Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  We’d been arguing about the topic since middle school. Mom had these crazy, old-fashioned notions in her head about what qualified as real work, and what didn’t. What was appropriate in the workplace, and what wasn’t. No matter what I accomplished, she always felt this need to reject the artist inside me. Even when I attended St. Luke’s, Mom wouldn’t let me just happily major solely in visual arts like I’d wanted. Instead, she made me double major in that and economics, so I’d have something to fall back on.

  “Well, I’m not set in stone on getting my lip pierced,” I replied. “I’m also considering a little black bird tattoo, on the underside of my wrist—which, FYI, is completely normal and you know that! But that’s neither here, nor there. How many times have we gone over this, Mom? I don’t want to be a math teacher. Why are you even bringing all of this up now? It’s late, I smell like a human dumpster, and I just want to shower and go to bed. What the hell?”

  “Alright, alright. You’re the one who’s always complaining about the dining hall and how tired and smelly you are after a shift. Would it be the end of the world to take on a leave-replacement position? Or at least apply and keep an open mind about it?”

  “Yes, yes it would. It would be the end of the world,” I retorted.

  Mom groaned, smacking the side of her face, a maneuver I often did when frustrated—oh, the power of genetics.

  “Sage, you’re impossible. This is my fault. I should have known better than to mention all this when you’re overtired. I just thought you might want a head’s up about a possible opportunity. Do you know how many young teachers would kill for this job? Well, anyway, as I said earlier, I just wanted to quickly check in with you and make sure all is well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Admittedly, the conversation deviated off course a bit.”

  “You think?”

  Silence. We stared at one another, neither quite able to steer back on course for a few moments, until she finally asked, “You’re still coming on Sunday, right?”

  “Sunday? Wait. What’s this Sunday?”

  “Honey, Connor’s birthday. Not this Sunday. The next one.”

  Connor. Dad and Mom’s best friend from way back in the day. I had completely forgotten all about it. Connor had always been a consistent presence in our lives but became even more preoccupied with family functions ever since his dad passed away, two years earlier.

  “I know, I know. I just forgot about it. Yeah, Mom. I’ll be there. I promise. You always make it seem like I have no idea which end is up.”

  “That’s not true, Sage. You’re a very bright and capable young woman. I love you, and I need to ask what’s going on because I worry and want you to be happy. But I can see how this is all a little bit much when you’re getting ready for bed, so I’ll let you go. I’ve gone a little helicopter on you enough for one night—goodnight, honey.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  Chapter Six

  Sage

  It was an early October morning that felt more like a late November afternoon. One where every single little part of me tingled on edge, craving more than the cocoa I heated just a bit too hot. Cuddled underneath the security of my weighted blanket, I dabbed my wrists with lavender oil and rubbed them together like two stones set to ignite a spark. Bringing them to my face, I inhaled deeply, but I still couldn’t get myself to relax. I dabbed on a bit more oil, inhaled, repeated, and remained like that for some time.

  Later that day, after finally managing to pry myself out of bed (or, more accurately, Dane successfully badgered me out of bed via a barrage of nagging texts) I met him and Farrah at Grand Central, and we caught the 1:36 to Cos Cob so that we could meet up with Kat—who was having an incredibly hard time and hadn’t been at our apartment in days. As those two bickered over which former 90s teen pop star was currently the most relevant, I emotionally retreated and blocked them both out.

  There, but not there.

  Resting my head against the window, a tan fedora—which Farrah had often teasingly referred to as my hipster hat—was pulled down, taut, till it almost covered my eyes. I tuned everything out the best I could. Hugging my legs tightly against my chest, I lightly grazed the soft flannel of my favorite button-down. I could still make out the faint scent of lavender from earlier that morning.

  Somewhere between Port Chester and Greenwich, Dane, who unconvincingly swore up and down that he had never stepped foot in southern Connecticut, campaigned to go on a sight-seeing adventure before heading to Kat’s. After another scuffle between the two—Norwalk’s aquarium versus Stamford’s Scalzi Park—I convinced them to stay local. So, we ended up splitting a ride share to hang out by the North Mianus River.

  “Hey, I’m going for a quick walk. I won’t wander off too far,” I promised once we arrived. I just needed to get away, even if only for a little while, and find a spot where I could be alone with my thoughts—no matter how lost or convoluted they might be.

  My thoughts. It was just one of those days.

  No, it wasn’t Central Park, which I was borderline obsessed with. But everything about the Connecticut foliage was simply stunning. Alone within the embrace of nature’s beauty, I stood in awe before canopy after canopy, each well into autumn’s transformation—leaves of ruby, amber, citrine, and gold. Stretching out my legs, I curiously watched a fawn and her mother graze near the river’s edge.

  Sipping away at my train station coffee, I alternated between balancing the cup on my knee and awkwardly fidgeting with my hat. On, off. On, off. I couldn’t decide.

  Usually, whenever something particularly visually compelling caught my eye—a face, a color, the distinct way a hint of sunlight grazed the water—I had to capture it. Someone might even say that it was a compulsion, a need that refused to give. That morning, though, my camera didn’t budge from my side. It wasn’t so much that my surroundings were uninspiring, but rather my inner monologue and memories had managed to secure a firm hold over me. Maybe it was as simple as Connecticut itself, and memories of my dad’s previous home and marriage.

  And of course, memories of Sherwood Pines.

  It wasn’t a photographer’s day, I decided. It was a daydreamer’s day.

  After another long and satisfying gulp of my coffee, I placed the cup down beside me to my right; camera remained to the left. There, they would remain. Deep breaths, I coached myself. Inhale. Exhale. All the while, I willed myself to block out all distractions and find solace within my silence.

  In the distance, I heard the distinct sound of Farrah’s honeyed laughter. Farrah had Kat on video chat, and the three of them were laughing at some crazy thing Dane was saying.

  When I concentrated hard, I could block them out, and almost hear the light lapping of the fawn’s tongue against the water.

  Again, I inhaled and exhaled deeply again. Then I closed my eyes.

  *

  Darien, Connecticut

  Seven years earlier…

  “Sage? Sage? We’re asking you a question. I’m sorry. What did you say your name was? Nurse Linda? Leena? You’ll have to forgive me. She’s not normally like this. I mean all fifteen-year-olds can be difficult, but this is… God. What’s normal about any of this? Sage. The nurse is speaking to you… Sage! Mike, can you do something? I don’t know. Speak to her… Well, it was your idea to admit her here in the first place… Fine, Abby’s idea… Well, what do I know about Darien, Connecticut?… She’s not responding to me… Maybe if you say something… She listens to you.”

  My mother’s voice sounded almost foreign to me. I mean, I knew it was her. But something about it seemed listless, blurry—a whimper of an echo. Directionless. Headed nowhere. Her voice twisted and turned as it wandered throughout deep tunnels, entrapped within the confines of the dark corridors of my mind—one that had not extinguished itself altogether, but instead softly faded away from my weakening grasp. My eyelids grew heavy, as they droopily lowered down… down… down…

  “Sage, honey, did you hear your mom? She’s speaking to you.”


  Dad.

  “Mom and the nurse are trying to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can answer them, honey?” He paused. “Anything? Just give my hand a little squeeze if you can’t speak, but want to. It’s okay, Sage. You are safe here.” His voice deepened, becoming an unmistakable blend of fear and anxiety laced with parental denial. I wanted so much to hug him, but instead, my arms dropped heavily at my sides, weighed down by identical imaginary anchors that only I could sense.

  I opened my mouth just slightly to respond, but no words would come out.

  “Mike, don’t tell her it’s okay to just… not say anything,” Mom scolded in a hushed whisper as if she didn’t want me to hear her. “There’s nothing about any of this that’s okay. Don’t you get that by now? Sage needs to say something if we’re going to get to the bottom of this—”

  “Julia, stop. Let me try this my way.”

  “No offense, but your way sucks,” Mom snapped. “Your way is probably why we’re here to begin with.”

  “Real mature, Julia. I happen to know a little bit about hardship and disappointment, too—you’re not the only one. Maybe I can get through to her.”

  Suddenly, my eyes shot open as I felt my head heavily slip to the side and pop my right shoulder. Smack! Whatever the doctors had given me at the inpatient unit sure had a kick. As my blank gaze traveled across the main room of Sherwood Pines’s transitional living facility, I immediately felt my senses grow overwhelmed by the intensifying Christmas scent of pine tree and… vanilla, before resting my sights on a gold-plated wooden plaque mounted against the wall, right above Nurse Leena’s head.

  “Disappointment? Seriously, Mike, are we going to do this here? Are you going to give me a lecture about maturity and hardship? Well, excuse me while I go search for the world’s smallest violin to play for you—”

  “Julia—”

  “No really, Mike,” she spat, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We need a soundtrack to go along with your sob story. Tell me, what should we cry about more? Your multi-million-dollar home in Westport? Or your gorgeous twin boys?”

  It didn’t end there. Mom and Dad kept arguing—they were always arguing. Their voices, mottled, a mish-mosh of annoyance, confusion, and grief. At one point, Dad said something along the lines of, “Do you think this is the time or the place right now?” Mom said something quick and snarky in response, I’m sure, but at that point, I was no longer listening. Closing my eyes tightly again, I willed my parents’ fighting to stop. Stop… stop… just stop… stop…

  But it wouldn’t. My eyes shot open again, settling on the plaque.

  Sherwood Pines Hospital:

  Building Bridges Towards the Restoration of Mental Health

  Since 1945

  A mental health bridge? I looked off, my eyes settled on the wall for a moment, imagining a shoddy, bridge-like structure erected over a deep, cavernous gorge that led into nothingness. On one side of the bridge stood a group of kids around my age, laughing. Their worlds were without fault, whereas mine was without stars. I stood, alone, at the opposite end.

  Brought back to the sound of my parents fighting, I stared down at my contracting fist as it evolved through several alarming shades of violet. I whispered, “Help me,” but only Leena seemed to hear it.

  “Sage,” Leena softly began. For whatever reason, maybe it was the sense of kindness emanating from her voice, I could hear her. I wanted to listen to her, and I wanted her to hear me. “We would like to welcome you to our adolescent wing here at Sherwood Pines.” Leena smiled, and I noticed that one of her front teeth had the teeniest little chip in it. I wondered what had happened. How had it gotten there?

  Leena couldn’t have been much older than me. She had one of those youthful faces that still carried baby fat around apple shaped cheeks and a rounded chin. Hers was the first smile I’d seen, in a very long time, that wasn’t fake; not crafted out of sheer adherence to social norms and obligations. Not the usual let’s pretend everything is fine lie. Her smile was genuine. It was warm.

  “Once Sage has a chance to get some rest, I promise she’ll come around,” Leena assured my parents. “Our facility is highly structured and, yes, we follow our routines and schedule, but I think you’ll find the atmosphere to be rather warm. We’re firm believers in advocating toward wellness for the entire person—it will feel very much like home in no time.”

  Home? That worried me a little. Sometimes it felt as if I didn’t have a home.

  Leena continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Sloane—”

  “Brody,” Mom interjected sharply. Boy, did she sound mad. “My name is Julia Brody. Mrs. Sloane would refer to Abigail, Mike’s current wife, who isn’t here right now. You may call us Julia and Mike.”

  Leena’s cheeks grew flush with embarrassment. “Julia. I’m sorry about that. Sorry to you both!” Leena cleared her throat nervously and scoured the paperwork attached to her clipboard, obviously shaken that someone had forgotten to add a tidbit about my parents’ fractured marital status in the file. “As I was saying,” Leena regained her composure, “you’ll find the amenities here at Sherwood Pines are simply top of the line. The girls’ common area was even featured in last spring’s edition of Young Modern Living Spaces.”

  “We have a dining room, courtyard, access to a gym. Yoga classes on Saturday, and art therapy Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. You’ll also be happy to know that we have Connecticut certified teachers on staff and available throughout the week when schools are in session. Sage should have no problem keeping up with her studies. It’s just a bit of a transition now, but she’ll adjust in no time. This is all very normal,” Leena assured them.

  Hmmm. Normal. As if to make a point, I made sure to noticeably stare down at my feet which were stuffed awkwardly in lace-less sneakers. Sure. It was very reasonable and normal to have your shoelaces removed. But no one seemed to notice. Maybe Leena had become so used to her environment, that she’d begun to see it all as normal.

  “According to my notes here, Sage will be working closely with Dr. Warner. She graduated top of her class—many of our doctors are New Haven grads. However, enough talking from me. You must have so many questions. Allow me to take the three of you over to Sage’s bedroom. She’ll be rooming with a girl named Charlotte. She’s a little bit older, but such a nice girl. They’ll get along. Char’s not one of our higher profile clients, but that’s probably for the best. You wouldn’t believe some of the lengths we’ve had to go through to protect the privacy of some of our guests here.” Leena stood up and motioned toward the door. “Now, if you’ll just follow me.”

  I wanted to scream.

  *

  I didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

  “Sage. Sage? Girlfriend! Farrah, she’s not listening to me. Get her attention.”

  “Me? What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. Pull her hair or something.”

  “Seriously, Dane? You want me to pull her hair? What? Are we in third grade? Have you lost your mind!?!? Let me just tell her what’s going on. Sage. Sage! Kat just texted me. Something came up and she has to bail. We’re just going to head back now, okay?”

  My eyes fluttered open, and I shook my head at the both of them. “You know I can hear you,” I said. “I’m fine; I was just thinking about some stuff.” I pulled myself off the ground and protectively shoved my hands inside my pockets. “I hate Connecticut. It always makes me… remember things.”

  “Thinking about stuff? Honey, you didn’t even look like your mind was on our planet. Besides, I thought you lived in this town with your Dad at one point,” Dane said. “Aren’t your brothers here? How can you hate it?”

  “Westport,” Farrah corrected. “Completely different town. Also, from what I remember, there are other places she’s connected to.”

  “Well, how the hell would I know the difference? This all looks like West Bumpkinland to me!” Dane exclaimed. “Like seriously, shouldn’t there be, like, cows grazing off in the
distance?”

  “Cows? Really? This is southern Connecticut, right on the New York border—not New Hampshire! We’re like ten minutes away from Stamford,” Farrah laughed. “You’re such a city snob. If it’s not in Manhattan or Brooklyn, you’re completely clueless!”

  “That is not true. Sage tell her that’s not true! I’ve been to Europe… Australia… and all over the country. LA, Phoenix, D.C., Miami, Baltimore… I even went to a Yankee game with Mike and his friends once. It was in the Bronx. It was all very scary and exciting at the same time. Are we really that close to Stamford? Someone once told me that I’d like Stamford.”

  “Don’t knock the Bronx, that’s where my parents are from,” I interrupted. “Come on you two, I don’t have all day—I have work tonight.”

  “Silly, I know that’s where your dad’s from. He still has a bit of that charming accent! We’re coming; we’re coming. So, Farrah, tell me more about this Stamford. How is the dating situation there?”

  “Dating situation? Why, are you interested?” Farrah fake-gasped.

  “None of your business, Miss. I’m talking about you. I want to go to a wedding, and we need to get you a fiancé—stat. Kat isn’t interested in marriage any time soon… and that one over there,” Dane pointed to me, “needs someone she won’t dump in all of two weeks. She’s a lost cause—for now.”

  “Whatever you two,” I pulled them both toward me for a big, cheesy group hug. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Chapter Seven

  Kat

  Ten years earlier…

  “My mother’s rose garden is an actual garden. That’s… well, it’s a patch. If you can even call it that. Also, it looks like it was planted by someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. We have our housekeeper, Ama, do all of our garden work. Hell, we pretty much make Ama do everything. In fact…”