by Mira T. Lee
They chowed down like prisoners, licked their lips, helped themselves to more rice and more shrimp and more king crab legs. Upon finishing, the patients emitted a collective groan. “Thank you, sister,” they said. They adjourned to afternoon activities with their salty bellies. The staff hoped they would all take naps.
Coco went to her favorite armchair by the cluster of potted plants, turned it to face the outside. She’d just gotten comfortable when Charo entered the lounge, waving a red purse in the air.
“Does anyone know about this?” said Charo.
It belonged to the mother of one of the new admits. Now minus a substantial sum of money.
“Does anyone know about this?” Charo repeated calmly.
“Sure,” said Coco. She rotated her chair. Watched Big Juan’s rear end swing from side to side as he chased the ping-pong ball. “He knows.” She pointed a finger at Hulk.
“Liar,” said Hulk.
“I am not, I saw him. He was looking for money.”
“Why would I take anyone’s money?” said Hulk.
“Drugs,” said Loco Coco. “Everyone knows Hulk will do anything for his drugs.”
“Quiet down,” hissed Charo. She was not interested in confronting Hulk.
“He’ll take a little girly-boy into the bathroom, lick his balls for money,” said Coco.
Charo groaned. Hulk roared. He leapt to his feet, grabbed one end of a vinyl love seat, hurled it at the wall of windows.
Code Green.
Nurse Bob came running. Tall Paul rushed in. It took four staff members to restrain Hulk, two to restrain Coco, who kept kicking her feet, aiming for his groin.
Lucy Bok crawled on her hands and knees by the window, rescuing the battered plants. A few of the plastic yellow buckets had cracked, littering the floor with leaves and dirt.
“Are you okay, Lucy?” asked Tall Paul.
Lucy’s hands trembled. She bit her lip. “No. I’m not okay.”
• • •
“Did the meds make him like that?” asked Lucy. It was the next afternoon.
“No,” said Nurse Bob.
“I saw him take his pills. Aren’t they supposed to stabilize him? So why’d he do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Bob. It was a good question, with no good answer. “Each patient has to deal with his own issues.”
“He threw a couch at the window.”
“Yes, I know.” It had shaken Bob, too, and everyone else in the ward. “Look, Lucy, the treatment team discussed your case this morning. You’ve been doing well.” These last four days on Abilify, and already the girl’s thoughts had become significantly more lucid. Her speech flowed. “How do you feel?”
“Throwing a couch at the window is an issue,” said Lucy.
“Ms. Bok, let’s focus.”
“Everyone in this place is crazy, and they’re all doped up on meds.” Lucy pounded her fist on the table. “No more pills.”
“I’d advise against that. You’ve been making excellent progress. Have you noticed a difference?”
“Schizophrenia doesn’t define me. It’s not who I am. We learned that in Group today, didn’t you hear?”
Nurse Bob sighed. “Lucy. Wouldn’t you like to get out of here, go . . .”
“Sorry, Bobby. My eyeballs hurt.” She stood up, walked away.
Nurse Bob swallowed. He’d seen it before, the way these illnesses chipped away at a person’s core. Lucy Bok wasn’t one of those hopeless cases, trapped behind a wall of psychosis so thick a sledgehammer couldn’t break through. But if she wouldn’t help herself, what more could he do? Even with his decades of experience, this one hurt him somewhere inside.
• • •
“What about the court hearing?”
Charo looked down at her lap. “We didn’t file for it when she started taking the medication.”
“Christ,” said Miranda. She had insisted. She’d insisted they give her the other drug and they hadn’t listened. And now? Now what?
Charo braced herself for a barrage of verbal assaults, but it did not come.
“I’ll speak with Dr. O’Hara,” said Nurse Bob.
“The soonest we could file is next Monday,” said Charo. “They only take applications on Mondays.”
“Next Monday?” said Miranda. It was Tuesday. “We have to wait another week just to file? Are you kidding me?”
“And then probably another week for the hearing to be scheduled,” said Nurse Bob. Clusterfuck. He said it aloud.
“So what do we do now?” said Miranda.
“We file. We keep trying to get through to her.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s difficult,” said Bob. “We’ll try again. I’ll offer the Zyprexa. I know she doesn’t like the weight gain, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe she can switch to something else when she’s out.”
When she’s out. When.
“What if I stuffed the pill in her tuna sandwich? Would I get arrested?”
Bob laughed, surprised by this candidness. “It’s her choice,” he said. “Court order or not, ultimately, it’s her choice. You have to believe this. She has to take responsibility for her own life.”
Charo felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Miranda Bok. She knew Bob’s was the party line, but hadn’t they all harbored similar thoughts at some point? And what about that baby? Was it her choice, to have a mother stuck in the nuthouse? Didn’t she have a right to have her mother back, if a couple of pills would make things right?
“The boyfriend,” said Charo. “I still think we should bring in the boyfriend. He’s the most important connection to the baby.”
“But the boyfriend . . .” Miranda sighed.
“You don’t like him,” said Bob.
“It’s not that. I mean . . . no, it’s not that.”
Bob got it. Of course. Miranda Bok was afraid of scaring the boyfriend away. Terrified he’d abandon Lucy and the baby, and then what would happen when she ditched her meds the next time? Or the next?
“I’ve tried contacting Manuel several times at the house number,” said Charo. “He’s impossible to reach. Maybe you could get in touch with him? Or is there other family?”
“No,” said Miranda. “No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head back and forth.
“We’ll keep trying,” said Bob.
Defeated. Miranda Bok looked defeated.
• • •
Following Hulk’s incident, Lucy Bok decompensated. Her thoughts grew splintered, her speech slowed, she drifted toward a silent entropy. At patient evaluations, Nurse Bob noted the sluggish heaviness in the air. Even Charo, usually full of opinions, was quiet.
Tall Paul observed Lucy by the pay phone. Her sister must’ve loaded her up with quarters, because she punched in number after number, seven beeps in quick succession. “They’ve taken my baby. I need help.” She rattled off a street address. Paul shook his head.
The days passed. Winter seemed to gradually wear itself out. Temperatures hovered just above freezing. Slush prevailed. Loco Coco complained she was hearing scary voices. “In which ear?” asked Bob. Coco tugged at her left lobe. The treatment team knew she was faking it—auditory hallucinations did not present in such a manner. Coco was a kook, but no longer required hospitalization. Charo’s task was to find somewhere to discharge her—someplace other than the street.
At least the court finally confirmed a date for Lucy’s medication over objection hearing.
“I have to warn you,” said Nurse Bob. “Dr. O’Hara is skeptical.” The doctor’s inclination had been to move forward with discharge. Lucy’s current presentation was far too calm.
“I’ll handle it,” said Miranda.
“This is a tough situation,” said Bob.
“I know that.”
“Eve
n if she . . .”
“Once we get her back on her meds, she’ll be fine,” said Miranda.
I’ll take care of her, Ma.
“But Ms. Bok, you should know . . .” Nurse Bob paused. Each of these psychotic episodes was toxic to the brain, resulted in cognitive decline, and it was impossible to predict how much of a person might be irretrievably lost each time. It would be a long, long road. “Ms. Bok, what I mean is . . . you can’t keep fighting your sister’s illness all by yourself.”
A baby bird, Jie. Look!
Where, Mei?
In the backyard, by the swing set.
It’s a robin. But see, it can’t move its wing.
It’s hurt. We have to help him, Jie.
Let’s bring it some water.
Water. Yeah! Can we keep him, Jie?
I don’t think so.
Pleeeeeease?
We’ll put it in a shoe box, let it rest.
A shoe box. Yeah! I’ll keep him in my room.
Mei-mei, no. A bird is a wild animal. It doesn’t belong in your room. We’ll keep it outside on the porch.
But I need to take care of him, Jie. He must be so scared!
It’s okay, Mei. I promise, it will be okay.
• • •
Early the next morning, a tap on her shoulder.
Jie, wake up.
What is it, Lucia?
The BIRD.
What?
He’s dead.
What?
The bird is dead. He’s not moving. See?
He’s probably resting.
He’s not resting. See? Is he resting?
I don’t know.
See? He’s DEAD.
I’m sorry.
I told you I should’ve kept him in my room. I TOLD you.
I’m sorry, Lucia.
He’s not fine. He’s dead! You promised it would be okay AND NOW HE’S DEAD.
I’m sorry, Lucia.
He’s dead, and it’s all your fault.
They refused to speak for the rest of the day. That night, she curled up in a ball, faced the wall, shut her eyes to sleep. But she could see only the robin in its cardboard coffin, which they’d buried in the yard. She cried to herself. I’m so sorry, little bird.
“Jie?”
Again, that annoying tap.
“Jie? Are you crying?”
She did not respond.
Lucia’s skinny arms wrapped around her neck. “It’s okay, Jie. Guess what? I was crying, too.”
Miranda was suddenly angry. She would not give in. Rustling the air in the back of her throat, she let out a convincing snore. But Lucia stayed draped across her back, in her nightgown and six-year-old stubbornness. Every now and then she patted Miranda’s head and whispered, “It’s okay now, Jie. I know it wasn’t your fault.”
• • •
When Miranda opened her eyes the next morning, every part of her body ached. She ordered chicken noodle soup from room service. It arrived, cold. She sipped three sips, pushed it away. She picked up the phone to call Charo. I’m not feeling well. I won’t be in today.
A stomach virus, she told Stefan.
“Crap,” he said.
“I’m like the undead,” she said. “I can’t move. Like when I try to walk, I fall down.”
“Schätzli.” He sighed. “Go to the hospital, for God’s sake. They have doctors there.”
“But it’s a virus. They can’t do anything.”
“Then come home, Miranda. Why don’t you just come home?”
“I can’t,” she said. But she pictured the wicker rocker on their back porch, the foothills dotted with cows, the Stöcktalersee sparkling blue.
“Why not? You’ve done all you can there.”
“I just can’t, Stefan. I can’t.” Her words wobbled. The room was spinning. She coughed to regain control of her vocal cords. “Because if she’s on her pills and she’s sane and she loses her job or squanders her money or sleeps with some jackass and gets pregnant and has babies, well, then fine, okay, that’s her choice, that’s her life. But if a psychotic illness makes her think aliens talk to her through the TV and she can control people’s thoughts and she needs to procreate to save the human race, and that’s why she’s losing her job or having babies . . . well, then, yes, I feel fucking responsible.”
She paused, out of breath, yet somehow relieved to have articulated her moral distress.
“Sweetheart, come on. It’s going to be okay.”
“Stop.” She snapped. “Stop telling me that, Stefan. You don’t know that. This is not some fairy tale. Things don’t turn out okay just because you want them to.”
She couldn’t bear it, the placid consolation, another rational reply. A cramp pricked her side.
But it was not his fault. Of course, she knew this.
She tried to soften her tone. “What about your day? How is Rafael doing?”
“Rafi’s coming home this weekend. That will be nice. Sophie has a recital.”
His enthusiasm, weaker than usual, not quite convincing.
“That will be nice,” she echoed.
“I had to tell three patients they had cancer today.”
“Oh God, Stefan. I’m sorry.” The room, spinning again. She felt like a shit.
“It’s been a long week.”
“Yes.”
In the silence, their mutual exhaustion.
“I miss you,” he said.
“I miss you, too.”
“Miranda, please get some rest.”
“I will,” she said.
• • •
She crawled out of bed, ran a long, hot bath. Steam blazed through her pores. She focused on the soft flicker of shadows, the wet warmth of water, that cavernous space in her expanding diaphragm. And then she was diving headfirst into her sister’s dark, vacuous eyes, swimming behind the eyeballs, clawing with tiny, ineffectual fingernails that sprouted into giant pitchforks, burning red like the devil’s, and she would stab, more violently, with her body in every blow, screaming, Where are you? Where the fuck are you, Lucia?
She returned to bed. Flipped on the television. The sound hurt her ears. She shut it off, shut her eyes. Tried to snuff out memories of her sister as a bucktoothed girl practicing flyaway dismounts from their old purple swing set, she standing below on a beat-up old mattress—I gotcha, I gotcha—arms outstretched, as Lucia sailed through the air.
An unlikely dream that night: Ba. In the doorway, but she could not see his face. From his pocket, he pulled out a lucky jade pendant on a long, gold chain. For my best daughter in the world! He helped hang it around her neck. Look, Ma, isn’t it pretty? Ma, angry, her mouth moving fast. Miranda, with fumbling fingers, trying to undo the clasp.
She woke, sweat drenched, pillow salty with tears.
She lay in bed three more days. She sweated, shivered, sipped ginger ale. She could not recall ever feeling this physically ill. On the fourth day, housekeeping knocked and she couldn’t decide whether or not they should go away. Paralyzed in bed, thoughts in slow motion, she heard the click of the lock, a woman’s voice, then her own dizzy mumbles. Yes, please. Yes. She watched them bang around for a few minutes, pulled a pillow over her head and fell back asleep.
Jie, can we bake cookies today? Can we collect worms in my shoe? Make hot chocolate out of mud? Sing that song again, the one with the bones. I’m a skeleton. I’m a lion tamer! Let’s go to the zoo. Can we play the word game again, Jie? How about this one: Shenandoah. That’s a good one, Mei. Elixir. Ineffable. Gossamer. Defenestration. What’s that? To throw someone out a window. No way. Yeah! Okay, this one’s really good: E-phem-er-al. Jie, do you believe in happily ever after?
When her eyes opened, she found the room transformed. Her clothes folded, stacked neatly on top of
the dresser; the trash cans emptied; the heap of damp towels on the floor, gone; boots lined up by the door. And the sheets! Tucked at the corners. Everywhere smooth and clean. The thought of all this happening while she lay unconscious—it bothered her. Though not enough to keep her from sinking back into her pillow, reveling in this small bit of comfort just a few moments more.
He was bulkier than she remembered, filled out in the chest, his jawline sharpened, less boy, more man. His hair was longer, shaggier, like a bedraggled rat, though admittedly she was unfamiliar with the current styles.
“Come in,” he said.
“Is the baby sleeping?” she asked.
“No. Please, come. I’ll show you.”
She followed him through the kitchen. They entered a bedroom, not much larger than the mattress inside.
“Esperanza, esta es tu tía.”
The baby, so tiny, in her bassinet. She sucked in her breath.
“She’s beautiful, Manny.”
“Her name is Esperanza. It means hope.”
She blinked back unexpected tears.
Esperanza was beautiful, truly. Exotic. Hard to categorize. Dark teardrop eyes, her father’s brown complexion, her mother’s delicate features, a headful of unruly curls.
“She keeps scratching herself,” he explained, settling his daughter in his lap. Finger by finger, he clipped the tiny white crescents from her nails, brows furrowed in concentration. The baby wriggled, a miniature slide show of human emotions: bewilderment, curiosity, fright, discomfort, wonder, glee, fatigue (yawn). Finished, he inspected each of her fingers again, checked with his thumb to ensure nothing sharp was left.
“All done, Essy.” He kissed her forehead, cradled her in one arm, like a football.
They headed back into the kitchen. The yellow linoleum floor looked dingy but clean. Pots hung from a rack above the sink. He filled a kettle with water, set it on the stove, wiped stray crumbs from the Formica table with a sponge.
“How is Lucia?” he asked.
She wondered where to begin.
“Have you heard of schizophrenia?” she said. “It’s a brain disease. She has a chemical imbalance in her brain.”
“You said. Over the phone. You mentioned it.”
