Lights On, Rats Out

by Cree LeFavour

  He’s been my distant keeper, certainly in mind; but the literal enactment of the role, as my jailor, flattens me. He’s doing as he’s been told. Instructions I heard and Dr. Kohl wanted me to hear, saying them as he looked at me: “Don’t leave her alone. Not for a minute. Don’t let her close a door between you. Don’t let her out alone for a walk or a coffee or a cigarette. Watch her.” My cheeks and forehead flushed then as they do now—the blood beneath the skin on my cheeks inflamed as the opened-up capillaries warm.

  I’m fine. You don’t understand, Dad. It isn’t like that. I’m not going to burn a hole in my skin right here in the bleached bathroom with you ten feet away. I’m not sweeping aside the dwarf-size guest shampoo to make a seat; turning on the hair dryer as background noise; tearing the lid up through the laughable white paper Sanitary Seal to make an ashtray of the toilet; choosing, lighting, inhaling, and homing in on my spot. What I do is too sacred for this cheap space.

  Silent, I open the door to pee in the unnatural exposure the open air between my father and my exposed ass creates, vaguely hating my compliance along with the door’s failure to complete its function of shielding this intimate act from an outsider. My piss hitting the water sounds just as it should—loud. The steady stream of free airplane Diet Coke coupled with the sour coffee at the airport before takeoff exits my body, hot yellow liquid flowing into the waiting toilet bowl, where it mixes with cold Baltimore water to make its way down the pipes and away in one pressurized whoosh.

  My father sits on the bacterially rich hotel bedspread somewhere out of view, the perfumes of our humiliation mingling in the sorry air box of room 335.

  CHAPTER 19

  One Big Disappointment

  The Arrow Cab driver who picks us up in front of the Marriott seems tired, as if it’s the morning after a night shift. He looks the way I feel after barely sleeping in the queen bed, an outsize extra-firm hotel pillow straining my neck as I listened to my father’s steady snore not two feet away. As I would gaze at the enviable, unblemished smoothness of a woman’s thigh or the perfect mocha tautness of a muscled arm, I study our driver’s elegant neck. I’d rather think of anything other than what’s happening to me or how ugly the once alabaster skin covering my right arm now looks to everyone but me. So I ponder his possession of the maximum load of melanin (and its cousin eumelanin), speculating that for him to possess such skin, his family tree never branched far from the ancestors who retained the distinctive traits they shared, refusing outsiders who didn’t fit the norm. Perhaps he descended from East African Nilotic people who, amid Africa’s vast genetic diversity, retained the trait for the darkest skin, somehow keeping this highly mutable genetic feature intact thanks to geographic isolation, a cohesive language, culture, and the splendid resources of the fertile Nile River valley.

  Whatever his history he’s here now, in Baltimore, Maryland, where his skin shines despite the light it absorbs. He’s radiant; a postmodern Wallace Thurman relegated to being a poor man’s chauffeur in a reality ordered as neatly against him as a game of cheater’s Monopoly. Lost in my reverie, trying not to think of where I’m going and the mess I’ve made, I wonder what the sun feels like on his skin, how the surface melts creamy white suntan lotion into a glossy slick, like when I manage a lovely dark tan and the Coppertone melts into it quick as lard on the surface of a hot cast-iron pan. I imagine shedding my pale mutt pelt and trying his on for measure. I could drive off in the taxi, look for a fare, smoke a cigarette between pickups, go home to a familiar bed.

  “Sheppard Pratt, 6501 North Charles Street. It’s in Towson,” my father leans in to tell the driver. Giving directions and paying the fare are his job. I’m the child. I can ask questions but I’ve agreed to do as I’m told.

  I’m not a bad fare, almost a catch, really: nine and a half miles, eighteen minutes without traffic. As we move down East Pratt Street I press the button to lower the window, feeling instant relief from the chilly silence of the cab. Hot air gushes over me and with one humid pant dilutes the car’s interior.

  The driver’s eyes and mine meet in the rearview mirror when the window comes down. Despite the air-conditioning whirring on max, he’s not going to tell me, “Roll the fucking window up, it’s hot outside.” It’s obnoxious to put the window down but I don’t care. It occurs to me this minor act of rebellion is weak; I could make a scene just to fulfill the psych patient cliché. Maybe the driver expects a little drama when driving a bandaged girl and her duffel to Sheppard Pratt. I’m one big disappointment.

  We approach the hospital and the cab slows in strict adherence to the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit—no rush on my account. I absorb the scale, landscaping, and grandeur of the sweeping lawns and massive brick buildings. The imposing elements of semi-evolved Gothic Revival structures with their steep roofs, painfully sharp peaks, intricate gables, arched doors, and decorative windows form islands surrounded by green grass flowing like liquid into and out of the generous open spaces between them. The whole communicates civilized bucolic ease with the ready gloss of a healthy, well-tended endowment.

  The architecture is supposed to be slightly medieval. It’s also quiet, beautiful, formidable, and more than a little alarming. Even if the grounds and buildings were designed to look like residences—not a prison—the appearance of the place spooks me. The cab stops at the tasteful “Admitting” sign. The antiseptic, distinctly bureaucratic feel of the reception room contrasts rudely with the world just outside. After several papers have been signed it’s time for my father to leave. How reckless I am. By handing myself over to the care of unseen doctors and nurses, knowing almost nothing about the rules, expectations, or dangers of the closed world I’m about to enter, I’ve made a giant bonfire of my life and decided to walk away, letting it burn. My father’s departure makes this all real.

  He looks miserable in his moth-bitten gray Shetland sweater hanging over butterscotch-brown wide-wale corduroys, the folded-sewn cuffs just hitting the tops of worn, cushioned brown leather kitchen shoes. He’s what Roald Dahl calls an “eye-smiler.” Forget the face—it’s mostly obscured anyway since he’s all forehead and beard. But those two dominating features highlight the intensity of his kind blue eyes. I look right into those eyes after we embrace for the final good-bye. The tears are messy as my nose begins to run, the salty liquid and snot marking the end of the costly job of maintaining a veneer of courage. I’m collapsing in on myself, my father’s beard scratchy on my cheek as we each try to hold on.

  CHAPTER 20

  SDB

  THE SHEPPARD AND ENOCH PRATT

  HOSPITAL ADMISSION NOTE

  SEPH SOCIAL WORK ADMISSION

  PSYCHOSOCIAL ASSESSMENT

  WITHIN 72 HOURS

  Medical Record Number: #54847

  Date of Admission: 9/11/91

  Chief Complaint: “Burning myself”

  Age: 25

  Race: W

  Marital Status: S

  Religion: none

  Referred by: Dr. Adam Kohl

  I have to assume it was more than summoning Bush, Reagan, Carter, and Ford in the correct order and my ability to repeat three objects and remember them after one minute—cat, key, flag—that led to my assessment as “Intelligent, verbal.” The nurse identified me as a “casually dressed well groomed WF.” I was “polite and cooperative” during the interview. The intake form notes that I’ve had an increase in SDB-Burns (self-destructive behavior) and that I “do not see a problem” with the behavior “except in rxns. [reactions] of others” to its results. I was not labeled Retarded, Below Average, Average, or Above Average. The Gross Estimate of my Intellectual Functioning: Superior. How happy that would have made me, had I known it at the time.

  On the next page, under “Diagnosis: Axis I” the chart reads “Depression, maj. 296.23 Bulimia R/O Dissoc D/O R/O MPD.” Under “Axis II” is “def. 799.90” and under “Axis III” “numerous burns on arms, face, leg.” The remaining Axes, IV and V, are blank. Under “Initial Trea
tment Interventions (Diagnostic, Medical, Psychiatric)” are four entries:

  hosp for safety—pt. quite self destructive

  watch for infection of open wounds

  Pt’s EDsx currently under control

  Dissoc workup

  I was given a primary diagnosis of major depressive disorder, single incident “Severe without Psychotic Features,” along with bulimia and the ever-scary flavors of the decade, dissociative disorder and multiple personality disorder (MPD), that must be R/O—ruled out. The 799.90 under Axis II means defer the diagnosis. Watch and study to appraise the truth of the answers I offered alongside my behavior. Sort the “polite and cooperative” from the lies patients invariably tell. Put me in play.

  The intake nurse conducts a standard interview meant to compress years of memory and an iffy scaffolding of fact into a page and a half of handwritten notes. Everything I say sounds trivial and wrong. I’m rigorously downplaying but I mean it when I say the burns are “really not a big deal.”

  Brevity is my goal, achieved by divulging as little as possible without explicitly lying or being uncooperative. Keeping the story of my life and appearance brief comes easily. I’d never seen the woman before and yet she expects me to answer the following questions: “Why are you here?” “Why do you burn yourself?” “Can you describe your childhood?” “Are you married or in a relationship?” “Did you complete high school?” “Did you go to college and graduate?” I’m aware she likely knows the answers to many of these questions. Her purpose is to see if I can explain my history with a logically connected string of words. I suspect her main goal is to determine if I am actively psychotic. My goal is reassuring her that she is doing her job. I figure if I put her at ease I can be on my way. So that’s what I do.

  Where am I going? The paperwork is fully inked. Now they have to actually do something with me. I can’t stop thinking about which ward they will put me in. They must have halls for those prone to violence. That’s where they station the beefiest nurses and an extra hall monitor or two. There must be a children’s ward, a sad hall to hold fragile minds that have disappeared from this world to another. Surely there’s a place for pure crazy. I hope I’m not going there. I’m depressed, bulimic, and self-destructive. I have no history of violence or psychosis unless you count what I do to myself.

  What about a ward for people who have just grown too tired to perform? I dream of death but have never tried to die. Perhaps there’s a politely crazy hall that separates the sad and hopeless from the insane? That’s where I’d like to go; where inmates share a semblance of normality and where civilized behavior remains in effect—a place to exit the world without making it final; a sensory-deprivation tank set one degree above body temperature, 99.9. Silent as snow, dark as bat velvet.

  Released from intake, I’m flanked by two nurses, one on each side. I follow in step with them down a fortress-worthy corridor into the nucleus of the building. My talismanic pink Converse high-tops convey my docile body down the hall. The nurses aren’t talking or touching me but I’m pretty sure they would yell at me or grab me if I tried to step out of line. I walk while holding on to the objective idea of the action. In seconds I’ll glimpse my fate and once I do, I’ve agreed to tolerate it for at least seventy-two hours—probably longer. My jailors get to do with me whatever they like and I have no reason, beyond Dr. Kohl’s recommendation, to trust this place.

  I might really be in for it. I should have left—extracted the maximum cash advance from my Amex and made a spectacular disappearance. India? Thailand? Brazil? In their matching white uniforms, the nurses resemble a pair of trained white mice, their hyper-attentive eyes searching and alert, as if a cat’s around the next corner. Or do I have it all wrong and I am the cat?

  We pass identical doors punctured by windows set at eye level so a nurse, orderly, doctor, food-service worker, or janitor can peer in to see if anyone is waiting on the other side. In here, there are no good surprises. This peeking routine must be part of the workers’ safety training and I’m sure it’s effective in preventing assaults and escapes. The brutality here is well disguised. The contrast of the fine crisscross of metal filaments over the windows against the backdrop of the hall’s grandeur signals an awkward evolution of the space’s use. Is there an impermeable door with unbreakable glass for me or are they taking me somewhere else? I can’t quite grasp I’m about to be locked up, much less what that will feel like.

  It strikes me that this is a good time to make a scene, no matter how minor. Before I’m locked in. But I’m not that kind of girl, as has been proved. There’s a quiet magic in control. I need to play nice and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not yet.

  I’ve taken this further than I intended—if I did intend anything. Therapy. Burning. It’s as if I started laughing in a silent room when I was supposed to be quiet. The attempt to stifle the noise and gain control only fueled the laughter, but there’s no stopping because I enjoy letting it take over more than I’ve enjoyed anything for a long time. It had been glorious fun until I realized I couldn’t stop if I tried.

  I swore I wouldn’t be easy for Dr. Kohl to diagnose—no 908.3 for me. I proved that point. We all want to feel special. But along the way I lost track of what I was doing. When I burned myself again I knew I was breaking the contract I’d signed. But it wasn’t so much a decision as caving in to the inevitable. Still, how the fuck do I find myself in Towson, Maryland, being escorted down a long corridor by a couple of nurses in bleached party dresses?

  I’m terrified but trying not to show it as I pass through a door to the right looking exactly like all the other doors except there’s a metal sign printed beside it: B-1. Nurse two scurries to keep up, padding just behind, pantyhose swishing above thick-soled white lace-up sneakers. They’re starting to show some wear. I feel a flicker of pity for her but it doesn’t last. It’s much easier right now, in the raw aftermath of leaving my father behind, to shut down all emotion. I do this so well I convince myself I’m not feeling a thing. Watching, as if I’m a third party, as the heavy metal door closes. It locks on the inside. You need a key to get out, not to get in.

  I’m on the wrong side of the door. The forms signed, a thin folder makes its way through the building with my name typed precisely on the tab. Contained inside you would find everything these people know, alongside all they think they know. The system has eaten me and now it’s digesting. The waiting Arrow taxi driver has driven his fare back down Pratt Drive. By now, my father sits in room 335, the TV on too loud.

  CHAPTER 21

  Enemy Cover

  A third nurse waits inside what is to be my room. Prim in her starched uniform, a high, slick bun in strict control of her hair. She’s breast-free and straight as a dowel, a shadow of her overweight coworker. Exuding steady patience reserved for intake, her gaunt face declares, “I don’t mind being nice until my shift ends. I’m good at my job.” The extra-sweet introduction exposes gaps that ought to be filled with some indication of sincerity. Why answer this automaton of the Sheppard Pratt induction team? I’ve now officially given up on polite. What immeasurable satisfaction to desert the wearisome social contract. No more offering waitress-daughter-patient-student-girlfriend-savior comfort. I’ve bailed on the familiar duties of gratitude. I can be as bad as I like. I’m barely even Dr. Kohl’s patient anymore.

  A smart little button of a bellhop or an orderly acting in such capacity has been at his job. I suppose I should have tipped him but now it’s too late; I never even saw him. A hippo felled on the industrial nap of the carpet, the duffel gives itself to gutting. Zzzziiiippp. The taller nurse’s ass presses against the fabric of her uniform as she leans in, revealing a bulge where the elastic of her underwear liberates the excess flesh of butt and upper thigh. Item by item they work as a team, sifting through the bag’s entrails, touching, turning, shaking, examining, deciding. The cartons of Camel Lights are no longer mine, except they miss a pack tucked deep inside the kangaroo pocket of my faded Deerfi
eld hoodie. Four lighters and three books of matches, confiscated.

  The underfed mouse holds one book at a time upside down by the spine and shakes, the open pages facing the floor. I witness. Silent. Obedient. I’ve tucked a straight razor in Buddenbrooks, fresh and bright as a live sardine. The 604 pages flop, the fragile spine of the aged binding weak, crumbling, yearning to crack. I imagine the thin ink-patterned pages skittering to the floor, free, the words fluttering and humming as they make their way down. I see the razor falling on top of page 370, page 371 dropping down to lie on top of it. Enemy cover. Why didn’t I choose a different book? Something newer. Tighter. A book with integrity. I’m sure The Magic Mountain, with its sturdy yellow paper spine and fine 716 closely packed pages, would never open itself so promiscuously. The big nurse gives one final vicious shake to Mann’s first full-length novel, as if she can sense the weightless razor, impossibly sharp, hiding motionless inside. Buddenbrooks does not betray me.

  There isn’t much else to find. They’ve missed the second razor as well. It’s tucked inside Anna Karenina. A matchbook deep inside the key pocket of my Levi’s also escapes them. They take away rattling pill bottles—Prozac and Trazodone—piling them with the rest of the hazardous material emancipated from my possession. Not only lighters, cigarettes, and pills but pencils, pens, cuticle scissors, nail polish remover, a pink disposable Daisy, my scarred red leather belt, and a plastic bag containing shampoo and conditioner. I’m almost impressed with their thoroughness.

  A brown blanket conceals the stiff mattress that’s now the central feature of my habitat. A pawed hodgepodge of personal rubble dents the blanket’s taut surface, claiming the space as mine. It’s a magpie’s paradise.