*
The next morning I changed into the clothes Dad had left on his way to work and followed a nurse down three floors. The words on the door at the end of the hall were big enough to read from the elevator:
PSYCHIATRIC UNIT
Visitors must check in at the nurses’ station.
The door opened into a long hallway divided by a glassed-in nurses’ station. We didn’t stop. Residual grogginess kept me from feeling nervous. Two patients passed us dressed in regular clothes. They looked normal. Normal like me, which now meant crazy. At the end of the hall we stopped at another door, this one with a small window at eye level and a sign.
Locked Unit
No Admittance
The nurse tapped the glass. A red-haired woman with porcelain skin and a friendly face opened the heavy door and stepped aside to let me in. The ICU nurse handed her my chart and left.
“Hello, Clarice. My name is Shirley. I’m the day nurse. We’ve been expecting you. Let me show you around the unit.”
The room was not any bigger than our kitchen, furnished like a living room with a small table and four chairs on one end. I counted three patients—an older woman working on a jigsaw puzzle, another who looked to be Mom’s age sketching by the window, and a young man who looked half asleep on the sofa.
Shirley stepped over to a nurse’s desk and added the metal ICU chart to the pile of four. “It’s alright, Clarice, we won’t bite. These are your roommates, so to speak. Kate is on the open unit…you’ll meet her later.” Each patient turned and acknowledged me. None of them looked crazy either.
“Patients back here eat meals in the common room and days are spent doing different therapeutic activities. We have our own little world here in the locked unit. An Occupational Therapist comes back three mornings a week and an Art Therapist once a week. Once your doctor gives the okay, you’ll be able to spend time on the open unit.”
Shirley made it sound as if I would be here for months.
“Each patient has their own room back here.” She motioned me to a corner room and extracted the biggest key ring I had ever seen from deep in the pocket of her uniform dress. The thing was as wide around as a soda can and heavy with metal. She unlocked the door.
It was impossible to mask my surprise. The bed with a peach coverlet faced a big window overlooking the front of the hospital.
“You’ll be able to do your school work here,” Shirley said, nodding toward a desk.
“I don’t think I’ll be here long enough for that. I’m going home in a few days.”
Nurse Shirley started to say something. Instead she gave me a lopsided smile and suggested I write a list of things I needed from home “just in case.”
We returned to the common room and sat down at the table. Shirley handed me a menu and explained I would make my own choices. Assuming the doctor ordered no restrictions, I could have anything on the menu, even steak every night if I wanted. Insurance is a wonderful thing, Shirley said with a conniving twinkle. Yes, I thought, every sixteen-year-old should go to sleep wishing she could wake up in the locked psychiatric unit of a private hospital so she could order steak every night.
The heavy door opened and clanged shut. A man in his twenties dressed in white entered.
“This good-looking guy is Ian, Reese. He’s my partner in crime on the day shift. He’s full of mischief, but plays a mean game of backgammon and he’s not a bad listener either.”
“Welcome to our little family. In a few days you’ll like it back here so much you won’t want to go to the open unit. You play backgammon?”
The next day after work Dad brought my books and assignments. My heart dropped at the thought of missing Brother McPherson’s class and wondered what he must be thinking. I had never missed a single day of school.
I handed Dad my list: Cyrano, two pullover sweaters, jeans, tennis shoes and toiletries, which had to be kept with the nurse. As he looked it over, I grabbed the paper and added Best Loved Poems of the American People, a hefty volume Dad had given me for Christmas last year.
Shirley poured a cup of coffee and joined me and the other patients for breakfast. The phantom patient, Kate, spent her days on the open unit. I must’ve been making up calories from my ICU stay because I was starving. Orange peel and an empty bowl was all that was left after I inhaled the cream of wheat. My eyes watered as the orange slices stung my raw throat. Shirley waited for the others to leave the table.
“Reese, at eleven o’clock Ian is going to escort you to the medical building across the street to meet Dr. Granzow for your first appointment.”
“Who’s he?”
“Dr. Granzow is your psychiatrist. He’ll—”
“What psychiatrist?”
Shirley set her coffee mug on the table. She reached over and put her hand on mine. It felt warm, soft. “Hon, didn’t anyone explain that you’d be seeing a psychiatrist every day?”
“No. Anyway there’s no point in my seeing a psychiatrist. My mom said I was only here to be evaluated. That can’t take more than a couple of days.”
“Reese, hon. Nobody goes home from the locked unit in a couple of days. This is psychiatric intensive care. Seeing your doctor, participating in our therapeutic program, that’s the whole point of being here. That’s the way you’re evaluated.”
I met her warm eyes, tears burning mine. I hadn’t wanted to admit Dad’s bringing me clothes and schoolwork had been a sure sign I wasn’t going home tomorrow. Staying locked up was one thing, talking to a psychiatrist was quite another. “I don’t need a psychiatrist. I’m not crazy.”
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by crazy. You’ve been admitted to the locked unit directly from ICU because you made a serious suicide attempt. There has to be something causing you tremendous distress. Your psychiatrist will help you figure that out, help you find other ways to deal with your emotions. We’re all here to help you get better.”
I let out a shaky breath and turned to the window. The street was quiet, too early for visitors.
Shirley squeezed my hand. “Ian will walk you over at eleven.”
I nodded without looking at her, wishing I could disappear.
Ian unlocked the door. The open unit seemed big and empty after being in tight quarters. We passed the nurses’ station where I had come in from ICU and kept walking until we reached the back door. Ian unlocked it and I walked outside to a Staff Only parking lot.
I squinted in the morning sun. “Shirley said the doctor was across the street.”
Ian grinned. “Yeah, yeah. She’s right, but there’s no harm in taking the long way around, get a little sunshine. You haven’t been outside in a few days.”
He saw my confused expression.
“Don’t worry. Shirley knows my little trick. C’mon, let’s enjoy the walk.”
The sunshine felt good in the cool spring air. We paralleled the hospital and crossed the street to a three-story building in what would be the first of many trips to Dr. Granzow’s office. Ian stayed with me in the waiting room where piped-in music and richly upholstered furniture made it look nothing like the waiting room at my dentist’s. A few minutes later a man opened the inner door to his office. Ian nodded to him and left.
The room was low lit with overstuffed leather chairs. The severe looking man in his sixties with a long face and sunken cheeks retreated to a massive desk. He spoke in a German accent.
“Hello, Clarice. I’m Dr. Granzow. I’m going to be seeing you while you’re in the hospital. The focus of this first session is to get to know a little about you, what’s going on in your life.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Why don’t you tell me about school, your friends.”
I ran my hands along the cool leather arms of the chair and didn’t answer.
“How do you get along with your parents?”
“Fine.”
“It’s alright to talk to me, Clarice. Everything we discuss is completely confidential.”
Dr. Granzow lit a pipe, dipping
the match into the tobacco pot several times between short puffs before taking a full drag and filling the air with pungent smoke. I frowned and swiped it away with a muffled cough.
He leaned back, pipe clenched between his teeth. The leather chair deflated with a noise that sounded like someone passing gas. “So…everything is fine at school and at home and with your friends. You overdosed for no reason. Is that it?”
There was no point in saying anything. One answer would lead to another question and another, each exchange pushing me further into a corner.
“Is this the first time you have tried to hurt yourself?”
Laguna Beach flashed before me, the sweet memory of swimming past the buoys with no one around, the ocean current taking me far, far away.
“You know, Clarice, if you want to get well and go home, we have to work together. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s causing you so much distress.”
Nothing I could say would be true or right. The smell of tobacco made me nauseated. Or was it the secrets eroding my insides.
Dr. Granzow waited. I retreated deep into myself, into my own bomb shelter where I lived in darkness. Twenty minutes ticked by. He sprang forward in the chair and laid his pipe in a clean ashtray. In a rough move he grabbed the top chart from a neat stack and began writing. Five minutes later he flicked the top closed and picked up another. Then another. He never looked up and his face was a blank.
A clock chimed on the quarter hour, the half hour, and finally the forty-five minute mark. Dr. Granzow checked his watch. He closed the fountain pen and walked to the door. Without acknowledging Ian, the doctor returned to his desk and picked up another chart.
Ian and I left the office and headed back to the unit, taking the long way around.
Saturday Mom and Dad came to visit. Mom sat in the upholstered chair next to the night stand. Dad set down the pile of things from my list and straddled the one at the desk. I was cross-legged on the bed.
“Well, if this isn’t the cat’s pajamas! It looks more like a luxury hotel than a hospital room.”
“Maybe we should trade places.” I retrieved Cyrano from the pile Dad had set on the bed and plopped him on my pillow in the same position he occupied at home.
The visit was awkward for all of us. Neither of them said anything about why I was in the hospital and I was afraid to ask how long I had to stay. Thirty miserable minutes later, Dad gave Mom the cue with some excuse about needing to stop by his office as long as they were in Santa Monica.
“Walker, will you leave us girls alone for a moment? We need to talk about womanly things, if you catch my drift.”
“Huh? Oh, sure! I’ll just be outside flirting with that redhead.”
Mom tapped a pack of cigarettes against her finger until one stuck out.
“You can’t smoke in here, Mom.”
Irritation clouded her face. She slapped the Old Gold back into place and dropped the pack into her open purse on the nightstand. The glare she gave me turned my stomach. “About this psychiatrist they have you seeing…I want you to think long and hard about what you tell him. A lot has happened this last year. It won’t do any of us a shred of good having a stranger poking his nose into our personal business. What goes on in this family is a private matter among the three of us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Cyrano’s ear felt velvety between my fingers. I slid the plush forward then back, enjoying the two kinds of softness. I wasn’t about to give Mom the satisfaction of assurance. Let her worry for once, spend a few sleepless nights. Let her find out what it feels like to have gnawing in your gut day in and day out.
Mom exhaled hard through her nose. “Look, I don’t know what to make of that little stunt you pulled with the sleeping pills. If you think feeling sorry for yourself is going to change anything, you’d better think again. You aren’t the one who has suffered here, Clarice. You’re not the one who had to go away then come home and reconstruct your life.”
“Who’s feeling sorry for who? Or, excuse me, whom?”
Her face turned red and blotchy. “I’m hardly feeling sorry for myself. What I am doing is thinking about what’s best for all of us…you, me, and most of all, your father. We don’t need our name dragged through the mud. I don’t care if these people are professionals, the minute you tell anyone it’ll be all over town. Gossip spreads faster than cheap lipstick. If you care anything at all about the welfare of this family, you’ll keep our troubles to yourself.” She leaned back, softening her voice. “Then when you come home, you and I can start over, try to do a little better. Can we agree to that plan?”
I held a horizontal Cyrano over my mouth.
“Okay, you want to give me the silent treatment. Fine.” Mom got up and came closer. She gathered a clump of my hair and held it for a moment, then flung it across my face, making my eyes water from the sting. “Don’t cross me, Clarice. Don’t even try. You think you feel alone now? Just see what happens if any of this gets out. I’ll make sure you never set foot in my house again.”
She turned to leave. “By the way, a letter came from your sister. I wasn’t aware you were corresponding. That comes to an end right now. I’ll be damned if I’m going to have you two criticizing me.”
“Mom! What harm is there in a letter?”
“Your father understands you are not to get anymore letters from Kit, or Petra for that matter. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you haven’t aired our dirty laundry with her. I’m going to make sure it stays that way.”
“I’m not a prisoner. You can’t just cut off communication.”
She smirked. “Let’s just say this is a reminder of how miserable I can make your life. I’ll save the letters for when you come home.”
I listened to Mom and Dad chat for a moment with Shirley. The heavy door closed behind them with a bang. I fell back on the bed and cried.
Monday through Friday for two weeks Ian escorted me to Dr. Granzow’s office. We always took the longest route. Monday through Friday for two weeks I chatted with Ian both ways. I said nothing during my fifty-minute session.
I was the only adolescent in the locked unit, or the open unit for that matter. Everyone on staff was kind to me, especially Shirley and Ian. They teased me about ordering the same menu every day—half a roast beef sandwich with mustard on whole wheat and a hard boiled egg for breakfast, a vegetable salad for lunch, a five-ounce filet mignon and fresh green beans for dinner, plus the occasional custard before bed from the fridge in the day room.
For the first time in three years I had an appetite.
Dad contacted school about my “mononucleosis”. Twice a week on his way into work he collected assignments from school and delivered them to me. The completed work I gave him in exchange would be dropped off at school the next time.
Mom joined him on Saturday afternoons for a visit, no doubt to keep up appearances more than to check on me. Our conversations were laden with tension and limited to everything other than anything important. FD joined them sometimes. His corny jokes gave us a reprieve from each other.
No one at school had a clue I was in the hospital. One Saturday Francie showed up at my house and ran into Dad on his way to the car with two of my blouses on hangers. Dad finally explained where I really was and swore her to secrecy.
Two weeks after zero progress in our sessions, Dr. Granzow took another approach and allowed me to participate in therapeutic activities on the open unit. The order stipulated I was to return at lunch to the locked unit where meals were served with plastic utensils instead of metal ones. I didn’t mind. Shirley was my favorite person in the place and it was comforting being among familiar faces.
On the open unit I said little in group therapy. That changed with the Recreation Therapist. He invited me to play ping pong and I nearly cried for joy. Derrick won all our games in the beginning. Once the rust wore off, we split the wins fifty-fifty. The Recreation Therapist was a big athletic guy, the same size as Dad, with Elvis
Presley hair he combed at regular intervals.
Playing ping pong reminded me of the countless hours Greg Stewart and I had spent hitting across the table, talking about everything under the sun, our game score inconsequential.
From what I gathered that was the same idea with the Recreational Therapist—get the patient to loosen up and talk. The meat of any conversation would be recorded in the chart and shared with staff. After a few days of friendly chit chat, Derrick began interjecting probing questions. He was proud of his degree in Psychology and the two additional years needed for his state license. I liked Derrick, and we did talk. There wasn’t much to chart. I had become expert in the art of evasion.
One evening after dinner I was on my bed doing homework. Shirley popped her head in the door, which had to remain open. ICU staff had to be able to see patients at all times. She told me I had a visitor. Brother McPherson, large as life, appeared in the doorway. I almost didn’t recognize him in khaki pants and a light green pullover sweater instead of his cassock.
“Brother McPherson!”
“Hello, Reese. I hope you don’t mind my coming to see you.” He laid a book bag on the desk and sat down in the chair near the bed. “And please, call me Tim.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I got the story about mono from Sister Dorothea and Francie. Something told me there was more to it. Last night I called your Dad. He finally told me.”
I felt heat rise to my face.
“How are you feeling?”
“I feel okay. I mean…I’m not sick.”
“Right. Of course. I just meant—” It was his turn to blush.
“It’s okay. We both know I’m here for a reason.”
“I’d sensed for a long time that you were unhappy. I just didn’t know how deeply troubled you were. I wish I’d known. A number of times you seemed like you wanted to talk after class. I hope you know you can confide in me.”
The Road at My Door Page 14
