by Susi Fox
He’s behind me now, his hands on the wheelchair handles, ready to push. He can’t see my face.
‘I promise,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘We’d better get you back to your room, Sasha,’ he says.
I wonder who we is. And he never, ever calls me Sasha.
Day 1, Saturday Dinnertime
Dr Niles comes for me. ‘Psychiatrists don’t usually escort patients to the psych ward,’ she says, ‘but seeing as you’re a special case …’
I don’t want to be a special case, but there’s no point in fighting. I roll my eyes and sink lower into the wheelchair. I try to ignore the babies’ wails as Dr Niles pushes me down the pink hallway of the maternity ward.
We take the lift down to the ground floor of the hospital. From there, I’m pushed along a walkway enclosed on all sides by rows of windows, seemingly to provide protection from the weather; or perhaps to prevent patients from absconding? Beyond the glass, a concrete loading dock lies in front of a multi-storey car park packed with cars. Before us, at the end of the passage, is a bland, squat building: the psychiatric department. The mother–baby unit is on the bottom floor.
Dr Niles shepherds me through wide double doors that slam shut behind me with a loud bang. This is it. Despite having been coerced in here under the guise of free will, I feel trapped.
A low murmuring from the nurses’ station and the occasional baby’s cry pepper the air. It’s chilly in here. I tug my mother’s quilt up to my waist. The ward still smells like a hospital, all chemically disinfected bathrooms and stodgy hospital food and the odour of something unnameable; what I think of as the waft of death. The same smell strikes me in the lab from time to time, perhaps from a freshly sliced specimen or a cluster of cells in a jar. It’s the smell of rotting flesh, of ageing skin, of cells apoptosing into dust. The whiff in this corridor is faint but unmistakable. They must have had their fair share of deaths, even in here.
Dr Niles rolls my wheelchair along the hallway. The carpet is light grey; perfect for concealing dirt. They’ve painted the corridor pale green – supposedly a calming colour, I recall from my psychiatric rotation. The walls are lined with nondescript botanical prints, intended to be soothing and unobtrusive. Yet the lighting is so dim that shadows rear from alcoves and corners, each one seeming to hide a lurking threat.
‘The nurseries,’ Dr Niles says, indicating a cluster of small rooms with frosted glass doors as she wheels me past. ‘This is where we sleep-train the babies. When Toby gets out of the nursery, we’ll help him learn to sleep right here. He’ll even have his own room.’
I don’t want my baby to be sleep-trained in this dark, chilly place. I shudder, hoping Dr Niles won’t notice. She pulls me to a stop at the end of the corridor, in front of the very last door.
‘Your bedroom,’ she says.
It smells like a motel: a tinge of mildew covered by the stench of ashtrays. Surely they don’t allow smoking in here? The air, in stark contrast to the corridor, is thick and moist, overheated like a sauna. I shrug the quilt off my lap and let it fall to my feet. There’s a single bed in the middle of the room, bedside table next to it, chair under a round window set high in the wall, cupboard on the wall with a bar fridge alongside. Even a TV in the corner. Dr Niles indicates each shiny, plastic-coated feature with a weary hand.
‘No minibar. And there’s no way to adjust the temperature, I’m afraid,’ she says, noticing my flushed face. ‘You’ll get used to the heat.’
‘Can I please go to the bathroom?’
‘The bathroom is free of charge.’ She gives a twisted smile. I think she’s trying to make a joke.
In the ensuite, the slick white tiles fixed to the walls still smell of bleach from the last clean. The grouting in the corners has darkened, collecting mould.
‘I’ll be back to take you to dinner,’ Dr Niles says from the door. ‘Oh, and you can keep your mobile phone.’ She walks out.
Already I feel spied on. This isn’t a place where secrets will be allowed. I walk to the toilet, sit down; my stitches, under the bandage on my belly, tug like they’re holding me together. I press the heel of my hands into my eye sockets. In this moment, it all feels too hard.
A deep ache rolls through my abdomen as I ease myself to standing. In the polished stainless steel in place of a mirror, I can’t make out any sense of an expression on my face. Instead, warped lines of silver split my features into pieces, like a Picasso woman. The water from the tap only reaches lukewarm.
In the cupboard beneath the sink, spare rolls of toilet paper are standing in an obedient row. I shove them aside to discover an array of yellow-lidded sterile urine jars. There’s nothing of any use in here, either.
Then it catches my eye. One word, scratched into the wall between the stainless steel and the sink, as if by fingernails: MINE. I wonder who wrote it, how long it’s been there, waiting for me? It’s an omen, I decide. A message from one mother to another. It’s easy to decode. I must claim my real child as my own as soon as I can.
I shuffle back into the bedroom and ease myself onto the mattress with a moan. Sweat drenches my armpits. Surrounding me, the walls are lined with clichéd Impressionist reproductions: Monet lilies, Degas ballerinas, Cézanne still lifes of fruit. Nothing by van Gogh in here, I note with a wry smile.
The ceiling looms above me. I wonder what it was like for my mother when she was admitted to a psychiatric ward more than thirty years ago. I doubt paintings like these hung on the walls of her room back then – more likely it was just an expanse of bland green. I can’t believe my father kept the truth hidden from me for so long. I wonder how this knowledge will change my memories of her. Should I feel pity? Anger? Shame? Right now, there only seems to be a deep ache within my chest: how much I miss her presence, how much I wish she were here.
My mother must have felt so alone during her admissions, without me and Dad. Back then, mental illness was so taboo that she probably wouldn’t have discussed her admissions with anyone, not even her friends. I can’t imagine she would have talked about her feelings with Dad. I wish I could transport my adult self back in time and be there for her. Tell her how much I need her to get better. Tell her how much I need my mum around.
She’d left us by the time I was six. My strongest memory is of her reclining on her double bed with its brass bedhead touching the wall. She would lie on her side, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring out the window into the front yard, a quilt tugged up over her thin frame. Sun would filter through her smoke, casting wave-like patterns on the cream-coloured walls as she would hold me tight against her, curled under her arm.
It was a lifetime ago. And now I’m a mother, and our lives are playing out in a strange parallel as I, too, lie here in a psychiatric ward, alone.
There’s something familiar about this mother–baby unit room, I realise; something it has in common with all psychiatric units. The paintings are held fast against the wall. The phone cord is exceedingly short. The printed floral curtains are hung on a light plastic rail over the round window. There’s no mirror to break into shards. And no way to escape.
Two women are sitting around a rectangular laminex table in the meals area. I avoid their eyes, lift my tray from a rack beside the kitchen door and limp towards them. I take a seat in one of the plastic chairs and, with hesitation, lift the lid on my meal. Sliced dry beef and gravy, limp carrots, wrinkled peas, all emitting the generic hospital-food smell.
The table overlooks a paved courtyard. There’s a small garden bed studded with sprouting greenery, a blossoming apple tree in the far corner and a covered fernery along one side. Rain has begun splattering onto the slate pavers and dripping through the mesh awning onto the fern fronds below.
The woman seated to my right, her thin face framed by loose curls, is clinging to the edges of the tray. When she releases the tray from her grip, her knuckles turn from blanched white to salmon pink. She lifts the plastic lid, stares down at the semblance of a roast dinner d
umped on her plate and grimaces. I don’t blame her. The other woman, with golden hair draped across one shoulder, stands and returns her tray to the rack. She smiles at me as she leaves. I’m surprised; I had imagined the other inpatients scuttling away from me, fearful of associating with others who were mentally unwell. Perhaps I’ve underestimated women, the power of female friendship in times of need.
I’ve always struggled to make friends. I love the idea of having a group of close female companions, but I have no idea how to make it happen. By all accounts, my mother was the same; Lucia was her only friend. As for me, I have my work colleagues. Old friends of the family. And Bec, who has somehow managed to forgive my eccentricities over all these years.
The curly-haired woman remains at the table, pushing her soggy vegetables across her plate, tears collecting in her eyes. Postnatal depression, I conclude, not unkindly.
‘Hi. I’m Sasha,’ I say.
‘I’m Ondine,’ she says. ‘Welcome, I suppose.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ I try to smile. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Um …’ She counts on her fingers. ‘Six. No one seems to get out of here in under two.’
‘Days?’
‘Weeks,’ Ondine says. ‘They say they have to be sure we’re safe to take our babies home.’
Weeks. My heartbeat slows to a sluggish pace. That can’t be – won’t be – me. Surely it won’t take them that long to realise I have been telling the truth.
Ondine sticks her tongue into the gravy on the tip of her spoon then retracts it.
‘You look pretty well, Sasha,’ she says in a hesitant voice.
I remind myself to inhale, one breath at a time. ‘I’m okay,’ I reply.
Despite her shyness, she looks well, too. Her loose clothes are clean, her hair is washed and she has a tinge of tinted lip gloss on her lips. With her fine, curly hair and pale features, Ondine bears a resemblance to Bec.
‘Are there many women admitted at the moment?’ I ask.
Ondine shrugs. ‘Maybe ten or so. It’s hard to be sure. Most of them spend the day in their rooms. The woman who just left’ – the blonde woman, I presume – ‘she’s heading home any day now. I can’t say I’ve had much to do with any of the others.’ Her cheeks redden.
Outside, the rain seems to be easing. My shoulders soften against the back of the chair. I’ve been holding them tight this whole, long day.
‘Did I hear right that you’re a … doctor?’ Ondine’s voice falters.
‘A type of doctor. A pathologist,’ I say, wondering how she could possibly know.
‘And your baby? How is he?’
‘I’m not really sure.’ Damn this hospital, these doctors. I should have the right to know, to find my baby. I change the subject. ‘You must have seen a few women come and go?’
‘I have. There haven’t been any other women who have arrived without their babies, though. I’m really sorry to hear about what you’ve been going through. It’s not your fault.’
I gag as a lump of beef catches in my throat.
Ondine leans across the table and passes me a serviette. I spit the chewed-up gristle into it.
How many people know? And how have they found out? My cheeks burn like I’ve been slapped. ‘What have you heard?’
‘It’s like the bush telegraph in here,’ Ondine explains. ‘I’m so sorry. I hate it. It’s horrible. Everyone talks.’ She dips her head. ‘They said you think the baby in the nursery isn’t yours. That’s the extent of what I know. I wouldn’t tell the staff too much if I were you. They might use it against you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Feel free to ask for advice on how to get out of here. I might be able to direct you to the right person.’ She smiles thinly.
‘The most important thing is that I find my baby.’
‘So, no leads so far?’ She brings her knife and fork together in the centre of her plate.
‘No.’ Rain now slams down on the paving outside.
Ondine is looking down at her cutlery, her irises dull.
‘It’s awful that your child is missing. You’re going to keep searching, right?’
Someone else who seems to believe me. A thickness settles in my throat.
‘Of course. Until I find her.’
Ondine’s shoulders are drooped towards the tray.
‘Isn’t there part of you that doesn’t want her to be found?’
Why would she say that? ‘No. Not at all.’ Concerned, I add, ‘What about your child?’
Ondine’s cheeks blush. She opens her mouth, but before she can reply Dr Niles enters the meals area, her face drawn into a frown.
‘Time to rest, Sasha,’ Dr Niles says, extending a finger at me.
Ondine bends further over her tray, her curls trailing against the plastic like the branches of a willow.
‘Please let me know if I can help,’ she whispers as I stand up and shuffle past her.
Outside the rain has thrust the flower stems to the ground. Cigarette butts are scattered across the paving. With a jolt, I notice the tinted windows, four of them, lining each of the courtyard walls. From the centre of the courtyard there is no way to see into the ward, yet from inside you could be observed from every angle. There’s no way I’ll be venturing out there any time soon.
Back in my room, sinking into the mattress and pulling the doona over my aching frame is a relief. Dr Niles taps a wiry finger against a plastic cup resting on my bedside table to indicate a clutch of rainbow-coloured pills: turquoise, vermilion, mandarin, butterscotch and one snow-white capsule. She tips the contents of the cup into my palm. They’re the weight of a handful of popcorn. It takes me a few seconds to catch on that there’s more than one psychotropic drug in this cluster.
‘What are these?’
‘Avanza, Risperidone, Temazepam. And Endone and Voltaren for pain.’ She points at each one in turn.
An antidepressant, an antipsychotic and a sleeping tablet?
‘It’s not as rare as you’d think,’ Dr Niles says, curling a thread of hair behind her ear. ‘Postpartum psychosis. We see quite a bit of it in here. Even in doctors.’
Postpartum psychosis? If that were true, I’d be irrational, delusional, incoherent. Saying things that didn’t make sense. Believing things that were clearly untrue. A shiver runs through me as I realise this is how I might appear. Even, perhaps, to Mark.
‘We have to watch you take them,’ Dr Niles says.
The tablets quiver in my palm.
‘I don’t need them.’
‘If you take the tablets, you’re more likely to be discharged quickly. Is that what you want?’
I pause. Getting discharged is important. Not nearly as important as finding my baby. Still, I do want to get out of here. I lift my hand to my mouth and raise my tongue so the tablets fall under it. I learned the trick on my psychiatric placement as a junior doctor, from a sweating, loquacious patient who whispered to me as the psychiatrist’s back was turned. I swallow down a gulp of water.
‘I need to check your mouth.’
I ease it open.
‘Wider. Lift your tongue please.’
I tip my head to the ceiling.
‘You need to swallow those.’
‘And if I don’t?’ My voice is thick.
She frowns. I take another mouthful of water, loosen the tablets and swallow hard. The pills scratch at my throat on the way down, like razorblades. I clamp my lips shut to stop the urge to retch.
Dr Niles checks under my tongue once more.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Now, be sure to listen to the nurses. They know what they’re doing. Everyone recovers eventually. The patients, that is,’ she clarifies, as if I’ve accused her or her staff of being mentally unwell. She pauses at the door. ‘And don’t forget your induction meeting tomorrow. One o’clock. With me. Don’t be late.’ She sweeps out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a bang as if I’m a prisoner, interred f
or the night.
Day 2, Sunday Mid-Morning
The shadows on the light grey carpet are long enough for me to realise I’ve overslept. My gown is clinging to my back and my sheets are soggy where I’ve sweated all through the night. There are two round wet patches over my chest where my breasts have leaked. The drugs have slowed my brain to crawling speed, blurred my vision, weakened my muscles. I begin to drift back to sleep. It’s only when I hear a clearing throat that I realise there’s someone seated beside my bed.
Mark.
‘Darling.’ He only uses this tone – meek, whining – when he’s done something seriously wrong. ‘Are you feeling any better today?’
‘How the hell could I be feeling better?’ The roof of my mouth is as dry as sandpaper, my tongue scraping over it.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says. I can see the concern in his eyes.
I run my fingers over my childhood quilt, which I’ve laid out across the bed. My neurons are starting to reconnect. There are things I need to know. I reach for his arm, lay my hand on his flesh.
‘Did you know my mother had postnatal depression? That she was admitted to a psychiatric ward when I was a baby? Is that why you told Dr Niles about my miscarriages?’
He pulls his arm away, scratches at his neck.
‘What? No. Why do you want to know about your mother?’
‘My mother was in a psych ward, like me. Did you know that, Mark?’
He leans back into the chair.
‘I don’t know anything about your mother, okay, Sash?’
I shake my head to try and clear the fog.
‘Maybe I can try and find out more about her. I could try and track her down, find out where she is now.’
Mark coughs. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate, Sash. Maybe when life has settled down.’
