The Road at My Door

by Lori Windsor Mohr

  “Beat it, bitch.”

  I spotted a trash can in the far corner and headed there with eyes straight ahead. The milk I forced down felt cold in my empty stomach. I stuffed a box of raisins in each pocket of my jeans and set my tray in the dirty stack before making a bee line for the door. Raoul sat at a nearby table with other staff.

  “Hey, Cavanaugh, you have to wait for the group.”

  I tilted my head in the direction of Mean Queen and Company, at the room of tables with no empty seat.

  “There’s a small courtyard if you go out the side door. You can wait there.”

  The barren patio had a concrete bench along the wall. The cold unwelcome hardness reminded me of sitting on the sand the day I came home to find Mom gone. I closed my eyes and tried to fathom how I would survive this place.

  “Hi.” A petite towhead blonde appeared in the doorway. “I’m Molly. You must be the new girl.”

  “I’m Reese,” I said, hoping she would go away. She came over and sat next to me.

  “Welcome to the Camarillo Hilton. Don’t let Angela and her crowd get to you. They’re all rotten bitches. I’ve been here eight months and believe me, the cliques in this place make high school look like a newcomer’s club. What are you in for anyway?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to say. Sooner or later everybody does though. I’m a hopeless alcoholic, can’t be trusted on the outside. Yep. I know. I look sweet as can be, but I’m a purebred lush…drank enough rubbing alcohol to drown a horse. It didn’t kill me though, just gave me ulcers and landed me in here.”

  “How old are you?” I tried not to sound shocked.

  “Sweet sixteen and I’ve been kissed…plenty…and more.”

  There was no way to hold back the blush.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin. Holy crap.” She eyed me up and down. “You a runaway?”

  I shook my head pathetically.

  “Done a stint in juvie?” Her eyes widened at my blank stare. “Juvenile Hall?”

  I shook my head.

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “You a cutter? You know, slice little designs on your arms or face?”

  “No.”

  “Attack anyone with a weapon?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well kid, then you’re in deep shit. This place is survival of the fittest. You’ll need something to stand on or you’ll get squashed like a bug.”

  Molly’s summary statement of my total inadequacy as a credible patient marked the grand finale of my introduction to Camarillo State Hospital. Four miserable hours later, I lay under the gray scratchy blanket with Cyrano clutched to my chest in sheer relief at being alone in the dark—and in sheer terror. I gave in to both and fell asleep.

  *

  “HEY! WHAT the—”

  I bolted upright as ice water drenched my head. It was still dark. Three girls stood near the foot of the bed. Mean Queen from the Welcome Table spoke.

  “Hahahahaha! Good morning, CLARice! What a dumb-ass name. We just wanted to give you a head start figuring out how things work around here. Go ahead, rat to Maggie and see what happens.”

  I held still and let the ice water run down my chest.

  “Say, you look cold. You really should dry off. Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll find your towels in the toilet…along with that stupid dog. We decided he needed his ears cropped.”

  Maggie walked in the dorm. “Harrison, Chisolm, Lupercio. What are you three up to?”

  The girls dispersed in the other direction.

  Maggie caught sight of me. “What happened here, Cavanaugh? You’re drenched.”

  “Nothing, Maggie. I spilled some water.”

  “Uh huh. Sure. Well, it’s six-thirty, time to get up.”

  Shivering, I lifted the blanket with care not to soak anything else and peeled off the wet nightgown. The whole dorm was awake now. I pulled on dry clothes from the locker with all eyes on me. No one said a word.

  Drying my face with the wadded up nightgown, I kept my eyes forward and headed to the bathroom. Three stalls later I spotted Cyrano soaking in urine. I transferred him to the sink and filled it with hot water while I located his equally putrid ears and my towels in other stalls.

  I carried the bundle of dog-in-towels to my locker. I was sure my quivering lip would give me away. As soon as Cyrano was secure I rushed across the day room into line for the cafeteria. My face was stoic as I passed Raoul behind the others.

  If this ice water awakening had been about keeping a secret, Mean Queen and her cohorts would soon realize they were dealing with an Olympic-class competitor.

  I had passed my first test.

  *

  After breakfast we were escorted across the vast courtyard lawn to the classroom. Two teachers rotated among us to help with assignments. I was given a workbook of general math for a high school junior. Once my transcripts arrived it would be clear I had completed my requirements at the Academy of St. John’s.

  I finished my work and still had two hours until it was time to return to the adolescent ward. I felt in my bag and pulled out the book from Shirley. Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl. She had inscribed the inside cover.

  Dear Reese,

  During five years in a concentration camp, this man struggled every day to understand meaning in his suffering, a reason to go on living. He found it by refusing to allow men with no souls to crush his. He dared to choose hope for the future and that gave him freedom. No one can take that away. Regardless of circumstances in life beyond our control, we all have free will. You must find yours, Reese, and choose hope for a future of your own making.

  Love, Shirley

  My insides wept in shame. I could never have survived what Viktor Frankl had. In fact I had never done anything hard in my life. Faced with what had seemed like an unbearable situation—living in a mansion near the beach with a mean mother—I had succumbed to self-loathing instead of believing myself worthy of trusting that someone could help.

  Was it possible I could be like Viktor Frankl, find strength in adversity? I expected there was one major difference between him and me. I expected he’d had a mother who loved him.

  Still, if I had been willing to ask the question, I had to consider the answer.

  14 Transformation

  Two days later, Raoul walked me to my first appointment with the social worker. After the cafeteria experience, I got the feeling Raoul was looking out for me. It was nothing obvious, maybe just a slight tilt of his head alerting me to an Archie love attack or the opposite from Angela, reigning Mean Queen.

  We strolled across the lawn to a building on the other side of the courtyard from the adolescent ward. I asked Raoul about the social worker.

  Griff Masterson was a nice guy, he said. Young, married, “Good lookin’ like me!” More important, in terms of a good placement in Family Care Griff was my man. We entered the arched corridor and walked to his office at the end.

  He was on the phone. He nodded to Raoul and waved me inside. With his head angled to cradle the phone in his neck, he scrambled from behind the desk and cleared a chair, mouthing reassurance he would be with me shortly. I wondered if he always did five things at once. He looked about mid-thirties with a runner’s body like Greg Stewart’s. Long legs stuck out the other side of the desk in front of where I sat in the chair.

  Griff shuffled through a chart and jotted notes in rapid fire motion while he held the phone. I looked around the office, which had the same feel as Dr. Pallone’s of having too many patients and not enough staff. His desk, like hers, was a wasteland of paperwork competing for attention.

  The social worker hung up and introduced himself as he swept back dark honey hair from his forehead. “Excuse the chaos. Give me a sec.” It must’ve been my chart that had been open.

  His eyes darted back and forth at the same speed words appeared on the page when Mom typed.

  “I just got off t
he phone with your doctor. Let’s see what we have here…severe depression manifested by two serious suicide attempts, three months and four antidepressant trials at St. John’s, dysfunctional family, Mom sexually involved with priest, desertion, illegitimate child, Dad emotionally labile, pregnant sister—”

  “It sounds worse when you rattle it off like that.” I hung my head and squirmed.

  “Does it?” He tossed aside the chart. “So why don’t you tell me how it is?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Okay, let’s start with some good news. According to your transcripts from St. Monica’s, you’ve completed core requirements for junior and senior year. How ‘bout them apples?”

  “I have?”

  “Looks like you loaded up the last two years. A few electives senior year and you’re finished with high school, young lady.”

  “Okay.”

  Griff leaned back with arms folded behind his head. “Boy, I’m usually hanging by my fingernails to see if patients pass to the next grade level and here you are, sounding disappointed.”

  “No, I mean, it’s good news. It’s just that I like school and wonder what I’ll do all day.”

  Griff rolled side-to-side in his chair. “I have an idea.” He twirled around and rummaged through a stack of journals on the bookshelf. “I know it’s here somewhere…ah!” He blew off a layer of dust and swatted the air to clear it. “This is the Ventura College catalogue. Once you finish your electives you’ll be eligible to take classes.”

  “College? How would that work?”

  “Not right now. Once we have you placed in Family Care, Voc Rehab will foot the bill.”

  I raised my eyebrows in confusion.

  “Vocational Rehabilitation. It’s a state program for patients in need of job training. Ever thought about what you’d like to do in this world?”

  I focused on his feet, fully aware how inappropriate my answer would sound. “Write, teach English Literature.”

  “Ah, well, that’s definitely beyond the range of Voc Rehab. A year of books and fees at community college is doable though.”

  “Really?”

  “The state will support patients trying to get a foothold in the community. They’re less likely to end up back here.”

  “Wouldn’t my parents pay for college?”

  Griff answered in such a matter-of-fact tone I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “Dr. Pallone is petitioning the court to grant you status as an emancipated minor.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’d be considered a legal adult, free of parental authority. The request gets reviewed by a judicial board, but it’s based on medial need…psychiatric welfare…it’s a done deal.”

  “The court can arbitrarily take me away from my parents?”

  “It’s not arbi—” Griff put his pen down and looked at me. “It’s not arbitrary, Reese. Would it surprise you to know that what your mom did by deserting you was illegal?”

  “Illegal!”

  “California’s child neglect and abandonment laws consider desertion a criminal offense.”

  “My mom’s not a criminal. It’s not like she left me alone.”

  “According to state law, desertion results in willfully exposing a child to mental suffering. Legally that’s abuse. If the deserting parent leaves the child in the care of a mentally incompetent adult who fails to protect that child by exposing her to grave physical danger, that’s neglect.”

  “Incompetent adult? Physical danger?”

  “Dr. Pallone said you and your Dad went on a wild goose chase to San Francisco. In his state of emotional distress, he used poor judgment putting a then-fifteen-year-old with no license behind the wheel to drive hundreds of miles in twenty-four hours. Your father exposed you to grave physical danger.”

  “Dr. Pallone didn’t tell me any of this.”

  “She did explain about living under state care. She didn’t go into the legal muscle she’ll have in case your parents disagree with the treatment plan. That wasn’t her focus.”

  “Even if my parents were to disagree, which they wouldn’t, why take me away from them?”

  “Reese, when I read the facts about your family a few minutes ago you got defensive, said it sounded worse than it was.”

  “The way you read it off like a shopping list did sound worse than it was. All that stuff didn’t happen at once.”

  “You’re not able to see this objectively. You’re not expected to. That’s why these laws exist, to protect children. Abuse doesn’t always show up as bruises and broken bones. That doesn’t mean it’s not abuse.”

  I wanted to crawl under the desk in shame. They had gotten the wrong idea. Abuse. Neglect. Foster care. Griff was talking about someone else’s life, not mine. Yet I knew this is what Griff and Dr. Pallone had seen from the outside looking in—not Mom and Dad as I knew them. They saw sickness, recognized it right away. It wasn’t special or dramatic. It fit neatly into a category with legal terms to describe it, ways to proceed in dealing with it.

  All this time I’d thought my suffering was unique, so shocking it would knock the sensibility out of Petra, Sister Dorothea, Tim. In truth I was one in a line that stretched as far as the eye could see in front of and behind me. Dr. Pallone hadn’t needed me to reveal a single thing that first day. The list of facts from Dad told the story, my deep dark secret exposed in a timeline of events she read as easily as an EKG.

  The night I took Mom’s sleeping pills I never could’ve imagined the chain reaction it would cause. My family had been exposed without my uttering a word. No one could stop the momentum now. Too many people and agencies were involved, not the least of which was the State of California taking over as my parents.

  Griff waited until I had come back to the present.

  “Dr. Pallone isn’t interested in punishing your parents if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s interested in protecting you. Abuse qualifies as sufficient grounds for emancipation, which means you’ll be authorized to consent to your own treatment. That’s all this is about. She wants to make sure you don’t go home.”

  It was all so confusing. The state was placing me in foster care and giving me the right to object? How could Dr. Pallone be so sure I wouldn’t? Was I really ready to trust her? Look what happened when I’d trusted Father Donnelly. And Derrick.

  Then again, I was going to have to trust someone at some point. There was little chance for love without it, and love was the most important part of my Life Plan. At least when I’d had a Life Plan.

  “Cavanaugh?”

  “Huh? Oh. Dr. Pallone said you’d know how long it would take to get into Family Care.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. The hospital is stuffed to the gills. I have a long list of patients waiting for placement and only a handful of homes. Nothing is going to happen overnight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t get discouraged yet.” He picked up the catalogue and leaned across the desk. “See if one of these vocational programs appeals to you.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned as encouragement to stay positive and keep moving forward.

  I rolled my head with an acquiescing sigh and took the catalogue.

  *

  I finally received my first letter from Tim. In a quiet corner of the day room I sat down to read it.

  June 20, 1965

  Dear Reese,

  I hope you’ve settled in okay at the new hospital. Camarillo is a beautiful drive up the coast and only ninety minutes each way. Still, that chunk of time makes it harder to visit. I was hoping for this weekend, but Brother Dominic has the flu, so yours truly will be taking the senior boys on summer retreat to Lake Arrowhead. God help me.

  Life around here is crazy as always. We got through finals. I have your term paper on “Shared Symbolism: Catholic and Protestant Poets.” You got a whopping A. Big surprise

  I have a poem for you; it’s not my own, but I don’t want to tell you the author or the title because it m
ay change your reaction to it. I find it comforting and thought you might too. I hope to see you soon. Hang in there.

  Love, Tim

  I have desired to go

  Where springs not fail,

  To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail

  And a few lilies blow.

  And I have asked to be

  Where no storms come,

  Where the green swell is in the havens dumb

  And out of the swing of the sea.

  Gerard Manley Hopkins. I knew the poem, and the title: A Nun Takes the Veil. Tim was right—I liked the poem better without it. Folding the letter into small squares, I headed to the nurses’ station for permission to go in the dorm so I could hide it in my locker. Maggie nodded her okay.

  I tucked the letter and poem in a large envelope and shoved it back under my dirty clothes. I heard muffled cries from the bathroom. Listening to make sure, I crept to the door and poked my head inside. At first I couldn’t decipher the tight group in the corner. Angela and two of her cohorts had another patient pinned against the wall.

  A washcloth stuffed in the poor girl’s mouth muffled her grunts and cries. The two girls had hold of her arms while Angela punched the girl in the stomach, then grabbed her by the hair and banged her head against the wall.

  “Had enough yet? Huh?” Angela squeezed the girl’s mouth on each side. “If you ever again—”

  I couldn’t move. Angela saw me. “HEY! Cavanaugh, beat it…NOW…unless you want to be next!”

  The girl pinned to the wall pleaded to me with her eyes. I retreated and let the door fall shut, feeling woozy and ashamed in equal order. The muffled cries resumed. I ran out of the dorm.

  At dinner Angela brushed me as we exited the food line. She hissed a warning not to stick my nose where it didn’t belong or I’d be sorry. I maintained a neutral expression and said nothing. She took the orange from my tray and exited the line.

  I had passed Test # 2.

  *

  The afternoon sun felt good as I walked into Griff’s office. He was sorting through charts at his desk. He always seemed disorganized, yet he knew right where everything was. Yes, life on the ward was fine, which jived with what the staff had reported. I’d been hard at work on my senior electives with not much else to keep me busy except writing letters and reading. Most of my time in the hospital classroom was spent helping other students.