by Randy Mason
“She’s not in any condition to receive visitors right now,” she said.
His body tensed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“She’s resting.”
“Resting from what? She doesn’t do anything here all day except rest.”
“I’m sure tomorrow—”
“I want to see her now.”
“Tomorrow—”
“I want to see her NOW.”
“Visitors are only allowed in the dayroom and—”
“Call Dr. Lerner and get her permission for me.”
“I can’t—”
“Fine! Then I’ll go back to her office myself and—”
“Okay, okay.” The young woman’s face started to pucker. “I’ll call her, okay? Y’know, this is my first day here.”
After a brief exchange between the nurse and the doctor, one of the regular staff members escorted Baker to Micki’s room. Lying on her side, she was clutching the paper bag with the bunny in it. And though her eyes were open, they didn’t even blink to acknowledge Baker’s entrance.
He walked over and, without thinking, gently stroked her hair. “Hey, Micki, how’s it going?”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t recoil, either.
He looked at the nurse. “Is she sedated?”
“No. Following the last time we did that, Dr. Lerner was very specific that she not be given any meds.”
Baker dropped the bag he’d brought, pulled up a chair, and sat next to the bed. “So why is she like this?”
“She hurt another patient—”
“Badly?”
“No, it was more threatening than anything else. But when she was confronted by the staff, she became verbally, and then physically, combative. Since we couldn’t medicate her, it took three orderlies to get her under control.”
When Baker couldn’t completely suppress his grin, the nurse glowered at him. She added, “She was kept in restraints overnight, then released this morning. She’s been like this all day.”
Lightly touching Micki’s face, he asked, “Are you aware I’m here, Micki?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you know it’s me? Sergeant Baker?”
“Uh-huh.”
He stroked her hair again, and her eyes fluttered. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice soothing. “Close your eyes and sleep. I’m going to stay here awhile. I promise to wake you up before I go.”
Almost immediately, she drifted off. But he continued to smooth back her hair. Next time she said she hated him, it probably wouldn’t hurt quite so much.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER HAD JUST ENTERED his apartment and was hanging up his jacket when the phone rang. “Oh, Jesus!” he said out loud. “What is it now?” Then he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Jim?”
“Hi, Cyn. Everything all right?”
“Well, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because everything around me is going to hell.”
“Oh … um … How’s Micki?”
“She’s not adapting too well to the hospital.”
“Gee, I’m really sorry to hear that. It must be horrible in there. What does she do all day?”
“As far as I can tell? Not much.”
“Well, I’m calling because I bought a book for her and was hoping you wouldn’t mind bringing it with you the next time you go. I’ll leave it with my doorman—that way you can pick it up whenever you want.”
So it was too much trouble for her to see him for the five fucking minutes it would take to give him the goddamn book. “That’s fine,” he said.
“I thought about going over there to give it to her myself, but”—she took a deep breath—“but I just can’t. I don’t think I could deal with it.”
He lit a cigarette and his voice relaxed. “It’s okay, Cyn. Really. I understand. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to her just to know you’ve been thinking about her.” When Cynthia didn’t respond right away, he knew she was trying not to cry. He added, “Don’t worry about it.” He thought he heard the sound of a tissue being pulled from a box. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “Yes, I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m hanging in there. Look, I’ve got something in the oven, and I think it’s burning.”
“Oh! Well, I’d better let you go, then. I’ll bring the book downstairs now in case you want to pick it up later.”
What Baker wanted was a drink. He finished his cigarette, changed his clothes, and went out for another late-night run.
♦ ♦ ♦
SITTING IN HIS RECLINER with a cup of coffee, Baker flipped back and forth through the pages of Songs from the Journey, the book Cynthia had bought for Micki. When she’d mentioned the volume several months ago, it had sounded like just another one of those spiritual mumbo-jumbo things, so he’d acted disinterested. As he examined it now, however, he noticed each “chapter” was actually a poem written like song lyrics. There were verses, choruses, and sometimes a bridge. He picked one at random and began to read. And then a chill raced up his spine:
At this lonely stretch of sky
Grey with clouds that hide the sun
I face the one that I’ve become
As I drift along the sea
With the birds that fly above
They call your love back home to me
I know now I’ll never be
All the things I hoped to be
Wish that I could have more time
But time grows short, you’ll never know
Like fired guns, the river runs
Through the forest green with leaves
Barren branches lie in wait
For chilling breeze of winter’s sleep
And this path that points the way
Through life and death, I cannot choose
It calls my name, I’m not to blame
I know now I’ll never be
All the things you are to me
Wish that I could have more time
But time grows short, you’ll never know
Like fired guns, the river runs …
♦ ♦ ♦
SUNDAY. STANDING UP AS he approached, Micki eyed Baker’s beige-speckled clothes with venomous curiosity.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m a mess, huh?”
In return he got a cold, empty glare. Then she held out the bag he’d left the day before.
“They don’t fit?” he asked. “I bought the same size as the pair you have on now.”
“I don’t wannem.”
“But they’re black. And they cut off your only black jeans in the ER.”
“I can’t afford to buy anything.”
“You don’t have to pay me for them—”
“I don’t wannem.”
He breathed in. “Well I can’t return them ’cause I already cut off all the tags. So you might as well keep them.”
She tossed the bag onto the table and looked away.
He put Songs from the Journey and his copy of The Foundation Trilogy down. With a tap of his finger on the paperback, he said, “I figured you might want to finish this. And this other book”—he pointed—“is from Cynthia.”
Eyes out of focus, she was staring into space.
“By the way”—he tried to move into her line of sight, but she turned her whole body to avoid him—“did I tell you Frankie says hello?”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and shifted her weight to the other leg.
Baker sighed. “Why won’t you talk to Dr. Lerner, Micki? She’s very nice.”
She looked at him. “Are you talkin’ to her?”
“Yeah.”<
br />
“About me?”
“Sometimes, but also about me.”
Jaw tight, she crossed over to the large windows with their thick wire mesh, then folded her arms over her chest.
“So what’ve you been doing to keep busy?” Baker asked.
But the only thing he heard in response was the television that was mounted on the wall in the far right corner. It was perpetually on, the volume turned down low.
“See anything good on TV?” he asked.
He could hear the phone ringing at the nurses’ station.
“Do you want me to tell Frankie or Cynthia anything?” Baker pressed.
But Micki wouldn’t talk to him anymore, not a single word no matter what he said or did.
He walked up behind her and leaned over, his face right next to hers. “What is this, huh? You’re never going to speak to me again?”
Lips pressed together tightly, she shrugged. But her eyes looked sad.
He straightened up. “You let me know if you need anything, okay?”
A Dr. Manwani was being paged to the ER.
Voice full of sarcasm, he added, “You can even write it on a piece of paper so you don’t have to actually say anything to me.”
Her head whipped around, and their eyes locked—but only for a second.
Then she turned to look out the window again.
♦ ♦ ♦
SINCE THE HOSPITAL WAS overheated, Baker had brought Micki her black sleeveless T-shirts. When she entered the psychiatrist’s office Monday morning, she was wearing one of them with her new black jeans. She walked over to the window, and gazed outside. It looked bitterly cold. She glanced back over her shoulder.
Dr. Lerner smiled and went to close the door.
Micki turned toward the doctor. “You’re seeing Sergeant Baker, too?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s he sayin’ about me?”
“I can’t tell you that without his permission, just as I can’t tell him what you say unless you agree to let me. Why don’t you sit down.” About to take her own seat, she hastened to add, “But not on the couch. I won’t let you use your therapy sessions for naps.”
“Why should I sit down? I don’t wanna talk t’you.”
“Then you’re free to leave.”
After a beat, Micki shot back, “I’m tired a shrinks askin’ me all kindsa questions like they’re tryin’ t’ help me when they’re just curious f’themselves.”
“But I really do want to help you.”
“No y’don’t. This is just y’job. Y’get paid f’this, don’tcha?”
“I have to be able to pay my rent, Micki, but I earn my living as a psychiatrist because I genuinely want to help people.”
“Yeah? Y’wanna help me? So prove it.”
Lerner raised an eyebrow.
“I need t’sew somethin’ but they’re afraid t’let me have a fuckin’ needle.” Through a small tear in the paper bag she was clutching, a bit of white fur showed.
“You’d have to do the sewing in here, then,” Lerner said.
Micki lifted the bag.
“Let me look in my purse,” Lerner said. “I usually have one of those miniature sewing kits with me.” The doctor rummaged through her pocketbook and produced what appeared to be an oversized matchbook. She handed it over.
Micki opened the cover. Inside were different colored threads wound around a piece of cardboard that had two needles stuck through a tiny piece of gold foil. “Thanks,” she said. Eyes gleaming, she added, “But I’m gonna need a pair a scissors, too.”
If Lerner had had nothing to go on but her own gut instincts, she would’ve denied Micki the scissors while explaining that she needed more time to get to know her. The teen’s muscular arms; scarred face; and tough, angry demeanor left the doctor uneasy, especially knowing how violent she could be. Yet Baker had presented Micki in a very different light. Of course, given his size and strength, he had a great deal less to fear. Lerner stared savvily at her patient, then went behind her desk and retrieved a pair of scissors. She proceeded to hand them over as if she were bestowing the key to the city.
Micki looked impressed. She sat down, threaded the needle, and began sewing, trying to leave the plush animal in the bag as much as possible. With deft, tiny stitches, she worked at a quick and even pace.
“You sew very well,” Lerner observed. “Where did you learn that?”
Eyes on her work, Micki shrugged. “Who the hell knows. I have amnesia except for the last eight months or so. But I’m sure you already know that. And no,” she added, “I have not remembered anything.”
Lerner noted the marked change in Micki’s speech, but said only, “That must be very hard for you. How does that make you feel?”
Shrugging again, Micki continued sewing. Completely absorbed in the task, it wasn’t long till she was finished.
“That’s the bunny Sergeant Baker gave you, isn’t it,” Lerner said.
Since it didn’t matter anymore, Micki removed it from the bag. Full of innocence, its cute features stared back. Her own face turned sad.
“Do you want me to help you?” Lerner asked softly.
Micki started to cry.
♦ ♦ ♦
IN HER NEXT SESSION, Micki recounted what her life had been like in the South Bronx. When she was done, she said, “Everything I did then was bad. Everything. I did terrible things.”
“You were trying to survive with no family and no memory—afraid to trust anyone,” Dr. Lerner said. “That doesn’t make what you did all right, but at least, from what you’ve told me, you never seriously hurt anyone.”
“I killed Speed, didn’t I?”
“It sounds to me like you were more than justified. You were trying to save your own life.”
“But what he said was true: Tim died because of me.”
“And just how do you figure that?”
“If Tim hadn’t gone back to get me, he would still be alive. So it’s my fault—my fault he’s dead.”
“So you feel guilty. You feel responsible.”
“Yes.”
“You also seem very determined to convince me of what a bad person you are.”
“I’m just telling it like it is.”
“But people make their own choices, Micki. It was Tim’s decision to try to protect you. He must’ve cared about you very much. Perhaps you should consider what that means.”
After a few seconds, voice childlike, Micki asked, “What does it mean?”
“It means he thought you were worth risking his life for; that’s very impressive. Perhaps you owe it to him to do something meaningful with yours.”
“Well, my real family couldn’t have thought very much of me; they abandoned me, didn’t they? In all this time, no one’s come looking for me. What does that mean?”
“There’s no way to know since we have no idea what happened to you or your family. What’s interesting, though, is that you blame yourself for everything—whether you deserve to or not. I feel like you’ve condemned yourself.”
“’Cause I hate myself; I’m just a junkie and a whore.” But Micki gasped.
Lerner studied her new patient. Baker had mentioned Micki’s sensitivity to the latter issue—and how he’d cruelly exploited it. “What makes you say you’re a whore? You told me you never did that; you said you’d always kept that part of your promise to Tim.”
“I—I did. I did keep my promise. I—I don’t know why I said that—especially that word. I hate that word; I really hate it.”
“What does it mean to you?”
Micki tapped her foot on the floor. “It’s just—it’s just so full of contempt; it’s just, y’know, a put-down, like you’re dirt if you’re a hooker—like you�
��re not a human being anymore. I’ve seen the way they’re treated, like they don’t have brains or feelings or anything. Like they’re just things to be used. Nobody cares about them. But—but they are real people, and they do hurt.”
Lerner wanted to go deeper, but the session was nearly over. She said, “We’re going to have to stop for today, Micki. But I want you to think about something: you’re not forever what you were. Look at your life now: you’re a top-notch student; a reliable, hard worker; you’re responsible, honest—”
“But I started shooting up again.”
“Life is not a straight road. The idea is to constantly be working toward transforming yourself into what you want to be. If we were forever chained to our mistakes, if we could never move beyond our past, life would have little purpose. Anyone, at anytime, is free to change. You just have to find the right path.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BACK IN HER ROOM, Micki finally looked at the book Cynthia had bought for her. She opened it up in the middle and read the page she’d picked:
Looking out my window, I
See all the people passing by
And in my hazy, dreamlike mind
They seem to fly
But here inside, the darkness grows
Until the night can take me home
And so the question in my heart
Of every path I chose to start
And all the dreams of all the days
Along the way
I fear I’ve very far to go
Until the night can take me home
Rose and blue surround a golden dawn
The sun has drawn this enchanted place
Silver rain falls softly from the sky
The moment dies, all is gone without a trace
A dark wind blows across the sky
And I’m abandoned to the night
As through a vast and empty space
The journey waits
Endangered soul, I walk alone
Until the light can take me home …
chapter 29
“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED to my loose-leaf?” Micki demanded. “And those aren’t my textbooks!” She was pointing to the two replacements.
