Hillbilly Gothic

by Adrienne Martini

  “You could spend some of the time writing about what brought you here,” the social worker suggests. He’s a good guy. We’ve spent some time outside of group just talking about our lives in the outside world. He is close friends with one of the best-known writers in Knoxville, whom I also work with. “I hear you’re a bit of a writer.” He winks at me, then, and smiles.

  Dr. G pulls me out of group.

  “How are the moods?” he asks, peering over the top of half-glasses.

  “Okay,” I say, then realize that it’s true. While I feel light-years away from my old self, I do feel more stable than I have in weeks. I can get through massive chunks of time—five or six hours—without breaking down. It is an accomplishment.

  “How is the sleeping?”

  “I can sleep at night, thanks to the Remeron. But I still can’t nap. I lay down yesterday in the hope that I could sneak in a nap but nothing worked.”

  He nods at me and asks about home. Is there help there?

  I tell him there is. My mother-in-law and dad are still in town and will be for a bit.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  “Sure,” I say. But I’m not certain that I mean it. The idea of home is appealing, yet I’m not sure I can handle the reality of it. I mention this.

  “You can always come back if you need to,” he says. And it surprises me that I find this comforting, that a return to this place could be preferable to my own house.

  I call Scott, who makes plans to come and fetch me at noon. I pack my stuff, including the green pajamas that I will never wear again. I turn in my paperwork, collect prescriptions for my meds, and make the required follow-up appointments. I kill time by working on a puzzle with Jeff. We finish it as best we can, given that there are still so many pieces missing. This is not a metaphor. We’re both irritated that we can’t complete something so banal and grouse about it. I vow to deliver a bunch of unopened puzzles to the ward as soon as I can.

  The Hub shows up promptly at noon. I sign for my personal belongings and am buzzed out. Everyone waves as I go, like the staff at a particularly friendly hotel.

  As we’re riding the elevator down to street level, Scott asks how I feel. Terrified, I tell him. I’m not sure if this was the answer he expected, but it is the blunt truth. I am terrified. What makes me think I can do this now, when I have failed so spectacularly at it in the past?

  After so many days in climate-controlled comfort, walking into the heat is like walking into a preheating oven. It feels good at first, because it’s such a novelty. Then it’s just hot. Scott loads my bags into the car, which doesn’t feel like mine anymore. We drop off my prescriptions at the pharmacy down the hill, drive the five minutes to our humble house, and pull into the driveway. I’d forgotten how dumpy it is and notice every loose shingle and cobweb. The daylilies, however, are in spectacular bloom, a riot of orange and red and pinks. I love a plant that can thrive despite extreme neglect.

  Our next-door neighbor, whose blonde wig and red lipstick are often askew, pops her head over the fence. Hymns blast from a nearby radio she always plays when working out in the yard. When she found out we were going to have a baby, she was more excited than my own mom. During the last few days, Scott has caught her sneaking up to our front door and peering in so that she can catch glimpses of the baby. It is more funny than threatening. “Where have you been?” she demands. I want to tell her the full truth but don’t. “I had some health problems,” I say. “But I’m back now.”

  Scott unlocks the back door for me—I can’t figure out what I’ve done with my keys since I’ve been crazy—and we stroll in. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Neither does anyone else, it seems. My dad and I hug awkwardly. My mother-in-law hugs me, too, then rattles on about how the last few days have been. She’s talking extra loud and careening around making lunch. I notice that my kitchen and dining room are full of bags of food. Once word got out that I was in the hospital, the food fairies started delivering all kinds of goodies. The costumer from Scott’s theater assembled a week’s worth of meals and two scrumptious loaves of cinnamon bread. I am always surprised by how kind people can be.

  During this realization, my mother-in-law plunked the baby in my arms. Everyone in the room took a breath. What did they think would happen? Would I toss her to the floor in disgust? Would I now proclaim that I was cured because I had clapped my eyes on this precious infant? Nothing dramatic happened. She was cute and sleeping. Still, she didn’t feel like she had once been a part of me. I wanted to put her down and go hide in the bedroom, but was afraid about what everyone else would think. I didn’t want to give them any more cause to worry or to think I was a sucky mom.

  I did okay until we actually sat down for lunch. I was starving, ready to devour an entire loaf of cinnamon bread solo if I couldn’t eat something substantial soon. No one takes the baby from me. She decides that she is starving, too, and I try to hold a bottle with one hand and shovel food into my own gaping maw with the other. It works about as well as expected. About halfway through, I notice that there are tears dripping onto her blanket. My biggest fear is that Scott will see this and deliver me back to Tower 4. My second biggest fear is that he won’t. I hand the baby off to my dad, grab my plate, and retreat, convinced that I just can’t do this mom thing, that I must lack some genetic programming that makes women love their babies.

  Once sequestered in the bedroom, with its Early Tenement vibe, I start flipping through the massive wad of papers that was shoved into my hands as I was walking out of the Psych Ward doors. Most of it is about my drugs—why I should continue to take them and what sorts of side effects may creep up. My favorite is a warning that I should talk to my doctor if I have “odd or unusual dreams or thoughts.” What would qualify as odd right now? Dreams that I can handle everything with my usual aplomb? I also make a mental note to call someone should I experience mouth sores, severe vomiting or diarrhea, muscle stiffness, twitching or shaking, and a painful, ongoing erection of the penis not caused by sexual arousal.

  Scott pokes his head in to make sure I’m not up to anything unfortunate. Since I’m only brooding and not actively hurting myself, he gives me a kiss and goes back to the theater. His mom has the baby and my dad is doing dishes. They wanted Scott to pass on that I should stay back here for as long as I want. While I don’t like being treated like a child who isn’t capable of adult behavior, it is nice to not have to be responsible right now. I feel like I should be pitching in my fair share of the labor. But I can’t. I know that I’ll be overwhelmed by merely walking out of the bedroom. I may be able to refrain from crying during the next hour. It seems doable only if I stay very, very still, avoid my baby, and don’t talk to anyone.

  From my journal, July 16 (evening):

  “To Do: Call about nanny tomorrow; Balance checkbook.

  “Home again, home again.

  “As anxious as I was to get back here, I’m terrified. I’m so scared that I can’t handle this that I just want to cry.

  “Everyone seems to be walking on eggshells around me—constantly checking on my mood. I don’t know what to tell them half the time. I’m OK, I guess, just scared as hell.

  “Part of me misses Tower 4—the relative peace, the lack of responsibility and even some of the people. It was a vacation from reality, which I needed. But like having a baby, the first step was huge. Having the time to do nothing but read was great, though, and I’ll miss it.

  “Scott is going to be a great dad. Right now he’s walking the floor with you and making silly faces and noises—something that I never thought he’d do. Maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation.

  “Part of me really misses our old life, when it was just the two of us and we could do whatever we wanted to—even if it was just staring at the TV. It’s not like we were party-hoppers. Having you has changed everything. I worry that we’ll never be just us again, which is sad because I’ll miss just hanging out with your dad.

  “Back to Tower 4—
what amazed me most, I think, were the transformations. I could literally watch someone put herself back together. True personalities would emerge from the emotional debris. In a way it was stunning how quickly it would happen. I don’t know if it was the result of the drugs or the groups or just being in a place where it was OK to be as crazy as you wanted to.

  “Toward the end—especially my last day—those faces started to look so familiar, like I’d known these people for years and we’d all just happened to be in the same hospital together. Maybe that is an effect of the drugs or, simply, spending so much emotionally charged time together. Probably it’s both.”

  Because she is a kind woman and a nurse used to working nights, Scott’s mom takes the wee-hours shift with the baby that first night. We set Maddy’s car seat, which is quickly becoming the only thing she’ll sleep in for any length of time, next to our guest futon, which is in the middle of the living room. For eight straight hours, Scott and I sleep like cats, curled up and oblivious to any outside noises. It is bliss.

  We deal with potential perils of the next day by scheduling ourselves into a frenzy—a trip to the museum with lunch to follow if the baby’s mood holds. The Knoxville Museum of Art has always been one of my favorite places to haunt. A big, white, square building dropped on the edge of a bluff that overlooks the graying skycrapers downtown, it doesn’t match the rest of the city. It is perfect for the site, however, even though some of the old money in town was horrified to move into the twentieth century with such a modern building and exhibits that don’t revolve around the old masters. Knoxville is that kind of place. I find it a vaguely subversive act to embrace with reckless abandon that building and its frequently challenging shows. When I belonged to the working world, I’d pop over during particularly trying days, just to chill out among the art. It is a sanctuary.

  We’re there in the middle of a weekday and the place is almost empty, which turns out to be a good thing because the baby refuses to behave like a civilized human. At one point, I am pushing the stroller with one hand while holding a bottle in her mouth with the other. I keep tripping over my own feet because I’m also trying to look at the art. It’s my first chance in weeks to let my brain escape into something truly beautiful. I refuse to leave just so that I can feed my child, because that would be admitting my old life is even further out of my reach, a defeat. Surrender is impossible, even though I would need to be an octopus to function well at this very moment.

  At some point, my mother-in-law scoops up the baby and carries her away to parts unknown. My dad and I wander the museum in peace. We don’t have much to say to each other. I know he wants to know how I am. I also know that if he asks, I’ll start crying again. He must know that and, so, doesn’t ask. I get the feeling that he simply wants to hug me until all of the bad stuff goes away, which is impossible.

  We find Scott’s mom and the baby in front of an enormous cobalt horse, part of a larger installation. Char is whispering to Maddy, describing the scene to her and explaining about both horses and colors. A knife twists in my chest. I should be doing that. It is what mothers do. Yet it never would have dawned on me to do so. My instincts are completely untrustworthy.

  Rather than risk lunch, we flee back to the house, which is still full of food. My stated reason for avoiding a restaurant is that the baby seems unsettled. My real reason is that I’m starting to panic. My hands are shaking. Tears are just below the surface, ready to gush. My biggest fear is that I’ll lose it in a public place and run into someone I know. Knoxville isn’t big enough to avoid anyone and rumors of my demise would spread quickly.

  The schedule, which had included a jaunt to the mall, is tossed in the crapper. Instead, we all lie down for naps, which the baby lets us take. By the time I wake up, my dad is doing dishes, my mother-in-law is playing with Maddy, and my husband is home from work and pondering what to do about dinner. We order barbecue from the joint down the street and gorge ourselves on smoked meats. Maddy watches us from her car-seat perch, which is on a spare dining room chair. It’s like she can’t believe she’s related to these people who are gnawing on bones and covered in sauce.

  Afterward, I have the best mom experience I had had since becoming one almost a month previous. Since Maddy’s umbilical cord stump fell off while I was “away,” we can finally immerse her in a tub and give her a real bath. Maddy is absolutely delighted by it, cooing and kicking. I spend a good half hour in there, watching her enjoy the water and naming all of her parts for her. Her big blue eyes never leave my face. It is miraculous. Of course, I almost drop the wet, slippery child as I’m trying to maneuver her from tub to towel, but I can forgive myself for that.

  The next day, my mother-in-law leaves. She doesn’t want to go, but her employers are starting to sound especially grumpy about her taking any more days off. I assure myself that the training wheels have to come off sometime. I just wish it could be after I felt less wobbly. My dad will still be around, however, for one more day. Then I’m on my own. I try to not think that far ahead because I can’t breathe if I do.

  The baby and I pass the day lounging on the couch, with occasional breaks for meals. My dad makes a grocery run, then we all watch really bad daytime TV. My aunt Linda, who was vacationing in the Smokies with her church youth group, drives up to our place to lay her eyes on the new family member. She plucks Maddy out of my arms and nuzzles her. Confidence flares around her like a fresh orange halo, so bright that it is almost blinding. When she leaves, I secretly feel she should take the baby with her, because she is so much more of a mother than I will ever be.

  This is also the day of phone calls. The postpartum doula, Kimberly, who I met in the ER, is able to come over three afternoons per week. It’s fabulously expensive, an extravagance I can’t help but feel guilty about. But I give in to my weaknesses and admit that I need the help, even if it will drain our last financial cushion. My mom calls shortly thereafter, to tell me again that she told me this would happen and to volunteer to help defray some of the unforeseen costs. I take the money but feel guilty about it. She also makes noises about coming up to stay with us again, but everyone in the house, including my dad, take turns assuring her that that would be a really bad idea right now. I can barely deal with brushing my hair on a daily basis. Deflecting her passive-aggressive ego-killing rays would be beyond even Wonder Woman. A mere mortal has no chance.

  Later in the day, my mother-in-law calls to let us know she’s arrived safely. She also lets us know that her pictures from her first trip down are adorable. Well, the pictures of the baby are adorable. The pictures of me are, well, to put it kindly, as she says, “You could see something was wrong.” When I see these snaps later, I am horrified. I look like Lurch from the Addams Family but with long, snarled brown hair and a thousand-yard stare. Most memoirists would now write, “I don’t know who that woman was. It was like looking at a stranger.” That’s utter nonsense. I know exactly who that woman was and I know exactly where she is now. If I’m not careful, she could drop by at any time. Some days she’s further away than others. And, some, she’s right next door, putting on her coat to walk to my house. I have learned to live with the knowledge that she exists.

  My father-in-law calls. First, he’s checking to make sure that I’m still out of the pokey. He also lets us know that he’s had a revelation. Since he’s a second-grade teacher and off until Labor Day, he could just hop in the car, drive down from Rochester, and hang out with me for a week or two. He’s also just talked to his ex-wife, who must have reported to him that we could still use some help. Scott is floored. His parents almost never voluntarily speak to each other. He’s not even sure that they talked during our wedding. My madness, it seems, has forced them to bridge their differences and work together to make sure that their grandbaby has a mother. It is oddly heartwarming.

  But truth be told, I don’t want him to come down. I’m starting to feel stubborn. I don’t want to be coddled. I am strong. I can make it on my own, just like I’ve do
ne for almost everything in my adult life. Still, the idea of being completely alone in the house with this sub-ten-pound human makes my knees wobbly. I tell him I’ll call him back the next day, once I’ve had a chance to think about it. While I have been improving, I realize the odds of full functionality returning during the next twenty-four hours is as unlikely as Tom Cruise being attacked by flying monkeys who throw tomatoes and sing “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” A girl can always hope.

  The day passes, as does the night. At some point during the next few days, my life takes on a curious flatness. I get up. I sit on the couch. I watch bad daytime TV and don’t care about any of it, except for Martha Stewart Living and Sorority Life, which I watch with religious fervor. Nothing else makes an impression. I feed the baby. I change the baby. I watch the baby sleep. I can’t seem to nap myself, no matter how I try. I make the occasional list of frighteningly easy things to accomplish. People talk to me, but it never makes much of an impression, like I’m sandwiched between two panes of thick glass. I’m in here, but nothing can get through. It is better than the continual crying, granted, but this near-vegetative state isn’t all that interesting to write about. Assume that I’m planted on the couch for most of this time. Some highlights follow.

  I go to see my second shrink, one who was recommended by my OB and who didn’t have an appointment available before my trip to the ER. I’ll still be seeing Dr. G, but to talk only about meds, since that is his specialty. When I see Dr. G, I’ll also be spending time with his dog, Punch, a boxer with the sweetest personality I’ve ever encountered, who hangs out in the office. He’s a good boy and never fails to make me feel better, no matter how poorly the day has gone. His big brown eyes offer absolution as he rests his anvil of a head on my lap. Punch is better than a priest and only makes you feel guilty if you fail to scratch behind his petal-soft ears.