It’s been three days, and I’ve only managed to fool my mom about not taking my pills twice. She’s sharper than I supposed. Sometimes it almost seems like she’s on my side too, although I can’t really be sure. I’m not sure what I think about these pills either or if I even care. Mostly they just make me sleep a lot, and when I’m not asleep, it’s almost as if I’m sleepwalking since I sort of shuffle around in this thick green fog. Sort of like I’m numb, like my whole body’s been shot with Novocain. Naturally, my mom acts as though everything’s just groovy. She keeps up this positive front and says things like she’s “so thankful that God is healing me.” What does that mean?
She thinks life is wonderful because I’m finally eating “real food.” Of course, I can’t taste it and don’t feel the least bit hungry. But, hey, if it makes her happy …
Before I got up this morning, I was thinking, or maybe I was dreaming—it’s hard to tell—about the old grape arbor that used to grow in our backyard. I remember how I used to sit beneath that sweet smelling green canopy and dream big dreams, back in my childhood, back when I was too little to know any better. I wonder if it’s still there—the arbor, I mean.
When I finally make my way downstairs, moving my thick feet in slow motion, it’s nearly noon, and I shovel down a bowl of soggy cornflakes. Then as my mom watches, I pop a pill into my mouth and pretend to swallow. She smiles and turns away, and I manage to extract the soggy pill and slip it into the back pocket of my jeans before she even looks back. That makes three times!
After this private little victory I trudge out to the backyard, imagining that I am more myself than usual, but it’s probably just an illusion. Still, I am relieved to discover that the grapevine, although somewhat overgrown, remains intact. Not only that, but after a careful search I find that it still has several bunches of fat purple grapes, and they appear to be ripe. I pick a bunch and then just stare at their frosty looking surfaces in wonder. For some reason they seem surprisingly familiar. In fact, they remind me of me. Kind of hazy but with the promise of something good underneath. Or at least I hope so. I wish it were so.
“Whazzup?”
I glance over the cyclone fence that separates our house from the Fosters to see a long-haired, gangly man peering down at me. I squint up at him, trying to figure out why he looks vaguely familiar, then suddenly remember. Brent Foster, the pervert who enticed me up into his tree house and then attempted to rape me—well, something like that. I was about five at the time, and he was probably around seven. As I recall, he wanted to “play doctor,” and naturally I was supposed to be the patient. But even then I knew what he wanted to do was wrong, and somehow I managed to push him away and run home. I never did tell my parents about it. I was too embarrassed. Besides, I felt certain they would get mad at me and say it was all my fault. I feel myself flush with embarrassment as I look at Brent now.
Then I wonder why I should even care. It was so long ago, and we were just stupid kids anyway. How small it seems compared to the larger scheme of messed-up grownup lives. I study his shaggy brown hair, leaning toward dreadlocks, and his baggy and raggedy clothes. Not that I should be one to pass a fashion judgment these days. I notice that he’s wearing a goofy smile and actually looks fairly harmless today. Plus he’s safely on the other side of the fence. Curious for a better look, I stand up and walk over to the fence.
“Been playing doctor lately?” I ask with an air of nonchalance.
He laughs. “Nah, but I wouldn’t mind another go-round. Ya interested?”
“Yeah, you bet.” I roll my eyes at him with disgust, then return to examining my lovely bunch of grapes.
“Wha’d’ya got there?”
“Grapes.” I pluck one off and hold it out temptingly before him. Then he takes it and pops it in his mouth.
“Not bad.” He nods his head with satisfaction. “Wanna get high?”
He sits down on an old stump now, carefully rolling out a joint on the knee of his threadbare cords. He expertly twists the ends, then holds it up in triumph. He grins, and I am suddenly reminded of the smoking caterpillar in the Alice book, the one who wanted to give her “advice.” Brent pulls out a cheap plastic lighter, and puckering up his face with an almost religious intensity, he ignites his precious reefer. Then his eyes flutter closed, and his face relaxes as he slowly inhales. I watch in fascination as he holds in the smoke, his eyebrows lifting as if he’s about to enter a new dimension. Then slowly he exhales, opens his eyes, and holds out the joint.
“Want a puff?”
Now I wonder what effect weed might have if it “interacts with” my “prescribed” drug. At the moment I can’t remember the specific warnings that were written in the fine black print. Perhaps it would simply counteract the loathsome pills and completely nullify their effect. And that possibility intrigues me. I am so weary of this dulling sensation. My mind is wrapped in a thick fuzzy blanket, slightly dazed and horribly flat-lined. I know that grass is some sort of hallucinogenic. I remember at least that much from high school health. But I’ve never actually tried it before. And during my BC life, I never would’ve considered it at all. But since everything else about my life seems to be messed up and upside down or sideways, I wonder, Well, why not try something new?
“Sure.” I hold out my hand. “I’ll try a puff.”
He hands it over. “Cool.”
I imitate him by taking a long, slow drag and hold it in until I finally begin to sputter and cough. I have quite a coughing jag with real tears coming out of my eyes, and I feel rather foolish. But at the same time I feel sort of good, too. It may be an illusion, but it seems this act of defiance has given me a morsel of control again. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, then hand the joint back to him.
Brent is laughing now. “That your first puff?”
I nod as I wipe the sides of my eyes and finally manage to sputter, “But it was”—cough, cough—“okay, you know?”
“I know.” He takes another slow drag, and I watch as the embers on the end burn bright red. Then he hands it back to me. “Go easy this time.”
So, taking it more slowly, I inhale a smaller puff and manage not to make such a fool of myself this time. I hand it back to him feeling pretty cool. “Thanks,” I say as I exhale.
“So what’re ya doing back home? Thought both you high-performance Laxton kids were in college.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “My mom’s always going on about how the neighbor kids got it so together—you about to graduate and Aaron with his scholarship. Man, it makes me wanna puke.” He hands me back the joint, and I take another drag.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,”—I start to giggle now—“I’ve just been diagnosed with schizophrenia.” For some reason just saying the word out loud, to someone as whacked out as Brent, totally cracks me up.
Apparently he thinks it’s pretty funny too. “You’re kidding me? Schizophrenia? Sweet little Alice, the good little church girl next door, is a nut case. Cool!”
“Yeah, now I can get my drugs prescribed to me.” I extract the little pill from my pocket and hold it up. It’s slightly disfigured and gray from being in my pocket. “But today I didn’t take it.”
“Cool. You can get high with me instead.”
I take another drag and nod. “Yeah, let’s get high.”
“Got any more of those?” He points to my lap.
“These?” I hold up my half-eaten bunch of grapes as if they’re a trophy. “These happen to grow right here in our very own backyard.”
“No kidding. Can I have some?”
“Sure.” I wave my hand in a most congenial fashion. “Come on over. We’ll have ourselves a grapefest.”
So, like little kids, we sit down under the grapevine and proceed to gorge ourselves with Concord grapes, spitting the slimy seeds at each other until we both look like targets for bird-dropping practice. I find it to all be quite hilarious. I can’t remember when I’ve had this much fun.
“So were you telling the truth?�
� he asks. “Are you really crazy?”
I lower my voice and, imitating the doctor, say, “Well, we don’t call it that, son. It’s an illness, you see.”
He shakes his head. “Too bad.”
“Hey, I thought you said it was cool.”
He frowns. “Well, yeah, it’s kind of cool. I mean I feel sorry for people who are, you know, all ordinary and boring-like. I think life’s way more interesting with a few kooks around.”
“You think I’m a kook?”
He leans over and appears to study me closely. “Maybe … maybe not. Can’t say for sure just yet.”
I laugh. “What if I told you that I hear voices and see things?”
“Sounds like you’re having your own kind of high.”
“Yeah, but some people say it’s wrong because I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.”
“Hey, reality is all in your head anyway.”
I nod. “You know what, you’re absolutely right.” The next thing I know, I’m quoting Brent Foster, high school dropout and doper extraordinaire, as if he is Einstein himself. “Reality is all in your head.”
“Like my reality.” He leans back on the damp ground and looks up at the arbor. “My reality is to live and let live. Just hang loose … laid back. But my mom thinks I’m totally messed up because, according to her, I ‘don’t wanna do nothin’ with my life.’ But, hey, if I don’t wanna do nothin’, then why should I?”
“Why should you?” I echo, then laugh.
“Why should anyone?”
“I haven’t the slightest.”
“Just get high and be happy.” He spews a grape seed in my direction and laughs when it splats me right on the forehead.
Feeling quite profound and intelligent, I say, “In the words of John Lennon, let it be.” Naturally, this leads us both into the old song. I remember some of the words and hum along with the rest.
Before long, we’re both on our backs beneath the grapevine, holding grapes above our mouths and eating them like the decadent Romans—or was it the Greeks?—and I am feeling lighter than I’ve felt in some time. I think I hear someone calling my name. But it might be my imagination, and I don’t really care. Maybe it’s Amelia, or maybe it’s my mom. Maybe it’s the White Rabbit wanting me to go play croquet with the Queen of Hearts. But as Brent says—or was it John?—just let ’em be.
“Alice!” My mom is standing over me now, looking down on Brent and me as though she’s just discovered us naked. I sit up and grin stupidly. Then I notice a couple of forms looming behind her. I peer up to see that it’s only the praying church ladies—Mary Cates and creepy old Mrs. Knolls.
“Back for the next exorcism?” I ask.
Brent starts to snicker.
Mrs. Knoll steps closer and glares down at me. “Alice Laxton! Are you smoking marijuana?” She frowns as she points to the twisted end of the joint still hanging limply between my forefinger and thumb. I’d completely forgotten that I still have it, but it’s clearly cold now.
“Not anymore.” I giggle as I hand it back to Brent.
She gasps and turns to my mother. “Well, it’s plain to see what’s wrong with your daughter and why she’s so plagued with demons. Why, just look at her!”
“Anybody wanna grape?” I offer the ladies, holding up my slightly picked-over bunch.
“Alice, I want you to come into the house right now.” My mother is talking to me as if I’m a preschooler, and I don’t particularly care for it.
“Sorry, Mom, but I want to stay out here. I’m playing with my new friend right now.” I glance over at Brent and toss him a sloppy grin. He grins back, and I’m thinking he’d probably really like to play with me.
“Alice!” Mom’s voice is like granite now. I’m sure it’s as much for the church ladies as it is for me. “If you are going to live under my roof, you are going to abide by my rules. Do you understand?”
I nod, trying to appear compliant.
“Then get into the house right this minute!”
Now I shake my head in a firm negative. “I do understand. But I guess I won’t be living under your roof, Mom, because I can’t abide by your rules. Your rules suck! And the church’s rules suck! You all suck!”
“Amen!” yells Brent.
I stand up now, ready for the fight. “I’ve spent my whole life having you and that stupid Salvation Center telling me what to do, how to act, how to think, how to dress, and, well, I’m just not going to do it anymore. Look at you, Mom. You’ve spent most of your life cleaning up after everyone and acting like you were inferior to a husband who didn’t mind taking his fist to you now and then if he got the hankering. You act like it’s God’s will for people to walk all over—”
I see her gasp as she glances nervously at the church ladies, but I continue anyway, pointing my finger right in her face. “You don’t question a single thing the church tells you to do, Mom. Or I should say what they tell you not to do. Because that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it? You can not go to movies, you can not watch TV, you must not read most books, you can not wear makeup, you can not have a career—if you’re a woman, that is—you can not think for yourself—”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” yells Mrs. Knolls, waving her crooked finger in my direction.
Mary Cates doesn’t waste a minute either. Now both of them are binding and loosing and casting out the demons. Meanwhile, Brent and I are back on the lawn, rolling and laughing uncontrollably. When I finally recover and manage to look up, I see my mother simply standing there, clasping her hands, with wide, tear-filled eyes. She is clearly horrified by my behavior.
This sobers me slightly, and I almost regret my words. I see the other two women gather around her, probably consoling her for having raised such a wantonly hopeless and evil child. When no one is looking, I sneak the mangled pill from my pocket and slip it into my mouth as if that’s going to make everything better.
But my futile act of submission makes no difference. Nothing can save me now. Mom straightens her shoulders and announces to God and everyone else in the neighborhood that she’s taking me back to Forest Hills today.
She pulls me up by my arm, which seems disconnected from my body. But she and the ladies tug and pull until I am finally on my feet. Then my mother shouts, “Let’s go, Alice, now!”
I flap my hand in a pitiful little wave to my caterpillar friend as I am dragged by the church ladies back toward the house. I try to remember his advice about live and let live and just letting it be, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to work for me at Forest Hills.
“Come visit me at the funny farm,” I call over my shoulder.
chapter NINE
The Queen’s Prison
It took all three of them to drag me into Forest Hills. Mary Cates, Mrs. Knolls, and my mother. I think Mrs. Knolls put her army nurse skills into action by taking charge of the entire operation. She’s pretty tough for an old broad. I even have the bruises to prove it. As I recall, and my memory is still rather blurry thanks to my “stronger and newly improved” meds, she sat on top of me in the back of Mary Cates’s minivan. But I think I managed to bite her once. Or maybe I bit myself. I’m not totally sure about the details.
In the end, my resistance proved futile and only managed to get me locked up in the highest security—Level Three, or the Queen’s Prison as I have come to think of it. I imagine Mrs. Knolls to be the Red Queen now, the one who always wants to chop off my head, and it seems she is the main reason I am here. Although I suspect there are many players in this game. It’s hard to know who is really behind it all, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been heavily sedated for several days—or longer. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here. Time is insignificant and something of a blur, since every day looks the same as the one before. But I think it might be November now. The trees have lost most of their leaves, and the sky has that leaden cast of late fall.
What I do remember about the horrible ride is
that Amelia finally showed up. And she spoke to me quite urgently. She kept saying, “It’s time! It’s time!” And somehow I knew what she meant. Time to kill. Not the church ladies or my mother. No, it was time to silence myself … before it was too late. I agreed with her to take care of this, but my memory tends to fade after that.
According to Dr. Thornton, I made a feeble attempt to take my own life, but I honestly can’t remember such a thing, although I do remember receiving a painful injection into my rump right after I was put into “restraints.” But I wonder if the doctor just made up the suicide thing as an excuse to lock me in here at Level Three, where things like padded cells and straitjackets are common. I’ve been told I can move to Level Two if I become more cooperative, but I’m sure it’s just a trick. I’m sure there is only one “level,” and it is here. I am not willing to cooperate with people who tell lies.
Although my resistance seems futile because, naturally, they have the upper hand. They have all the restraints and drugs and orderlies and hypodermic needles. If this were a regular sort of prison, I might be able to fight and resist within the freedom of my own mind and soul, but it seems they even control those parts of me now. More and more I feel I have nothing. Am nothing. Why should I want to live? Why do they care whether I kill myself or not? I’m guessing it has to do with my golden key, my notebooks, and the secrets that have been planted into my mind. Sometimes I wish they’d just take everything and simply dispose of me and get this thing over with.
I know they’re watching me in the Queen’s Prison. Amelia doesn’t visit very often, but when she comes, she always warns me that this place is wired and full of spies. Some of them dress up like staff, and some dress up like patients. However, I do think some of them really are patients—or at least they are here against their will. It’s just hard to tell who is which. Therefore, I trust no one. For a while I thought the colors of the blankets provided a code. I noticed right away how some of them are yellow and some are blue. Since mine is yellow, I thought that was for patients. But then they switched my blanket to blue. They are trying to confuse me.
Finding Alice Page 6
