. Ruth wasn’t offering up any information either, but maybe Janelle had sworn her to secrecy.

  “I can understand you wanting a fresh start,” Janelle said. “The day I had the heat stroke I’d been in Rosebuds. The impertin
ent sales girl and a couple of shoppers started in about Cissy and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. This town has been less than sympathetic.”

  Caroline nodded her understanding. She’d taken to wearing a scarf and dark sunglasses everywhere she went. The silly disguise rarely worked. “Everyone seems to want to place blame squarely on my shoulders,” Caroline said. “It’s not fair.”

  She waited for Janelle to agree or to console, but she sensed her mother fell in the category of people who blamed her as much as Richard for the abuse. Janelle patted Caroline’s thigh, but Caroline didn’t know what to make of the gesture.

  Neither of them had ever been comfortable talking about their emotions. Evasion always seemed easier. They’d instinctively avoided these conversations to spare the hurt that honesty was certain to bring. She wished so deeply that her daddy was still alive. Caroline could talk to him about anything. She’d never doubted his love for her, but had never been certain of her mother’s. Ruth had admonished her for these feelings and reminded her that love took many forms. Why couldn’t it take the form that Caroline desired most? Why couldn’t her mother just say the words? Her daddy said them every day, multiple times a day.

  “You blame me, Mother, don’t you?” Caroline twisted off her wedding band and stuffed it in a pocket. Why did she even wear it? Her mother might see it as a sign Caroline still loved Richard, believed him incapable of what he’d done.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I suppose I do.”

  Caroline refused to show her mother just how deep a wound she’d just inflicted. Their relationship was probably beyond repair, and that realization hurt as deeply as her mother’s answer.

  “Will you forgive me one day, Mother?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” Janelle said.

  Caroline didn’t meet her mother’s eye when she got up and walked toward the car. Perhaps moving away was the only way she’d ever escape the pain. Mimi could have her goddamned house.

  Chapter 18

  After her time in isolation, Cissy returned to the main ward without much commotion. Martha had told her it was because they were all used to patients being taken away from time to time, and that she’d get used to it, too.