In the safety of her office I was also able to confront my behavior and understand the forces that had shaped it. Insight, that’s what Dr. Pallone called it. The net effect of our work had been far more beneficial than any antidepressant Dr. Granzow ever prescribed.
I still had plenty of bad days. The image of Derrick would break through my consciousness when I least expected it. I had kept that particular ugly truth from Dr. Pallone. I knew I should have told her, could have told her. I also knew I wouldn’t. The sense of futility that had kept Mom’s secret locked inside would do the same with this one. No one could help.
The way Dr. Pallone had invoked legal emancipation over my driving to San Francisco, there was no telling what she might do about Derrick. The humiliation would be unbearable. Staff at St. John’s, especially Shirley and Ian, would believe it had been my fault after Derrick convinced them I had encouraged him with my ‘sexual acting out’.
I’d had enough shame for a lifetime exposing one secret. The very act of recounting that despicable night would be like going through it all over again, not only speaking the words out loud in front of someone else, knowing it would be documented in my chart for the whole world to see. That was not going to happen.
This was one secret I would take to my grave.
Those bad days made it impossible to see life beyond the one I was living in the Land of Inbetweendom. In the end my telling Dr. Pallone about Derrick wouldn’t change the one truth that made my future impossible.
I was damaged goods, tainted in every way a girl could be tainted.
Loneliness, that’s what the future held for me.
*
Summer rolled into fall and still nothing opened up in Family Care. At times the adolescent ward felt so much like home I almost hoped nothing would. In those moments I would forget about my old life. The people who had been so important to me a year ago seemed smaller than the ones I lived with every day.
Angela’s voice carried through the day room all the way to the back, where I sat at the big monastery table writing a letter to Kit.
“It's completely stupid that watching TV is based on finishing homework. Tomorrow's Saturday. I can finish it then. Star Trek is on at eight-thirty! I can’t miss it.”
“Rules are rules, Lupercio. You have thirty minutes to either finish or quit squawking.”
Angela skulked toward the table. I focused on my letter and pretended I hadn’t seen her. The screeching metal sent a chalk-board shiver through me as she yanked out a chair on the opposite end. I didn’t flinch and kept writing.
She slammed the Algebra book on the table with such force I was lucky to lift my pen before it squiggled over the page obliterating the words with a wild design. Sound effects came next. The loud pop of bubble gum punctuated dramatic huffing and puffing. She leaned on one elbow, noisily shuffling pages of math homework.
I waited for the jarring to stop, then resumed my letter. Life here is about the same and… Tongue-clicking chimed in behind the gum-popping, huffing, puffing, tapping and kicking in an orchestra of agitation. I tilted my head in her direction without making eye contact.
“What the hell are you looking at, Cavanaugh?”
I ignored her. I see my doctor every week and she's really—.
Shhhlappp.
Muttered curses attended the general wriggling as Angela pounded the pencil down on the homework sheets. Again I halted my writing in time to avoid vibrations from the extra kick to the table leg. I remained still for a moment in case she hadn’t finished the tantrum.
Without looking at her I threw out a line in hope she might take the bait. At least I might be able to join forces long enough to finish my letter. “Don't you hate Algebra?”
“Jesus, that's putting it mildly. What the hell does chasing freaking x have to with anything? Except missing Star Trek.”
I resumed writing. She resumed kicking. I stopped again. This time I lifted my eyes. “If you want I could take a look at your homework.”
“Yeah, right. Miss Valedictorian of Camarillo State Hospital. You think I'm stupid? I can figure this stuff out by myself. “
I shrugged and went back to my letter. My social worker, who by the way is very el-hunko, is trying—
Her voice was so soft it took me a second to realize Angela was speaking to me.
She frowned at the sight of her cohorts staking out turf forty-five minutes before Star Trek. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. But I don’t need no help.”
I lifted rather than slid my chair down to avoid attention. The kicking and huffing and gum-popping stopped. In a jerky movement, Angela shoved the homework in front of me. She ripped out a sheet of notebook paper and busied herself.
It was first year Algebra, not third, though she and I were the same age. I finished the first three problems. Angela slowed her doodling. I leaned over to explain an easy method. Her expression registered somewhere between a threat and a plea. The message was clear.
I scribbled calculations down one column then the next and on to page two. Twenty minutes later the homework was finished. Angela eyed me with suspicion, then added a scowl saying I’d better not quit halfway through. She drew the pages over and studied them one at a time with a look of utter confusion at page after page of elaborate computation.
“These better be right, Cavanaugh. If you’re settin’ me up you’ll be sorry.”
“They’re right.”
Angela bit her lip. She surveyed her friends squeezed on the couch, no doubt pitting distrust of me against desperation to join them. Angela loved canteen days, her twice weekly outing to load up on candy and chips. That privilege would be history if she were caught cheating.
In harsh rubbing movements she began erasing random numbers, not enough to change any answers, just enough to fake a tentative appearance. Eraser flakes flew across the table. She brushed off each page to scrutinize the smudges before going on. Satisfied the work replicated the usual caliber of her assignments, Angela straightened the papers into a single pile. She repeated her scowl at me, then pushed away from the table.
I watched her march to the nurses’ station. Angela not only handed Maggie the homework, she did so with a ‘so-there’ smirk. She retreated to the couch with a final glare at me as the girls scooted over to make room just as the Star Trek credits began rolling.
I had passed Test # 3.
*
Christmas Eve morning I woke up cold and lonely. There would be no school today, just as there hadn’t been yesterday and wouldn’t be tomorrow. At least seventy percent of the patients on the ward had gone home on overnight pass to be with their family. Angela was not among them. Neither was I.
The place felt eerily deserted. The cavernous echo now so familiar had grown to a howl. There was little sign of Christmas. The only pine trees were those drawn by patients taped to the snack room door. Ornaments in red and green crayon looked colorless in a dayroom with half the fluorescent tubes burned out in the overhead lighting.
Loneliness left me brooding. Even near the window I could barely see over my own shadow to write. A note on the glass in Maggie’s writing said at ten o’clock those of us left on the adolescent ward would be escorted to the auditorium. A local parish auxiliary had donated Christmas gifts. Patients who hadn’t gone home would be allowed to choose one.
There had been no sign of a gift from Mom. Petra had promised to visit on the 26th. Still, Christmas would hardly be Christmas without a present. I had nothing else to do anyway. Had there been something worth doing, my wretched mood had depleted my energy. At ten o’clock I pulled on a sweater and got in line.
The auditorium was arranged in rows of long tables, each table displaying unwrapped gifts, eight per table—crafts, knit socks, book bags, hair accessories. My mood improved just walking into the brightly lit room thick with patients from other wards mulling over the loot. Mom always said shopping was one activity that brokered no impatience. What she really meant was I had better not complain w
hile she tried on clothes. Now it was my turn. I would indeed take my time investigating the plethora of choices, savoring the thrill of knowing one of them would be mine.
I paused to examine a western blouse with a stylized yoke and yellow piping along the pockets. My eyes were drawn to a lump of dark material next to it—a velour shoulder purse. How I envied the purse collection Kit had amassed with babysitting money, little numbers in 1960’s Op Art color combinations, big bags with silver buckles. Any chance of borrowing one had been out of the question.
I held the purse, hardly able to believe my luck. The patchwork design was a paisley pattern in alternating tones of black and aubergine. I ran my hand over the fabric, the double thickness of plush velour luxurious under my skin. The metallic snap made a satisfying click when I opened it to inspect the inside compartment. Mom’s words rang in my ear. ‘Newness is the best scent in the world, better than Chanel #5.’ There could be no mistaking the sweet smell.
The interior lined in black satin had pockets along the seam on both sides. Cool satin swallowed my fingers as they checked for depth. Sliding the fabric strap over my shoulder, I let the purse drop to my hip. Perfect.
This was it. This was my Christmas gift.
The supervising attendant ushered me out of the crowded tables to wait by the door. In the center aisle facing the stage I became mesmerized by light reflecting on gleaming wood. In mechanical steps I walked up the stairs and crossed the stage to the podium. My hands closed over the dark wood rails. I looked over the buzz of activity below. A sudden realization hit me, bringing the tingle of euphoria. I thought I was lightheaded from skipping breakfast. I waited for the feeling to go away. It didn’t.
That’s when I knew. I belonged at a podium. Honors English hadn’t been just a class. It had been my salvation. This would be my meaningful work, opening that door to someone else.
“CAVANAUGH! Off the stage!”
My moment ended. I left the stage and joined my group waiting by the door. We passed around our gifts and evaluated them in comparison with our own choice. What I couldn’t show them was the new pencil marks in the composite drawing of who I was, who I would become some day. My revelation had added definition to the sketch.
That was my real Christmas gift.
*
Some birthdays you never forget. For me it was the bleak January morning I turned seventeen. The day was like any other, unremarkable save for a card from Petra and another from Tim with mention of a gift he’d deliver in person the next Sunday. No one would wish me Happy Birthday because no one knew it was my special day. That made it unforgettable, a birthday marked by tears rather than joy.
January also marked the two year anniversary of Mom’s disappearance. The resulting chain of events that turned my life upside down still seemed hard to believe. Looking back from my vantage point two years later, I ached for the girl I had been at fifteen. I couldn’t have known the road I traveled would lead down a treacherous path into darkness, nor could I have known I would miraculously make it from there to here.
It had been nearly ten months since my first day of hospitalization last March, seven of which had been in Camarillo. Dr. Pallone’s plan for placement had snagged on the slow-moving wheels of the system. I had begun to think a placement would never come through. Griff said the good news was the state had been issuing new Family Care licenses every month in an effort to accommodate the hospital. The bad news was each home had to pass muster, prospective “parents” trained. The bottleneck resulted from a shortage of state inspectors to license the homes along with inadequate staffing to educate owners on safety laws and requirements for legally dispensing medication. There was nothing to do except wait and move forward with school and in therapy.
The afternoon sun made a feeble offering on my way back to the ward from my appointment with Dr. Pallone. I jiggled like a toddler in need of a toilet to stay warm until someone unlocked the door. Raoul said Maggie had something for me at the nurses’ station. It was a Fed Ex package. The contraband search had left the birthday wrap torn. Inside were two Oxford blouses, one in yellow, the other in pink. My mother’s imagination in gift giving apparently didn’t venture beyond androgynous clothing that would end up long forgotten in some church donation box. Stuffed between the blouses was a note explaining a year’s subscription to Seventeen Magazine would be arriving six weeks later.
I let out a rueful chuckle. Seventeen Magazine, the perfect gift for a depressed teen in existential crisis rotting in a psychiatric facility. Those tips on dating and clothes would come in handy. How about tips on how to cope when Mom walks out of your life to have another man’s baby, or better still, an article along the lines of Rape: Who Can You Turn to for Help. Those were just the topics a magazine targeting All-American girls wanted to publish.
I nodded to Maggie and kept walking, assured of her reciprocal nod granting permission to enter the dorm. Two hooks eighteen inches apart in the back of my locker served as hangers. I opened the blouses and secured them in hopes the fold wrinkles would smooth out on their own. No ironing on the ward. I was about to close the locker door. Something was off. I scanned the shelves.
My Christmas purse was missing.
15 The Road at My Door
A letter arrived from Kit.
January 20, 1966
Dear Reese,
Belated Happy Birthday! I hope it wasn’t too awful being in the hospital for your special day and for Christmas as well. Just think, in another year you’ll be free and can do anything you want.
Carlitos was such fun over Christmas. At almost two he’s old enough to understand what Feliz Navidad means…toys!
Things here aren’t so great. Carlos and I haven’t been getting along. He’s at the ranch all week and on the weekends he wants to be with his buddies and play with Carlitos.
I miss my friends, I miss California, I miss speaking ENGLISH!! The only friend I’ve made here is Sonia, this older American woman. She loaned me a bunch of books. They’ve changed my life, Reese. That’s part of the problem. They’ve opened my eyes.
I know this is not the life for me. I want to really live. It turns out Carlos is just as traditional as his family. He loves it here, loves the way men can do anything and women can do zip. I will never have freedom in this country, or in this marriage.
There’s a great poem, Howl, by Allen Ginsberg. It’s all about rejecting middle class society, seeing it for what it really is, the hypocrisy and all. And this cat, Kerouac, Jack Kerouac, I’ve been reading his book. It’s mind-blowing! There’s no God, no guilt, no private schools or pressure about college. He dropped out of Columbia University (!) to embrace life on his terms, the exact opposite of the brainless drones we grew up with, kids who never questioned.
I’m not sure what I want in life. I just know I don’t want to end up like Mom, stuck in a dull marriage, taking care of kids I never wanted in the first place. For what? To see it all go down the tubes twenty years later when I’m an old woman?
I’ve decided to come home, return to the U.S. Carlos insists the baby stay with Aida, at least until I get on my feet. I’m going to write to Daddy and ask if I can move in with him, wherever that is now, until I get a job and my own place.
Anyway, it’s not a done deal yet, only a start. Beyond getting out of Colombia, I have no clue what direction my life will go. At least it will be MY life.
That’s my rotten news. We’re quite a pair, the two of us, you in a nut house and me on the brink of divorce. I guess Mom won’t be bragging about either of us anytime soon.
Love, Kit
P.S. The enclosed photo is Carlitos on his pony, Poncho.
Kit and Carlos getting divorced? My sister’s life had gone off the rails. At least now I knew the general direction I needed to go.
*
Life in the hospital carried on as usual while I continued to wait for placement. Every Friday night Angela pulled up a chair next to me and doodled while I did her math homework. By the ti
me Star Trek came on at eight-thirty, Angela was front and center on the couch. It was common knowledge among the patients, I’m not altogether sure the staff wasn’t on to our little arrangement. It didn’t matter.
Angela needed me and I needed her. Molly had been right the day she told me I was in deep trouble on the ward with my pathetic lack of street cred. In the end I had something better—brains. The irony wasn’t lost on me that it had been Mean Queen who’d taken the bull’s eye off my back in validating book smarts as a stand-in for street sense.
Sunday afternoon I had a visitor. It had been a whole month since Tim had been able to get away to visit. He and I embraced like the long lost friends we had become since last spring at St. John’s.
“Ah, Reese. You look wonderful, hon!”
We settled on my bench under the towering oak and talked nonstop, me about the classes at the college and Tim about the ones he was teaching at St. Monica’s.
I mentioned Family Care as little as possible and kept details fuzzy, which wasn’t hard since I didn’t know anything. It’s not that Tim would’ve judged me. The more he knew about the plan the more questions he would have about why I wasn’t going home. Sitting on the bench listening to him describe his jaunt to UCLA for a catalogue, how he’d mapped out English Lit courses in the best sequence, he sounded as excited as I would’ve been a lifetime ago. It was time to bring up reality.
“Hon, what are you saying? I thought you were taking these classes to get some of your freshman breadth requirements out of the way. I assumed the talk about staying in a care home after discharge from the hospital was one possibility. Not the only possibility. I don’t understand why you would want to complete this vocational program and stay in Ventura County instead of starting your bachelor’s degree at UCLA.”
“It’s not like I’m going to China. I’ll be an hour-and-a-half away.”
The Road at My Door Page 20
