The question takes me by surprise. It feels like a trick question. I’m not sure what the right answer is. Does wanting to spend time at a mental hospital seem strange? Or does an aversion to it seem stranger? And what about Chloe? I see so little of her already.
As if in response to my concern Chloe holds up her arms, but before I can get up Billie swoops in and picks her up.
“If I can come back up for lunch to see Chloe I won’t mind,” I say.
“Of course you can come back up for lunch,” Sky says. She drains her glass and smiles. “It’s not as if you’re being admitted there.”
Daphne’s Journal, July 23, 20—
I’m worried about Laurel. First of all, she took Peter’s idea about quitting group seriously.
“What do we need them for?” she told me. “They’re a bunch of losers. Do you really need to hear Alexa Hartshorn go on about how she’s afraid she’s a bad mother because she drank a cup of coffee before she nursed little Junior? Have you seen her lump of a baby? He could use a good shot of espresso. And I’m sick to death of Esta’s sanctimonious, goody-two-shoes prattle. Honestly, telling me I shouldn’t tell scary-mom stories because it might infect the ‘more vulnerable mothers.’ Like I’m Typhoid Mary.”
That’s another thing. Esta told me to stop telling scary-mom stories, not Laurel. When she told the jumper story at the party as if she had heard it first I didn’t think much about it. I mean, everyone does that, right? Retell a story you’ve heard without saying where you heard it. No big deal. But there have been other things since. Retelling things Esta said to me as if she said them to her. Taking bits and pieces of my past and acting like they were hers. For instance, I heard her telling a woman at the gym that her baby was born prematurely. She told her how devastating it had been to watch her baby being force fed through a tube. But that didn’t happen to Laurel; it happened to me.
I’m beginning to think that she has that OCD thing Esta told me about: she hears a story and then she begins to think it’s her story. The worst thing is that Esta was right about the jumper story; it’s really gotten to Laurel.
It started right after the party. We were at the salon having mani-pedis and she told me she was afraid there was something wrong with Chloë—her Chloë.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” she whispered as if the Ukrainian girls scraping our feet would even understand, “but when Chloë was two months old, I left her on the bed and she rolled off. She hit her head so hard she threw up. I think she may have gotten brain damage.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I said, remembering I’d told Laurel a story of doing the same thing with my Chloe. “She seems completely normal to me.”
“But she’s not rolling over on her own and your Chloe is.” She was so agitated she jerked her foot and nearly kicked Svetlana in the face.
“Well . . .” I started to say something reassuring but she added, “And your Chloe was a preemie. She should be behind my Chloë developmentally.”
I know it’s silly but this made me a little angry for my Chloe. The doctor said I shouldn’t worry if Chloe was behind on developmental milestones because of her being born early, but it was hard to listen to other mothers bragging about their babies rolling over and even sitting up already and to have to keep saying, “Well, she was a preemie.” It felt good to have my Chloe doing something before Laurel’s Chloe-with-an-umlaut.
So I just made a very concerned face and said, “Hm, maybe you should have her checked out.” Which is practically the worst thing you can say to a mother.
Then I felt bad about it because Laurel took her Chloë to the hospital and had them run a battery of tests on her—even a CT scan. They didn’t find anything but Laurel said she thinks they did but that they won’t tell her because they’re afraid of what she might do. That’s when I found out about Laurel’s history of mental illness. She told me that she had a breakdown when she was in college and again when she was in grad school. Then when she was pregnant she got really depressed and took some pills. She said she was just trying to get some sleep, but Stan brought her to the hospital and said she had tried to kill herself.
“That’s how he became my mental-health conservator,” she told me the last time I was at her house.
I didn’t know what that was, so she had to explain it to me. I was kind of shocked, because it made it sound like Laurel really wasn’t able to take care of herself. But I didn’t want to make her feel bad, so I said, “I’m sure he just wanted to make sure he could help you if you were incapacitated. Like a power of attorney . . . Peter had me sign one in case something happened during delivery.”
“But you don’t have any money, so it doesn’t really matter!” She was so loud that Simone, who was watching the Chloes in the yard, looked up. “I’ve got my inheritance. It’s all in trust, of course, which drives Stan crazy, but with this conservatorship Stan could take all my money if I were in a coma.”
I just stared at her, trying to think what to say to calm her down, and I noticed for the first time that she had these really dark circles under her eyes. “Are you getting any sleep?” I asked.
Her eyes widened the way they did in group when someone said something she thinks is stupid. “Why do you ask that? Are you saying I sound crazy?”
“No, no!” I lied. Because, really, she did sound a little crazy. “You just sound . . . stressed out. And I know what it was like when Chloe wasn’t sleeping through the night.”
Her eyes practically bulged out of her head. “You mean she is now? You didn’t tell me that.” She said it like I’d been keeping state secrets from her. The truth was I hadn’t told her because I knew she’d be jealous.
“Oh, it’s only been for a few nights.” I laughed, trying to sound casual, but it came out sounding a little hysterical. “I didn’t want to jinx it. And all I meant was that everything seems worse when you’re overtired. You know, like when the Chloes act up when they haven’t had their naps.”
“I’m not a baby,” she said frostily, getting up from the couch. “Sim, would you bring my Chloë in? I think it’s time for her nap. I wouldn’t want her to get cranky.”
I tried to apologize, but Laurel pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about. She got all remote, which I’d seen her do with Esta and some of the other mothers. Ice bitch, I heard Alexa Hartshorn call her once. But she’d never acted that way with me. I cried all the way home and it upset Chloe so much that she cried too. So there were the two of us just wailing away! I had to sit in the car a few minutes to get my composure back, because if Peter saw me like that he’d make a big fuss about it. Once when I cried in front of Chloe he said it was really bad for her to see me cry.
While I was spritzing my face with an atomizer Stan came out of the house. He was wearing his golfing outfit—a Ralph Lauren shirt and khaki shorts—and I remembered that he and Peter had had a golfing date. Seeing his skinny legs and knee-high socks I realized how ridiculous Laurel’s fears were. I felt kind of sorry for Stan.
I dried my face and put on my sunglasses and got out of the car. Stan came up right away to help me with Chloe’s car seat and carried it to the door. What a nice guy, I thought. He really didn’t deserve a crazy, suspicious wife. I wanted to do something to help, so when we got to the door I told him I was worried about Laurel. I told him all about the jumper story and how she’d been talking about something being wrong with Chloë and that I was afraid she might have “internalized” the story.
Stan listened to it all very seriously, his head bowed, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, poor guy. When I was done he looked me right in the eyes (although since I still had my sunglasses on it was more like he was looking a little to the right of my eyes) and he touched my arm. “Thank you for telling me this, Daphne,” he said. “I’ve been worried about her too. She—she has a history.”
“She told me,” I said, so he’d know he wasn’t betraying Laurel’s trust. “She said she was diagnosed with bipolar dis
order.”
He smiled, but it was a really sad smile. “That’s what she tells people. But her diagnosis is more serious that that. She has BPD—borderline personality disorder.”
“Oh!” I said, wondering if that was really worse. I don’t know anything about borderline personality disorder, but the word borderline sounds kind of scary, like being balanced on the ledge of a tall building. “I didn’t know.”
“She’s really good at hiding it,” he said, looking away. “You wouldn’t guess, for instance, that she’s tried to kill herself twice.”
“She told me taking those pills was an accident,” I said.
“And cutting her wrists, did she say that was an accident too?”
That really shocked me. “Why would someone like Laurel try to kill herself? She’s so beautiful and smart and . . .” I was going to say rich but stopped myself and said, “and so confident.”
Stan smiled, but sadly. “That’s what I thought when I first met her, but then I realized that it was all a show. It’s part of her sickness. She can seem like a totally different person because when she’s sick she is a totally different person. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure who the real Laurel is. Sometimes I think there is no real Laurel.”
Which really scared me, because if there’s no real Laurel, who the hell have I been friends with all these weeks?
Chapter Eight
I had planned to drive to Crantham, but when Billie comes to pick up Chloe she tells me she’s already arranged to have a guard meet me at the back gate.
“I thought you’d want to walk,” she says, bouncing Chloe up and down in her arms. “To get a feel for Dr. Bennett’s routine.”
“Yes, I guess that’s a good idea,” I say slowly, “only I thought I’d drive into town afterward to pick up some things.”
“What do you need?” Billie asked. “I’ll put it on my list.”
The truth is I wanted to refill my—or rather, Laurel’s—prescription for antidepressants but I wasn’t sure how that was going to go. And I wasn’t going to entrust that errand to Billie. So I list a few innocuous items like tampons, deodorant, and toothpaste. There’s not much that isn’t provided here. My kitchen is restocked regularly with tea and milk and cereal and I eat lunch and dinner with Sky and Billie. I haven’t had any reason to leave the house since I came, which is probably for the best. Even though I’ve given Peter a good reason not to follow me, he could have reported the car as stolen. It’s safer that I stay off the roads.
I change my shoes and follow Billie’s directions to the back path. I miss it twice, so overgrown are the hedges that flank it. The stone steps are nearly covered by moss. Two steps in and I’m in the deep shade of a pine forest. It’s like entering a tunnel. How often does anyone take this path? Billie arrives every morning in a rusty old Honda Civic. Sky certainly can’t manage it. The gardener obviously never sets foot on it. I should turn back and take the car, only I’d feel a little foolish if Billie saw me. And there is something . . . alluring about these woods—a haunted quiet that reminds me of fairy tales. Here is another clue to the stories that Sky wrote. She’d grown up surrounded by a forest, like a fairy-tale princess.
So I take a deep breath of pine-scented air and set off. The mossy stone steps give way to a path covered with dried pine needles that glow golden in the green filtered light. The only sounds are birdcalls and the wind sifting through the treetops. It’s peaceful. I can imagine Dr. Bennett girding himself for the day ahead in the restorative calm. It must have been hard to see patients like E. who had so much potential but were hopelessly entangled in the workings of their misfiring brains.
As soon as I think of E. it’s her I imagine on the path. Climbing up here to reach the tower where she thought her baby was being held, hearing her baby’s cries in the sigh of the wind—
A sharp cry suddenly cleaves the slanted sunlight. I turn around so fast the trees spin, a kaleidoscope of branches and leaves, shards of light and dark. Something flits across the tilting sunbeams. I listen, but all I hear is my own ragged breath and stuttering heart. Even the birds have gone quiet, as if frightened by that horrible cry. Has a patient escaped from the hospital and hidden herself in the woods? It happened once; who’s to say it won’t happen again. She could be prowling through the woods now, looking for someone to attack for her civilian clothes.
A drop of sweat snakes down my back, sending a chill down my spine. My skin prickles all over. The silence of the woods—so peaceful a moment ago—feels ominous now.
Panic, Laurel told me once, comes from the name of the Greek god of nature, Pan, because of the sudden irrational fear that could strike a man in the woods.
That’s all this is, I tell myself, a panic attack. There’s no lunatic prowling in the woods waiting to pounce on me. There’s only me.
AT THE BOTTOM of the path I find a ten-foot-tall mesh fence with razor wire on top and WARNING! ELECTRIC FENCE! signs posted every couple of feet. There’s also a locked gate. Clearly no mental patient has broken through this barrier. The uniformed guard standing on the other side doesn’t look like he’d let a crazy woman hit him over the head. He’s young, well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, muscular, and armed with a Taser. The eyes he trains on me are sharp and alert.
“Ms. Hobbes?”
It takes me a moment to remember that’s who I am and to get over the surprise of his knowing my—or Laurel’s—name, but then I remember that Billie has set this all up. “Yes. I’m here to see Dr. Hancock—Schuyler Bennett set up the appointment?” I’m instantly annoyed with myself for repeating what he must already know and for letting my voice go up at the end. As if I wasn’t sure why I’m here or who I’m supposed to be.
“Can I see some ID?”
Has he picked up on my insecurity? Or has he seen my picture on a Missing Persons Alert? When I don’t immediately produce my wallet he adds, “Just SOP, ma’am. Standard operating procedure.”
“Oh—” I fumble for my wallet in my bag and produce Laurel’s driver’s license. Will it still look like me with my brown roots showing? “It’s an awful picture.”
The guard looks down at the picture and then up at me. I have time to notice there’s a brown freckle in the white of his eye and a small scar dividing his right eyebrow. When he narrows his eyes, little crowfeet appear at their corners and he looks older than I first thought—thirties rather than twenties.
“Thank you, Ms. Hobbes.” He hands me back my wallet. “Hospital policy.”
“Of course, Officer . . .” I crane my neck to read his badge and I’m startled by what I read. “Marcus? That’s the name of the guard who was attacked by a patient in the seventies.”
The guard grimaces as he unlocks the gate. “My father. And the family claim to fame.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I grew up in a small town too. Everybody knew me as Tammy-the-town-drunk-some-people-shouldn’t-ever-have-kids’s kid.”
He winces and grins at the same time, which makes him look somewhere in between the callow youth and seasoned veteran. Like a guy who’s seen plenty of trouble but hasn’t completely given up on people. I’ve made a connection with my confession but, I realize as I step through the gate, I’ve slipped up. I’d given him a piece of my own past instead of Laurel’s.
OFFICER MARCUS, WHO tells me to call him Ben, gives me a tour on the way to the Main Building. “There’s the laundry and the power plant. The hospital still produces its own steam power. That’s where the dairy was.” He points to a peeling red barn. “But it got too expensive to run. It produced enough milk and cheese and butter for the whole facility back when there were more than four hundred patients. They kept chickens too, and grew their own vegetables.”
“Like a medieval village.”
“Yeah,” he says, “only populated by crazy people.”
“And doctors,” I add, “and nurses.”
“Who do you think I was referring to?”
I laugh, although the idea that this p
lace was run by crazy people makes me feel cold all over. “What did people say about Dr. Bennett?” I ask.
“Oh, he was like a god to the town for a while back in the sixties. He built the hospital up with his new and improved methods of treating the insane. Brought in a better class of patient too, socialites with drinking problems, the unruly pot-smoking teenagers of the rich, burnt-out executives . . .”
“You make it sound like a country club.”
He shrugs. “I haven’t been to many country clubs, but we do have our own golf course.” The path, which has been winding decoratively through landscaped lawns, has led us to a rise that looks over a green golf course. A man in baggy pants and a tattered sweater vest is leaning over a ball with a club. As we pass he swings the club back and then forward toward the ball—but stops just before it makes contact. He shouts something incomprehensible and then swings the club back again and repeats the same aborted swing accompanied by the same shout, which should be “Fore!” but is actually, I hear now, “Fuck!”
“That’s Mr. Simmons. He used to be a big deal at Lehman Brothers. Thank God for the sub-prime fallout. We were down to less than a hundred patients before 2008.”
“What happened to Dr. Bennett’s kingdom?” I ask.
“He retired. Then private insurers and Medicare stopped paying for long hospital stays. Then someone invented Prozac and the rich found other ways to treat their own. We’re mostly a rehab clinic now with a few of the old guard in attendance.”
I think of the blinking light I’d seen from the tower. “Are there any dangerous cases?”
“Most of these poor souls are so medicated, they wouldn’t be able to punch their way out of a paper bag, but there’s always one or two who tongue their meds and suddenly decide to do a runner. They can be surprisingly strong—and fast.”
I look around at the gently curving paths, the landscaped grounds, the pairs of people strolling or sitting on benches. Beneath the bucolic calm there’s a simmering sense of danger, like what I felt in the woods, a panic sizzling beneath the quiet. Looming over the pretty landscape is the Main Building, an imposing brick Victorian pile with a central clock tower, green mansard roof, and two wings. It looks more like a fancy college than a mental hospital, until I look up and see the bars on the windows. Nothing is quite what it seems to be here, I think, and then I hear a voice in my head reply, Neither are you.
The Other Mother Page 9