by Mira T. Lee
After, I sat in the car, heat full blast on my face. Found a towel in the backseat, took off my shirt. I liked the sensation of my winter jacket resting on my skin. I drove exactly the speed limit to Betty’s house. Betty was holding the baby in her lap. “What happened to you, wet dog?” She pointed to my hair. Wet dog. I still had had no news of Lucia. When Essy saw me, she smiled. “Let’s show your Papi something,” said Betty. She plopped Essy on a thin blanket on the floor, where she sat, drooling. She sat. Straight up without sagging forward or toppling over or hunching down on one side. “She sits by herself,” I said. Betty nodded proudly. This smallest of things seemed a miracle. Betty brought me a dry T-shirt and a pair of her husband’s jeans, which were too tight and too short, but I didn’t care.
“Mi amor,” I sang. I had to sing loudly, so Essy could hear me over the rhythmic thumping of the wipers. Traffic was heavy for this time of day. Bumper to bumper, so I kept my foot on the brake. This weather caused accidents. Orange cones lined the middle of Main Street. Up ahead, a diamond-shaped sign. As I approached, I could read it: CHECKPOINT AHEAD. BE PREPARED TO STOP. Orange, the color of hazards. I cursed. Closed my eyes. I knew this process was to hunt drunk drivers, but I knew they also hunted people like me. For some reason I never imagined it would happen in daylight, not on such a miserable day. For some reason, my next thought was: They will confiscate Lucia’s car, and what will I tell Lucia? The skin of my arms grew cold under my jacket. My armpits soaked with sweat. I would say I left my wallet at work. But my tongue was dry like sandpaper, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I saw the officer approach. He had a thin mustache, dark glasses on his forehead, wore a reflective orange vest like a construction worker. I rolled down my window. “License and registration,” he said. He shone a flashlight in my face though it was day. I squinted. Opened the glove compartment. Started rummaging through Lucia’s envelopes. He walked around to the passenger’s side, his breath condensing on the window, still aiming the flashlight in my face. He opened his mouth and was about to say something when Essy let out a wail. I couldn’t see my baby, she was strapped in her car seat, facing the rear. Lucia had insisted it was safest, though it made her carsick; for a while she’d thrown up almost every day. The policeman tapped at her window. She whimpered like an animal.
“This your baby?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “My daughter.”
Now Essy’s whimpers became grunts, then howls, like the monkeys in the rain forests of Ecuador.
“She doesn’t like the car,” I said apologetically.
“I can see that,” said the policeman. He tapped the flashlight on the rear window. Then back up front near my face. “Sorry, you’re not going to like this.”
I was too frozen to answer. My chest tightened. I squeezed the steering wheel so tight it hurt my hands.
“She puked all over the place.”
“Oh shit,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’d better pull over and clean her up,” he said. “Move along.” He waved me through.
“Thank you,” I said. I rolled up the window, turned down the next side street and stopped the car. My chest heaved. I dug out some wipes and cloths that Betty always kept with the baby diapers. Unlatched my seat belt and climbed in the back.
Essy was asleep again. Her face was wet. Her bib, her clothes, the straps of her car seat were all soaked with drool, sprayed with curds of spit-up, reeking of sour milk.
“Gracias, mi amor,” I whispered.
When we got home, Mrs. Gutierrez was standing on our front stoop. She wore an oversize parka over her bathrobe, rubber boots on her feet. Still, she was holding her broom.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“What is it?” I said.
She looked down at her feet.
“Is it Lucia?”
She shook her head. “They came.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer.
“Lucia’s sister?” I said.
“No,” said Mrs. Gutierrez. “Light-haired. I don’t know this lady.”
My heart sank.
“With migras. They took Susi,” she said.
She explained that a woman had come to the door accompanied by two uniformed men. They asked about a baby. Susi refused to answer their questions.
“Assholes. They were assholes, that’s all,” said Mrs. Gutierrez. “They took Susi away, so rough. I will pray for her, she will not be mistaken for a Mexicana. Mexicanas they haul away in a truck, dump them in the middle of the desert.”
“Stop,” I said. “Please stop.” I did not want to hear any more. My throat was tight. I sat down on the stoop. I hung my head between my legs and tried to breathe.
• • •
I told Maurice I needed to take a break. I couldn’t bring Essy back to Betty’s house. Betty no longer wanted to speak to me. I didn’t blame her. I went to Dr. Vera Wang. “Lucia is in the hospital,” I said. “Good,” she said, but she denied calling CPS. I didn’t understand. My Vargas cousins asked around, but mostly stayed quiet, kept their heads down. No one wanted to be next. I gathered the belongings Susi had left lying all over the place, her clothes, her books, her high-heeled shoes. Couldn’t stand to see them, so I brought them back to her room, the one she’d originally shared with Celia and Ruth. Her brand-new cell phone lay by her mattress. I slipped it into my pocket.
Hector found me a dishwashing job at a local diner. Carlos said his cousin Delia had two daughters, she could take Essy for a little extra cash. I worked. I slept. When I slept, I dreamed my coffee-stained ceiling collapsed and Lucia and Mami and Susi fell on top of me. I was too tired to tell them to go away.
One night, there was a catfight in the alley. One night, there was a trash fire in the alley. Mrs. Gutierrez called 911. I shoved Essy into her pink fleece hoodie with ears. Ran outside. I started walking toward Main Street. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the house.
I walked and walked until I reached the police station. Sat outside on the front steps. It was dark. It was cold. My baby girl lay asleep in my arms. I thought, I can stand up now. I can reach for the door. Pull it open. I can walk in and say, I give up. We don’t belong.
3
Crote Six
Lucia Bok was brought into the medical facility by the police at 10:05 p.m. A shopkeeper had reported seeing the young woman on Main Street, yelling and waving her arms at the traffic lights, wearing minimal clothing despite freezing temperatures. She was agitated, “difficult to subdue,” the officer said. “They’re going to take my baby,” she repeated, again and again. When asked whether she lived nearby, she replied, “I live in the People’s World.”
Dr. Olga Watts, on-call psychiatrist in the ER, examined Ms. Bok, who responded only when addressed as “Lucy.” Dr. Watts scanned the police report. “Who is trying to take your baby?” she asked. Lucy gestured like a schoolchild, zipped her lips with her fingers, threw away the key. “Has someone hurt your baby?” asked Dr. Watts. No. Had she hurt her own baby? No. Where was her baby now? At home. Who was taking care of her baby? Lucy fidgeted, poked at her cuticles, but eventually answered: her cousins. There was no reason to think these statements were false. Lucy was able to count backward from ten, correctly name several ordinary objects, including a pen, a bracelet, a pillow. She identified a watch as “a speedometer,” a trash bin as “a velociraptor.” Tangential, but clever, in a way. When asked what day of the week it was, she replied, “Mother’s Day.” Did she have any history of mental illness? Lucy shrugged. Had she ever been hospitalized? “Uh,” she said, twirling her index finger by her ear. “Duh. I gave birth.”
Throughout questioning, she remained calm. At times she stared at the blocks of fluorescent lights on the ceiling, cocked her head to one side, as if eavesdropping on an important conversation. She denied visual or auditory hallucinations.
“How old is your baby no
w?” asked Dr. Watts.
“Growing,” said Lucy. “Every minute.” She tapped her watch. She tapped her foot. Then all of a sudden, she stood up. “I should get going,” she said, as if this interview were a mere inconvenience of which she had just now tired. She pulled a thick wool blanket over her hospital johnny, the one the police had given her when she was found.
Though Lucy Bok denied any thoughts of harming herself or her baby, Dr. Watts found herself uncomfortable. The girl was off, that was evident; whether she posed an imminent danger to herself or others was less clear. But those twiggy arms and legs, full breasts, and loose middle corroborated a baby’s existence. The deadness in the woman’s eyes made her ache.
“I’d like to call one of your cousins,” she said, brightly. She would check hospital records. “Can you wait here, please?”
“I’d rather go,” said Lucy. “This room makes me uncomfortable.”
“It won’t take long. Please, take a seat.”
At this, Lucy Bok snapped. “I need to go now,” she said. Attempting to leave the room, she pushed Dr. Watts aside with her hand, tripped on a rolling stool, which she kicked with her foot, sending it flying into the wall. “You’re with them,” she said. She narrowed her eyes. “It’s time. I need to go.” Her tone was sharp, bitter, carefully controlled, her previous placid demeanor erased.
Dr. Watts called for backup. Code Green. Lucia Bok entered the inpatient unit as an involuntary admission.
• • •
Nurse Bob was working intake for Crote Six, the sixth-floor ward in the east wing. It had been an unusually busy shift. One of the manics spiked a fever of 104.8, churned up into a delirium, had to be transferred to a medical unit. Several other patients, disturbed by the commotion, required sleep aids to settle down. Now, at 3:50 a.m., another new admit. He buzzed the security lock. Tall Paul Arroyo, largest of the safety officers, escorted Lucy Bok, one hand loosely grazing her elbow.
She looked familiar. Bob was sure he’d seen her before. A year ago, maybe two? Time passed with few markers in a place like this, and while at the beginning of his career he could recall the seasons by his patients’ stays (the suicidal glee club singer that first summer, the manic cop who gambled away his house that first fall), by now they were mostly a blur. Depressives, psychotics, addicts, abusers, borderlines in search of three hots and a cot, especially after the holidays. It wasn’t fair to label them, but he did. Everyone did. It kept things manageable.
“Good morning, Paul,” he said.
“More like good night,” said Tall Paul. “I’m off after this one.” He palmed a yawn.
The next instant, the girl had twisted her body, ducked under Paul’s armpit, caught the last crack of the closing door. “Ms. Bok!” he yelled. From Tall Paul’s fingers dangled her johnny, by a sleeve, like Peter Rabbit’s jacket on McGregor’s fence. The shock froze them both for a half second while she slipped down the hall, fled through the stairwell door. Tall Paul shot after her.
Nurse Bob shook his head. How far did she think she’d get like that, practically naked on a bitter cold night? He tried to recall if she had pulled this kind of stunt before. He didn’t remember her as a troublemaker.
Tall Paul returned a minute later with scratches on his forehead, a gash on his left cheek. He presented Lucy Bok in handcuffs, shivering. “We’re going to take care of you here,” said Nurse Bob, gently. With his island accent, smooth dark scalp, single metallic ball stud earring, he was an imposing figure, hard to forget, but the girl squinted without any sign of recognition. He administered a standard two-milligram dose of Haldol, handed her a toothbrush, paper slippers, a fresh pair of scrubs. “You’ll feel better after you sleep,” he said.
• • •
Coco Washington woke when Lucy was brought to her room. She bolted up in bed, positioned herself on all fours, arched her back like a cat and hissed. “Take it easy. Lie down,” said Nurse Bob. Loco Coco, one of Crote Six’s frequent flyers, returned every winter (same complaints, different hairdo).
Coco waited until Bob had left, popped up again. “Hey, psst, what’s your name, baby?” she said.
“Where’s the baby?” murmured Lucy.
“My babies are full grown,” said Coco. “Except for my two-headed baby. It died. I gave birth to a two-headed baby once. In Jamaica. Hell yeah, that made me famous.”
The two-headed baby usually sparked conversation. Coco’s new roommate remained quiet, hugged her knees to her chest, rounded her spine like a shrimp.
“They said those babies were from Satan; they said I was a witch. But they were just two sad little boy babies stuck in one body. Poor souls, not made for this world.”
Coco pretended to wipe away a tear. She reached into her nightstand drawer, pulled out a pack of cinnamon gum. “Want one?” Waved a stick in the air.
Lucy sat up, crisscrossed her legs. “I hate this place,” she said.
“What’s to hate, baby?” Coco snapped her powdery pink gum with her bicuspids. “You got a bed, your meals, the meds—all-inclusive, baby. It’s the fuckin’ Holiday Inn.” She laughed, a cackly, high-pitched laugh. Slapped her cheeks with her frizzy dyed-orange braids. “We gonna be friends, right? I’ll let you do my hair.”
No response. Trust Bob to stick her with another dud. She watched as her roommate climbed out of bed. Then Lucy Bok collapsed to the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Coco.
The body on the floor began to buck and writhe. “Help. Somebody help me, please.” Tears spilled down Lucy’s cheeks. Muscular spasms wracked her neck, her jaw, the left side of her face.
Coco gaped, horrified. “Holy babies. Shit, shit, shit.” She jumped up and ran for help.
“It’s the Haldol,” said Nurse Bob. Side effects were common, but he rarely saw it get as bad as this. He gave Lucy two milligrams of Cogentin in a paper cup. She swallowed, too dazed to argue.
Returned to bed, Coco watched her roommate roll onto her side, stack her limbs, her body folded along its vertical axis. Such enormous dark eyes, like two gaping holes in her head. Pretty enough to be a movie star, at least in those foreign films.
“You okay now, baby?”
To her surprise, Lucy reached out her hand. “Can I have some gum?” she said.
A connection, thought Coco. Together they chewed, in near-dark.
“Helps the dry mouth,” said Coco. “I got the dry mouth bad.”
“Like cotton,” said Lucy.
“You another suicidal?” said Coco.
Lucy glanced around the room, confused. She cupped her mouth with her hands. “I’m a mother,” she whispered.
“Me, too,” said Coco. “So we’re gonna be friends, right?”
Lucy flopped back down, buried her face in her pillow. Coco lay wide awake. She watched Lucy toss and turn, settle finally onto her back, deepening breaths transitioning into slack-jawed snores. As gray light seeped in the cracks below the room-darkening shades, Coco grew alarmed. She tiptoed to her roommate’s bed. With a hesitant hand, as if to pet a stray animal, she tilted Lucy’s head to one side. Then slowly, carefully, using thumb and forefinger, she extracted the sticky pink wad from Lucy’s mouth. Coco recognized a hazard when she saw one; she was determined to protect her new friend.
She hadn’t been expecting it, exactly. But then it came as no great surprise, more a rush of relief, as though she’d been sucking in her gut for days, or weeks, or months without knowing, and could finally now exhale. The voice, slightly accented—Russian, perhaps?—the tone professional, yet kind. A doctor. A doctor? Miranda Bok rose from her chair. Doctors never called. This one was calling Switzerland. She was touched.
“My sister has a history,” she said. “I’ll fax it to you.” She was prepared, this time.
But the doctor worked emergency. It was the end of her shift. Lucia would be transferred to Crote Six, one of
the behavioral health units upstairs.
“I’ll be there. Please don’t let her out. Tell them I’ll be there. Tell them she has a baby now.”
“It’s okay, Ms. Bok,” said the doctor. “Stay calm. Breathe. Your sister will be in good hands.”
“Thank you,” said Miranda. “Thank you for letting me know.”
From her bedroom window, the view: the clock tower in town, its copper-green cupola rising above sloped roofs, the cows dotting the hillside, the snowy peaks of Glärnisch in the distance. Day after day, it still felt unreal; she half expected Heidi to prance by with her golden pigtails. She stepped outside to the back porch, overlooking the bright blue waters of the Stöcktalersee. Sat in her wicker rocking chair next to her geraniums and her easel, pried open her laptop, checked her calendar. Two meetings to reschedule, including one with a health care nonprofit she’d been referred to by Stefan’s colleague at the hospital. But it was doable. She booked a flight from Zurich to JFK, direct. Should she call Tess? But it had been so long since they’d last spoken, and such awkward circumstances, and Tess lived in Brooklyn now, and it was still some ungodly hour over there—she made a reservation at an inn on Route 9 instead.
She packed a small suitcase that evening. Her two sharpest work outfits, including her pearls, everything else for warmth. From her file cabinet she fetched a folder full of notes and clinical papers, pamphlets and guides. Despite their uninspiring titles (Treatment Options, FAQs 4 Caregivers, Bipolar Symptoms and Signs) she’d read every one of them multiple times, had 25 Tips for Coping with Schizophrenia practically memorized.
1. You cannot cure a mental disorder for a family member.
