Stalking the Moon

by Angel Leigh McCoy

  The orchard scrolled past us.

  "What room are they putting me in?"

  Richard pulled into his reserved parking spot at the front. "Just down the hall from your mother."

  "Good."

  We got out of the car. A sturdy wind whipped across the Illinois plains and tugged at my hair as we walked toward the building. Although it had been days, it seemed like I’d picked Colin up for our trip just that morning.

  "It’s a job for Doc’s famous chocolate chip cookies," Colin had said. Doc Bella had looked sad. I'd wondered why.

  A green County Hospital van drove up the road and stopped at the side entrance. Two men in blue scrubs emerged and opened the van’s sliding side door. One climbed inside, and the screaming began.

  Richard put a hand on my arm to stop me from getting closer. I looked over at him—he watched the van. He was an inch shorter than me, and I noticed for the first time that streaks of silver were invading his black hair. As I looked at him—really looked—lines formed at the corners of his eyes. They squirmed into place as if the magic concealing them was fading.

  It had never occurred to me that while Richard had been documenting my life, he’d been aging as well. I still thought of him as that intern with a college student’s earnestness, smooth skin, and nervous energy. But, the earnestness had become ambition, and the energy had turned to drive.

  Maybe it was the light of day that broke the illusion so abruptly. I usually saw Richard in darker places like his office and rarely thought of him as a human being with a life of his own. We never talked about his troubles or his dreams, his feelings or his needs. He was an extension of me.

  The men guided a woman out of the van, one on each of her arms. She struggled against them. Her trauma pierced the peaceful landscape and silenced the birds. She kicked, squirmed, and screamed.

  Jared Baker came out of the side door and joined the other two. He captured the woman’s legs, using his reattached arm with surprising strength and dexterity. They took her inside and closed the door behind them. The woman and her trauma disappeared into the Center as completely as a mouse swallowed by a snake.

  Richard said, "Come on. Let’s get you checked in."

  The birds resumed their song.

  We also went in through the deliveries entrance, easing into the building, alert for any sign of the new arrival. She was nowhere in sight, though. They'd taken her deeper into the nest of offices.

  Richard rang the bell at the intake counter, and a few seconds later, Jared came out. I heard the woman beyond the inner door, shouting obscenities as if they could kill.

  Jared leaned on the counter and gazed at me with unhappy eyes. "I heard about the wreck. Don’t worry. You’d be surprised what you can recover from." He rubbed his reconstructed arm.

  Much to my surprise, tears welled in my eyes at his kindness. "Thank you."

  Richard took over. "We need to get Viviane signed in. She’s going to be staying here for a little while, for a rest."

  "Are you nuts?" asked Jared. "You go to Florida for a rest. Not Malum."

  "Input the record, please." Richard used his don’t-give-me-no-shit voice—difficult to ignore.

  Because I worked at the Center, Jared had all my insurance and personal information in the computer already. I signed on the dotted line, and I was in. I barely had time to feel embarrassed.

  Richard and I walked, silent and solemn, to the Women’s Wing. While he handed my paperwork to the head nurse, I waited in the recreation room, trying to stay invisible and failing miserably. I was rarely there during the day, so my presence stood out more than a lawyer in church. Several people turned to watch me.

  I did my best to avoid their eyes.

  The place looked different. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, breaking the room into a patchwork of squares. I began to see everyone as a piece on a chess board.

  The king, Dr. Min, looked over his clipboard. His queen, Nurse Jones, talked with Richard, the king’s knight. And then, there were the pawns—the patients. I didn’t know all of them. Most were shells of people—éclairs with the sweet filling sucked out of them.

  Several I did know were scattered around the rec room. Calla, for example. Her sister was visiting again. They sat with their heads together, little girls conspiring over a jigsaw puzzle. Calla, named for the lily, was plain and stocky. Her depression sometimes broke and became manic giddiness.

  Amazon Una was stuck in a corner, rocking from foot to foot and talking to herself. She glanced at me, then looked purposefully away. I heard her distinctly say to no one in particular, "Another angel has fallen off the edge of the earth." She tilted her head as if to better hear an invisible friend’s response.

  At one of the tables, pretty Nurse Bea, the queen’s rook, was painting Dahlia’s fingers with No-Chew to keep her from biting her nails. Dahlia was a Jewish-American princess who—instead of getting long, acrylic nails to match the other women from her neighborhood—bit hers to the quick, until they bled.

  Eun Hee and Iraida watched Batman stalk the halls of Arkham Asylum on the wall-mounted television. They made a strange pair, laughing madly. Eun Hee, a middle-aged Korean woman, believed she had a man living inside her. She wasn't transgender, she was possessed. He sometimes took over, and he wasn’t very nice. Iraida always wore the black veil and robe of an Islamic woman. She was a wraith, rocking and clapping her hands with glee in front of the television.

  Mrs. Dufour came over to me with a box of cookies in her hands. Her husband was Michael Dufour of Dufour Dairy—everybody in the Peoria area knew Daisy the Dufour dairy cow. The famous Dufour estate sat on a bluff overlooking the Illinois River. Though Mrs. Dufour’s husband hardly ever came to see her, her daughter did.

  Mrs. Dufour said, "Hello, my dear. Have you come to visit your momma?"

  I shook my head. "No. I’ll be staying here for a little while."

  She patted me on the arm. "Checking you in, are they?"

  I nodded.

  She asked in her sweet, gentle voice, "Can I offer you a cookie?" She pulled one out of her pocket and held it in front of her body to shield it from the nurses. Her daughter brought her a few cookies every week. Mrs. Dufour told everyone that her daughter made them from scratch, though they looked suspiciously store-bought. No one ever corrected her, and the nurses pretended they didn't know.

  "Oh, no. Thank you. I’m not hungry."

  "Come now. You don’t have to be a good girl all the time. Have one."

  "No, really. Thank you, but I don’t want one."

  Mrs. Dufour’s face collapsed. Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth dripped downward. "You don’t want a cookie? But they’re…they’re—"

  "Okay. I changed my mind." I took the cookie and slipped it surreptitiously into my jacket pocket.

  She brightened immediately. "Just don't tell anyone where you got it. It's contraband, you know? But I think you’ll be needing it. This isn’t the kind of place you move into without a cookie on hand."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Dufour. Now I’m all set."

  Her wrinkles rearranged across her cheeks, framing a gentle smile. "At least your momma’s here. Now you can visit her all you want."

  "That’s right."

  "If you ever need a cookie, you come find me. I always got cookies. I’m the cookie lady."

  I gave her a weak smile. "I’ll remember that. Thank you. I have to go now."

  Richard was ready to walk me to my room.

  The bedroom we entered had ruffled curtains and a golden bedspread. The furniture—plain and mismatched, probably bought at auction—included a dresser, a chair, a desk, and a tall metal cabinet. The queen’s army had stripped away all personal items left by the previous occupant. One of Abram's old suitcases waited on the bed for me.

  I stood in the middle of the room feeling as if I’d traded places with some other woman. I didn’t belong in a mental ward, and I hated how quickly and easily I’d ended up there.

  Richa
rd sat in the armchair and crossed his legs at the knee. "It’s only temporary."

  I looked around at the blank, whitewashed walls. "Famous last words."

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 11

  My grandfather had stuffed my t-shirts and jeans into the suitcase. He’d packed every piece of underwear I owned. He must have just tipped the drawer out. There were socks as well, my girly sneakers, and my sheepskin slippers. He'd included a few paperbacks I’d been intending to read, and there, in the bottom of the suitcase, was my sewing kit. My fingers shook as I picked it up and cradled it to my chest.

  "What’s that?" asked Richard.

  I may have looked at him a bit too quickly or answered a bit too slowly. "It’s my sewing kit."

  Richard stood and moved to stand beside me. He reached for the kit. "What do you need that for?"

  "Just in case. You never know when you’re going to bust a seam." I had never confessed my need for pain to Richard or anyone. It was the one piece of my puzzle that I kept for myself.

  "These are against the rules. I can’t let you keep this."

  "What?"

  Richard returned to the chair, taking the sewing kit with him. "Patients aren’t allowed to have sharp objects or needles." He put it in his jacket pocket.

  "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," I said. "Seriously? I’m only here to rest, remember? I’m not those other patients."

  The pause before Richard spoke said more than his words. "It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the others. If one of them got hold of this, they could hurt someone or themselves."

  "I’ll be extra careful. I’ll keep it hidden."

  "I’m sorry. What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s just a sewing kit."

  "No big deal," I replied. The tip of my middle finger tingled, ached for the sharp prick of sanity. I dug my thumbnail into it and turned back to unpacking. I itched with anxiety, irritation growing. The thought of losing the needles triggered my anxiety, and in that moment, I hated Richard. He treated me as if I were an invalid. I didn’t need him. I needed my pins.

  To hide my reaction, I carried an armful of underwear across to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, I found six boxes from Nordstrom, a welcome distraction. I opened one. It held a brand new set of pajamas in burgundy satin.

  "Did you buy these for me?" I started to remove the burgundy set from its box.

  "They told me you needed at least three pairs. I got you six, just in case. There’s a robe too."

  The pajamas had paper in their folds and, as if in answer to my thoughts, straight pins keeping it neatly together. I quickly replaced them in their box. I was saved. The nurses hadn't bothered to inspect the boxes, assuming Richard would know better.

  Later, I’d take out all the pins and hide them around my room, pushed into the edge of the mattress or threaded into the hem of the curtains, tucked into the corner of a drawer, or the upholstery on the chair, where I’d always have them at my fingertips.

  Richard would never know I had them. No one would.

  "Thanks," I said. I loved Richard.

  I put the suitcase in the cabinet, then stood with my hands on my hips, looking at my room. Institutional, it reminded me of summer camp, when we’d all moved into strange rooms with shared facilities, and the only things that felt comfortable were the few objects we’d brought with us in our backpacks. I was already missing my pillow and wishing I’d thought to request it.

  "Can I go see my mom?" Her room was, at least, familiar. It was filled with her things, many of which I'd given to her.

  "I need to leave anyway." Richard stood. "I’ll walk down that way with you."

  "I’ve been coming here for fifteen years. I know where her room is."

  He said, "I need the exercise," and he held the door for me.

  The hallway stretched the entire length of the Women’s Wing. The floor was covered with industrial linoleum, and the walls were scuffed, painted matte white from the floor to the chair bumper, then wallpapered with apple blossoms on a faded peach background from there to the ceiling. Long before I had first visited the Center, someone had decided to make the Women’s Wing more homey. It hadn’t changed since.

  The same pictures of flowers and landscapes hung bolted to the walls. They had no glass in them, only heavy-duty plastic. Many had been keyed like SUVs. Some had initials carved into them, and still others had crude drawings. The erect penis was my favorite. It didn’t matter that they changed the plastic every six months or so. Within weeks, the penis returned. It was a Center tradition. Some said it was a ghost that carved it each time, bemoaning the loss of male companionship.

  Richard and I passed several bedroom doors, some open, some closed, some locked.

  Voices called to me from the rooms or talked about me.

  "Hey, Viviane."

  "Hang in there, Viv."

  "It’s Gisèle’s daughter. She’s one of us now."

  "What a tragedy."

  "Viviane’s here. Poor baby."

  "Such a shame; such a good girl."

  I ignored them all and kept walking. I wondered whether my team in the laundry knew about the accident. Lettie must have told them. Did they know I was a patient at the Center and that they’d be washing my linens? Had they promoted Ajani or moved a supervisor from another shift to replace me?

  Richard asked, "What are you thinking about?"

  "Nothing. Just impatient to see Mom."

  "You can spend the whole evening with her, if you want. I’ll have your dinner brought to you there."

  "That’d be nice."

  Two patients peeked out of a bedroom. They came right up to us, and we stopped. One was Polly, the willowy half of the pair. She put a fragile hand on my arm. The other was Corona, the pillowy half of the pair. She hovered just behind Polly, fingers fiddling with a button on her pajamas. The two were nearly inseparable.

  Polly’s parents had died in a fire when she was eight, and she hadn’t aged mentally since that night. Physically, she was in her early forties without an ounce of fat on her. She had freckled skin that hung loose on her body, as if the glue between it and her bones was breaking down. Her little pig eyes drooped under the weight of long, thick lashes.

  Polly said, "Lady Viviane," in a mournful tone.

  Corona said, "It’s terrible." She had to have been at least twenty-one (or she wouldn’t have been a resident at the Center), but she barely looked old enough to drive. She was an inch shorter than me, and from the waist up, she had the figure of a 14-year-old gymnast. Below the waist, she had full hips and a rounded bottom. She reminded me of a sweet, soft pear.

  Corona had an unruly haircut, chopped unevenly, and her eyes were the most interesting thing about her. They were enormous, huge and brown, flecked with bits of copper. She had thick lashes that would never need mascara. She didn’t blink very often, and so she always looked surprised. Her eyes were those of a romantic heroine, although the dark circles and sallow indents of her cheeks gave the story a gothic slant. And she was a mouth-breather. That was what Lettie called people who walked around with their mouths hanging open.

  I said, "It’s okay." I didn’t know why I said that, because it definitely wasn’t.

  Corona knew it wasn’t. "It’s terrible."

  Polly lifted a slim finger. "Your mom ate her supper."

  "She did?"

  Polly’s dry hair was naturally red and faded, kept short because she had a nervous habit of ripping it out if it grew too long. She had a burn scar that ran from her chin down to her elbow on one side. She still ate like a picky kid, and the gauntness of her face made her eyes look saggy in contrast. After the fire, she’d been passed through a series of foster homes that had scarred her even more. It had taken years, but finally someone had diagnosed her properly, and she'd come to live at the Center on the state’s dime.

  Polly squinted at me. "Lasagna, garlic bread, peas, and mineral water. Nurse Bea took the tray away empty."

  "That’
s good to know. Thanks for watching out for her."

  Polly puckered up her mouth. "That’s what a lady’s maid does. Your mama isn’t very good at taking care of herself."

  "I know."

  Polly curled her fingers in my sleeve and gazed up at me with eyes far older than her mind.

  I patted her hand.

  Richard said, "We have to go, ladies." He urged me forward with a light touch to the middle of my back.

  Corona and Polly peeled away, letting us pass. Corona said quietly, behind me, "It’s terrible."

  Polly said, "Stop saying that."

  "There’s something wrong with our world," Corona replied. "Can’t you feel it? It’s a scritch in the dark or a tickle up the back of your neck. Someone's always watching."

  Polly asked, "Who’s watching?"

  Corona shushed her and lowered her voice, though we could still hear her. "They are. It’s terrible."

  It occurred to me then that I was one of them, one of the shadow-eyed patients. I’d always been separate from them, a sympathetic employee, a visiting relative, but no longer.

  We passed a couple of nurses. They said hello and called me by my name. They knew me well after so many years of visiting Mom, but their demeanor had changed. Their kindness wasn’t the kindness of equals, but of caretakers, tainted with concern and condescending awareness of my state.

  At Mom’s door, Richard put a hand on my arm. "I’ll be back around bedtime to get you, okay?"

  "God, Richard. I can get back to my room by myself. It’s just down the hall."

  "All right. But don’t stay too long. You need to get some rest."

  "Okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I can’t stay past lights-out."

  "You’ll have to be back in your room before that," he said. "Lights-out is when you need to be in bed."

  "Oh yeah." I was a patient, not a visitor. The rules had changed.

  Mom was seated at her desk, a pen held immobile in her hand. She didn’t even look up. She rocked slightly, back and forth, tick tock, her face relaxed to the point of frowning.

  The last time I’d seen my mom had been the night before Colin and I left for the lake. I crossed to her and put my hand on her shoulder.