“What do you know about this hospital?”
That it’s a hellhole where patients are drugged and attacked, or locked in solitary confinement for weeks, or given electric shock treatments and turned into zombies! “That it’s for patients who need to be in a hospital for a long time. Crazy people like me.”
There was no irritation in her tone like the edge in Dr. Granzow’s. “I’ve been a psychiatrist for a very long time and dealt with a lot crazy people, to use your words. I’m here to tell you you’re not one of them.”
“You do know I’ve been locked up for months.”
“You’re sick. That doesn’t mean you belong in a psychiatric hospital.”
“What do you mean?”
She made a hand steeple. “Your father gave a detailed account of what’s been going on at home, the events leading up to your suicide attempt. According to him, until six months ago you’d never shown any visible sign of depression. You were a straight ‘A’ student, had friends, plans for college. That sounds to me like a well-adjusted teenager.” Pause. “Then your mother left.”
What does she know? I scooted to the edge of the chair. I could feel her eyes on me.
“Your father told me about this priest, Father Donnelly. It seems he’s been deeply involved with your family. Particularly your mother. Your father said they have, and I quote, ‘a complicated and close relationship’. Does that sound right?”
I nodded quickly several times.
“How did your dad feel about that?”
“He didn’t kno—”
Dr. Pallone waited several moments for me to finish my sentence before she did it for me. “He didn’t know what was going on between them. Is that what you were about to say?”
I didn’t blink. The pattern in the Persian rug became fuzzy.
“Your father told me that during the first three months of your mother’s absence last year, he broke down emotionally and was unable to function. He credits you with taking care of him. It was you who did the cooking, laundry, grocery shopping, made sure he ate and paid the bills.”
My heart skipped. Why had Dad told her all this?
“He described the two of you driving to San Francisco in the middle of the night, almost eight hundred miles in twenty-four hours. You drove. He said he was too distraught to be much help.”
Everything was discombobulated. The doctor made it sound like Dad was crazy, not me.
“All the while this is going on you continued going to school every day and never breathed a word to anyone about your mother’s disappearance or your father’s condition.”
I wrapped my arms and rocked in tiny up-and-back motion.
“Three months later Father Donnelly tells you where your mother is…and that she’s pregnant…from rape.” Pause. “Your mother had this baby and gave it up.”
Dad told her about the baby! I rocked faster, backward, forward, my shallow breaths becoming a pant at the shock of hearing the truth spoken out loud for the first time. I couldn’t contain the chaos in my body. Lightheaded and dizzy, everything tilted and swayed. I was passing out.
Dr. Pallone took hold of my shoulders and pushed me back to an upright position. “Close your mouth and breathe through your nose.”
I did as she said. After a few minutes the pant slowed to normal breathing.
“Reese, you’ve been holding some pretty heavy secrets for a long time.”
A lamp on the desk wrapped us in soft yellow light, the world beyond this room non-existent. I tried to grasp the enormity of my dark secret exposed to daylight. Someone knows. Someone other than me and Dad and Kit. A stranger. My face scrunched involuntarily as I tensed and held my emotions in check.
“For three months it had just been you and your father, living through this difficult experience.”
Dr. Pallone disentangled the rat’s nest of secrets one enmeshed layer at a time with care and precision. After each revelation she assessed my reaction before unraveling the layer underneath. Her words were spoken without sentiment, yet her compassion touched my soul, soothing the rawness of secrets uncovered.
The last truth would be hardest to hear.
“Then after seven months your mother comes home. You resent her. One day the two of you have an argument. But this isn’t when you took the overdose, is it?”
I shook my head.
“No. You turned to the one person you had counted on to defend you, the person you had taken care of on your own for months…your father.”
I could no longer hold myself together. The tears came, softly at first. The crying grew into sobs, uncontrollable, unstoppable, my anguish surfacing in audible wails. I snapped a Kleenex from the box and then another, unable to stem the flow of body fluids unleashed upon hearing the one truth I had not been able to bear.
I don’t know how long the crying lasted. It felt like a long time, three years of pent up emotion released on the words of someone I had known less than fifteen minutes. Dr. Pallone waited without a word until the sobs sputtered out in ragged hiccups.
I let my head fall back in the chair, free of the massive weight I’d been carrying for so long. This woman, this stranger, had walked right into the fallout shelter and switched on the light.
Truth. What a beautiful word. Clean. Pure. Strong.
She leaned forward, closing the gap between us. “Reese, I think you’re a very angry, very scared young woman, and I think you’ve been trying for a long time to tell everyone around you that you need help.”
“It’s my fault. I wouldn’t talk.”
“Your behavior did the talking. You had been trying to cope with the disappearance of your mother, deception from the family priest, your father’s emotional breakdown, only to have him betray you when you needed him most.”
Long pause.
“These adults were charged with your care. They let you believe keeping their secrets was protecting them from disaster. That’s a terrible burden for anyone, much less a sixteen-year-old girl. You finally reached your breaking point. That doesn’t mean you’re crazy, and it doesn’t mean you belong in a hospital.”
A cold wave of anxiety crashed through my short-lived relief. There was still one major piece of information missing. I knew the question. It was the same one I’d asked Mom and Dad that morning long ago in their bedroom, the same question I’d asked yesterday from my bed in St. John’s. Twice I had asked the question. Twice the answer had crushed me.
But I had to ask it.
“If I’m not staying here, and my parents won’t let me come home, where am I going?”
Dr. Pallone shifted to her other hip and answered in a business-like tone, an undercurrent of excitement barely detectable beneath the matter-of-fact delivery. “We have options other than going home or being in the hospital—Family Care.”
Of course she would send me away like everybody else in my life had. I would be displaced once again after experiencing the first connection I’d felt since the early days with FD.
“Reese, this hospital is for patients who are severely mentally ill, people with psychotic disorders that make it difficult for their families to care for them at home. It’s for violent patients who can’t be free in society and adolescents referred by the courts. You don’t belong here.”
“Apparently I don’t belong anywhere. I’ve proved I can take care of myself. I don’t see why you can’t make my parents let me come home.”
“It’s not that simple. Dr. Granzow didn’t recommend long term hospitalization to punish you. He did it because he understands the danger of going right back into a situation so destructive you thought your only option was to kill yourself.”
My wrung-out body was too drained at this point to care where I would be going. Dr. Pallone was sending me away. That’s all I needed to know. I stared into space with my head back in the chair.
“We have good Family Care here in Ventura County.”
“Is that some kind of foster care?”
“These are small
supervised homes with other patients. They’re licensed by the state and provide a safe environment in the community where you can see a psychiatrist and continue treatment.”
“I’m going to foster care just because my parents are messed up?”
“Reese, it’s time someone started protecting you instead of the other way around. For the time being that someone will be the state.”
“Dad shouldn’t have told you about San Francisco. You’re using that against him.”
“Secrets don’t work that way. They don’t keep you safe. Your father knows that now. He told me the truth because he wants you to get well. He knows these secrets have hurt you. He also knows he hasn’t protected you in ways a father should.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“You’ll be eighteen in a year-and-a-half.”
“A year-and-a-half? I won’t be able to graduate with my class at St. Monica’s?”
“According to Dr. Granzow’s notes you continued with schoolwork during your hospitalization. You’ll do the same here. Our classes follow state curriculum. Once we get you into Family Care you can transfer to Ventura High and graduate on schedule.”
I puffed my cheeks and let out a long breath.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. You didn’t create this illness, Reese, and you can’t cure it without help. The feelings you’re experiencing—anger, hopelessness—are powerful emotions. There are healthy ways to cope, but you can’t deal with something you can’t openly acknowledge. First things first. Now that we’ve exposed this dark secret to light and air, the healing can begin. You’ll be able to look at things differently. That’s a good start.”
Differently is an understatement. The assumptions and beliefs I had walked into this office with an hour ago had been totally deconstructed and reconfigured. I had been looking at everything from upside down, my perspective distorted. Right side up was a different view entirely. Someone was going to protect me. For the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope that all was not futile.
“Now, here’s the hard part. Placement in Family Care is going to take a while. This is a big hospital with thousands of patients to take care of. It’s best to assume you’ll be here for a few months at the very least. That gives you and I time to work. You’ll be assigned a social worker who will get you on track with school and work on your placement. Does this sound like a workable plan to you?”
For the first time in weeks I smiled, a warm, genuine expression of gratitude. “It does.”
“Good. Now let’s get you admitted. You can skip the physical since you’ve been medically monitored for three months. A psych tech will escort you to the ward. You’d better dry your eyes. Walking in with a tear-stained face is not the way to start out around here.”
Dr. Pallone got up and walked to her desk. She muttered something, more to herself than to me.
“You’re going to be okay, Reese Cavanaugh.”
*
A husky thirtysomething man dressed in white with slick black hair entered. The key ring swinging from his belt must’ve outweighed Ian’s by at least a pound. He gave me a wary glance and grabbed my suitcase. I turned to say goodbye to Dr. Pallone, her head over a chart as she dialed the phone.
I followed the Keeper of the Keys out of Admissions and into the wilderness of hospital grounds. Raoul moved fast for such a giant of a man. We zigzagged our way through the cluster of rectangular buildings. I noticed each cluster had a number painted in block letters on the locked gate to identify the ward. I wondered how I would find my way back to Dr. Pallone’s office without a map.
Raoul stopped outside the adolescent ward and rattled through his keys. An odd sound caught my attention from behind. Before I could move out of the way, something came flying at me. I slammed hard against the wall with the wind knocked out of me.
Dumbstruck, I struggled to catch my breath.
Raoul spun around. “ARCHIE! C’mon, leave her alone. Get up now. C’mon.”
It was one of the helmet-headed boys I had seen from the car. Bushy red hair stuck out of the ill-fitting helmet. He had dropped to my feet with his nose over my shoes, vigorously rubbing them with his huge hands.
“I love you! I love you! You’re so beautiful! Will you marry me?”
“Don’t mind Archie,” Raoul said. “He’s harmless, aren’t you, Archie.” Raoul helped the boy up and shoved him in the other direction. “Go catch up with your group now. I’m sure Sandra is wondering where she lost you.”
Raoul turned back to the door and unlocked it. I stepped inside and nearly gagged. The air was heavy with the smell of confinement—disinfectant, stale food, urine. Raoul motioned to a heavyset woman at the end of the hallway and ducked into an office with my suitcase.
“You must be Cavanaugh,” she said. The woman looked older than Raoul in her shapeless blouse and polyester pants. “I’m Maggie, the tech in charge on days.”
I leaned against the wall and brought my foot within reach to re-tie the laces of my shoe undone by Archie. “Yes, Reese Cavanaugh.”
“Let me show you around the girls’ dorm.”
“What about my suitcase?”
“You’ll get it back after it’s cleared for contraband.”
I trailed Maggie down a long corridor into the day room. It was a replica of the lobby with the addition of filthy walls of peeling paint. A tattered couch in the middle of the room sat facing a wall-mounted TV. A worn monastery table served as a desk at the far end of the room.
“This is where you’ll spend most of your time when you’re not at school.” Maggie pointed to a central glassed-in nurses’ station. “You’ll line up there for meds, at the door you came in for the cafeteria and school.”
We moved through the dayroom to one of two wings off the nurses’ station. “There are thirty girls on the ward, split between two dorms. Your bed is this way.”
The long rectangular room had military beds lining each wall covered with gray equally-military-style blankets like the ones in Greg’s bomb shelter. The narrow space between beds was crammed with two metal lockers, one for each patient. I envisioned my private corner room at St. John’s, the big window, the desk, the painting of a sailing ship on stormy seas, the peach-colored bedspread. I swallowed hard and caught up with Maggie, who stood waiting for me, hands on hips.
“This is yours. We’ll get your name taped on the locker. Other than that, no pictures or posters allowed.” She paused to make sure I was taking it in. “Dinner is at five-thirty, free time until seven, homework till nine, lights out at ten sharp. Wake up is six-thirty on weekdays, an hour later on weekends.”
She stopped for a moment and massaged her forehead. “Oh, and the TV is on from four to five-thirty and six to seven during the week. It stays on until ten-thirty on Friday and Saturday. You watch only if your name is on the grade list, C or higher.”
I memorized the rules the same way I had memorized The Raven with every expectation of one hundred percent recall.
“On Tuesdays and Fridays, a staff member escorts patients in a group to the canteen. Again, only if your name is on the approved list. You’ll be assigned a laundry day, which includes doing your bedding. You get one bath towel and one face towel and washcloth, so don’t lose them. You miss your laundry time slot, that’s your problem. There’s a roster in the snack room listing ward chores, which rotate every week. Any fighting that gets reported is documented for your social worker and sanctions will follow. Any questions?”
Fighting? I did my best to muffle any hint of shock. Instead I sounded naïve, even worse. “What’s the canteen?”
“Boy, you are new to the system. It’s the commissary, the store here on the grounds. If you have any spending money you can buy snacks and toiletries and magazines, stuff like that. There’s a pay phone outside. You only make calls to someone approved by the doctor. Calls are limited to ten minutes. Got it?”
“Got it.”
We walked to the door as she rattled more rules. After saying
goodbye to everyone at St. John’s, driving up the coast, parting with Dad and my session with Dr. Pallone, I didn’t think my mind could process one more thing.
“There are no locks on these lockers, so unless you want something to get stolen, don’t buy it or have anybody bring it from home. Patients aren’t allowed in the dorm between eight-thirty in the morning and nine-thirty at night except to get something. If you don’t feel well we’ll send you to the sick bay.”
Maggie left me at the nurses’ station. I wandered into the dayroom and kept my head down until I sat at one corner of the monastery table in back.
At dinner time I lined up with the other patients and walked single file behind Raoul in a different zigzag trail to the cafeteria. Screams rang out in the distance. I didn’t look up or indicate I’d heard anything, but I shook inside.
One by one we queued up in the food line. The smell alone was enough to make me gag, the faint aroma of cleaning solution masking an underlying odor of old meat. Leftovers I had shoved down the garbage disposal looked more appealing than the concoctions in metal tubs.
Some kind of grayish meat clumps in gelatinous gravy nearly did me in when the line slowed. Creamed corn was next. I slopped a spoonful onto my plate. At the end of the line I grabbed a naval orange from a bowl of fruit, a small carton of milk from the iced bin and two boxes of raisins from desserts. Then and there I decided this was to be my diet. I would rather die of starvation than eat this rancid fare.
I had no idea where to go, so I tagged behind the girl in front of me and sat at the same table. A surly brunette with big hair and heavy make-up stopped eating and glared at me. The talking stopped as the other girls turned to me with a united sneer. The first girl spoke.
“Excuse me, asshole. Did anyone give you permission to sit at this table?”
“No. I just thought—”
“Well you thought wrong. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll beat it…and leave the orange.”
I got out from the bench with my tray and searched nearby tables. Mean Queen sauntered around the table staring daggers. She grabbed the orange.
The Road at My Door Page 17
