by Bonnie Grove
“We’re done when I say,” I said.
“Kate, go home,” Heather said as she stepped into the hallway.
I stared at her like a village idiot. What was Heather doing in Donna’s office?
Donna put a hand on Heather’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll handle things.”
Heather ignored her, taking two steps toward me. “I know this is a surprise—”
My legs shook. “It’s not a surprise, it’s an ambush.” I pointed to Donna, my voice shrill.
Heather held her arms out as if to pull me into an embrace, but I maneuvered past her and shot toward Donna. I slapped her hard against the cheek.
For a moment she stood wide-eyed with shock, teetering. Then she rocked back and leaned against the wall. Her hand covered her cheek. She screeched, “You hit me!”
Heather pulled me away from Donna. We reeled backward together a few steps, my hand balled into a fist, ready to strike again. Donna howled in what I thought was an overly dramatic fashion. A bright red mark on her cheek swelled. I stared at it, confused. “I only slapped her,” I said to Heather.
Heather shook her head. “You punched her.”
I scrunched up my face. “No. I slapped her.”
Our debate was cut short by the arrival of Bunhead, who marched toward us, pointing like a high school hall monitor. She stopped and moved to one side to make room for the two police officers behind her. The first officer was a man who looked too close to retirement age to be here. The second officer, a younger, nervous-looking man, stood a couple of paces behind. They stopped several feet away, eyes shining with adrenaline.
I didn’t think, didn’t spend a moment reasoning out the ramifications of my actions. I just reacted. I grabbed Heather and held her in front of me, a human shield.
Heather slapped at one of my hands. “What are you doing?” But I held her fast. She tried to twist out of my grip. “Stop it!”
The first officer, the older one, held a cautioning hand up, his other hand still hovering over his revolver. His fingers twitched.
Gun. The word filled my mind. He had a gun.
I rammed my finger into Heather’s back. Maybe they’d think I had my own gun. “Stay back,” I cautioned them. I lowered my voice, trying to sound authoritative. But the words poured out thick and growly. I sounded like an obscene phone caller.
Heather reeled up on her tiptoes. “Ow. Are you insane? You’re hurting me.”
No good. Neither officer moved. One officer’s eyes flitted between me and his partner, like he was deciding between Tasering me or making a run for it. As if cued by some unseen Broadway director, they both undid the clip on their holsters and slid their guns out. The older cop spoke, “Take it easy, we just want to talk.”
My eyes were riveted to his gun. “I talk better where there aren’t weapons pointed at me.”
Heather wriggled, trying to face me, “Kate, this is ridiculous. You don’t even have a—”
I reached up and hooked my arm around her neck, and pulled her back against me. “Shut up,” I hissed in her ear. She made a gagging noise and I eased off her neck a bit. I didn’t want her vomiting all over the place.
I turned my attention to the police officers blocking my only way out. “All I want to do is leave.” I rammed my finger deeper into Heather’s kidney. “And I’m taking her with me.”
Except they weren’t looking at me. With guns still aimed somewhere near my eyebrows, they were both looking behind me. At Donna. For all my macho hostage-taking maneuvers, I’d forgotten the basic rule of kidnapping: Subdue everyone. I had Heather in a stranglehold, but Donna Walsh …
I turned my head until I could see her in my peripheral. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, making broad facial expressions at the police officers. She looked the antithesis of panicked. The drama playing out in front of her was barely capable of holding her attention. Not only that, but she was able to move around, say and do anything she wanted. She was completely out of my control.
I turned toward the cops. The older one had inched toward me while I had been looking at Donna, his eyes flashing back and forth between Donna and me. He nodded, advanced a step, nodded, advanced. He held a hand out toward me like he was calling a kitten out of a dark corner.
I eyed the gun. Reality crashed down on me, a tidal wave in a tunnel. There was no way I was getting out of this. No way would they let me waltz out of here with my sister in a choke hold while they waved good-bye and shouted warnings for me to stay out of trouble. I let go of Heather all at once and leapt backward. Heather, unbalanced by her sudden release, teetered and then fell straight down like a pile of laundry. I threw my hands up above my head. “No gun,” I shouted, but I was cut off as the full weight of the older cop slammed into me and knocked me to the floor. My head connected with the carpet—a ridiculously thin weave—but before I could say, “Police brutality,” he’d spun me onto my stomach and straddled me, sitting down hard on my back. His knee pressed against the middle of my spine.
He and his partner stood me up. Heather was crying in Donna’s arms. Donna patted her on the back and stared at me with a blank expression.
The young officer put a hand on Heather’s shoulder and asked, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” But he was looking at Donna.
Donna moved toward the officers. “She struck me with her fist. I don’t think the jaw is broken.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. I barely touched you.”
The young cop turned to Donna. “I’ll need to speak to you privately about pressing assault charges.”
Donna looked directly at the policemen. “There will be no need to press charges. This woman is a psychiatric patient. I have it on good authority”—she turned her gaze toward Heather—“that she is off her medication.” She smoothed her already perfect blonde hair and gave the officers a demure, slightly pained smile. She may as well have batted her eyes and said, “Well, I do declare!” Both cops leaned in, hanging on her every word. “She’s clearly demented,” Donna said. “She needs a doctor.”
35
Three days later Dr. Alexander sat tapping his pen on a pad of paper. Apparently he carried those two critical objects everywhere he went. Even to a psychiatric assessment center like the one I was consigned to. On his lap was a file folder with my name on it. My chart. Only in here, they don’t call it a chart; they call it a behavior journal, and only mental health professionals could write in it. He fixed me with a pointed stare. “You’re in a very dangerous place, Kate.”
I slumped on the hard, scratchy couch of the interview room. “You’re telling me. My roommate’s suicidal and the guy who thinks he’s invisible keeps following me around. When I tell him to get lost, he says I can’t see him.” I shook my head. “Yesterday he stole my green Jell-O. Right off my tray. Just yoink, and he walks away. I’m going to start locking my door.”
“I was referring to your mental state. And your legal position.”
I made a snorting noise. My legal position was what had brought him here. Because I had already been seeing him, the court appointed him to oversee the assessment of my mental health. How convenient.
Dr. Alexander wrote slowly with his medium blue ink pen. “You were nearly arrested for assault.”
I raised a weary eyebrow. “Nearly arrested? Is that like being nearly pregnant? Either a person is arrested, or they’re not.”
“You’ve narrowly escaped a felony charge—”
I raised my hand high, like a bright student in the front row. “Three charges pending.” I gave him a lopsided grin. “It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings.”
“And now you’re confined to this facility. How does that make you feel?”
How did I feel? I was locked up in a psych ward, with a suicidal depressant for a roommate. She kept going through my purse looking for
something she could OD on. Then there was the anorexic who believed her food was being poisoned. To say nothing of the invisible man. And someone with a fair amount of clout had decided I belonged here among them. How did I feel? Unreasonably calm. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel a thing. Didn’t care. Couldn’t make myself care.
One side of Dr. Alexander’s mouth jerked upward in amusement, perhaps, or irritation at my silence. “How are you feeling now that you are taking the medication?”
Forced to take it would be more accurate. Twice a day for the last three days, my name had been called over the intercom. I was to go to the dispensary, stand in line, accept my paper cup of pills and glass of water. Then a guard wearing latex gloves would examine the inside of my mouth, shoving his fingers beside my gums, poking under my tongue. Once, a man at the front of the line spit his pills onto the floor. The guard and two orderlies sat him on a chair and poured them down his throat. When my turn came, I swallowed mine.
Dr. Alexander said, “I hope you are beginning to see that by not following my orders you made things worse for yourself.”
I stared at my shoes.
“You held your sister at gunpoint.”
I raised my finger, cocked my thumb back, and said, “Bang,” pretending to shoot off my big toe. “I’m not hearing Kevin’s voice anymore, did you know that?”
He sat back in his chair. “It may not have been a real gun—”
“It was my finger!” I said, louder than I intended. “It’s not as if I walked into the bank carrying a real gun, or even a fake one for that matter. I didn’t plan on any of it to happen the way it did.”
Dr. Alexander gave me a steady stare. “In a bank, of all places.”
I feigned indifference, picking at the nubby fabric of the sofa. It felt like burlap.
“Your attitude is nothing short of alarming, Kate.”
I sat up and raised an eyebrow. “You think this is alarming? You should have been at the bank when those cops had their guns drawn. Talk about alarming.”
“Kate,” he said, using his deep, authoritative doctor voice. Apparently he was going to try a different tactic. I lowered my chin to my chest and pretended not to listen. He spoke in a low, nearly conspiratorial manner. “I’m disappointed in your recent choices. I was hoping you’d cooperate with this process.”
He paused, maybe waiting for me to jump up and shout, “Three cheers for Dr. Alexander and his amazing patience!” I tipped my head back and studied a suspicious-looking crack in the ceiling.
“The only reason you’re here, instead of in jail is because the woman you assaulted—” he paused, probably to check the name on his notepad, “—Donna Walsh, defended you. She was adamant they not lock you up. Whatever the issue between you two, I’d say you owe Ms. Walsh a debt of gratitude.”
The crack in the ceiling started in the far corner and meandered nearly halfway across the room. I imagined it breaching, opening wide to allow the contents of whatever sat above—beds, desks, filing cabinets—to pour in on top of us. I closed my eyes, waiting for the deluge.
Dr. Alexander’s voice rode above the waves. “I see you’re not in a talkative mood. That’s fine.” He paused. I said nothing. “I want you to understand, Kate, I’m required to write up this conversation as part of the information that will be reviewed by the judge.”
I opened my eyes and craned my neck around, checking to see if there was a corresponding crack in any of the walls, but I couldn’t see any.
“And every other conversation we have until the assessment is complete. The more you cooperate with the process, the better your chances are of walking out of here without facing jail time.”
I gave him a look that I hoped said, You can leave now.
He slapped the file folder closed and stood. “For as long as you’re here, I’ll be meeting with you twice weekly, a routine we will also continue after your release.” He raised his eyebrows with significance.
I stared at the ceiling until I heard him leave.
36
Kevin and I sit in his Mazda, parked by the side of the road. His face is earnest, but tense. “The last thing in the world I want is to hurt you. You know that, right?” He turns to look at me. “You know it, Kate, right?”
I nod. “I know it,” I squeak.
He nods, assured. “And yet, here I am, hurting you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. You hit the dashboard, not—”
He holds a hand up. “I want a divorce.”
It’s like a slap; I feel the sting on my face. I take a moment just to breathe. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t want a divorce, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Christmas was only a month away; I’d already begun preparing. I had the perfect gift, already wrapped and waiting. I reached out and touched his cheek. “I love you.”
He blows out his breath. “I know you do.” He turns to me. “I love you, too. But everything is different now.”
My heart soars. He loves me. Circumstances change all the time, but he said he loves me. It’s all I need. I can live on that statement, use it to nourish myself in days of trouble, or times when his temper turns harsh. I can bathe in it, drink it, wrap it around my shoulders on cold days. I smile. “We’ve loved each other from the start, Kevin.” I reach across the car and take his hand. It remains limp, but he doesn’t resist. “And now,” I say, pulling his hand over to me, “our love has created something wonderful.” I lay his hand on my abdomen.
He stares at his hand for a long moment. Then realization dawns; I watch it ripple up his countenance until his whole face reflects the knowledge. He snatches his hand back, as if burned. “You’re—”
I nod, my smile stretching wider.
Kevin doesn’t move. I’m not sure he’s breathing. For the longest moment he says nothing, does nothing.
Finally he raises his hand, pointing. “Get out.” His voice is a low growl.
“What?”
“Get out,” he yells, his face becoming purple.
“We’re miles from home, I didn’t bring my purse, I have no—”
He turns to me, eyes bulging. His hands push me toward the door. I fumble for the handle. I push the door open and tumble out of the car, nearly falling onto the sidewalk. Kevin doesn’t wait for me to shut the door. The tires squeal as he hits the accelerator and peels off down the street.
The day after my meeting with Dr. Alexander, I went to the recreation room to meet Heather and Mom. Heather was sobbing quietly into a tissue as she sat on a nubby couch. My mother sat ramrod straight beside her, dry-eyed, and patted Heather’s knee every few moments. I moved to an equally utilitarian straight-backed armchair across from them, speechless.
Except for Heather’s occasional gasps and snorts, we were quiet.
What could I say to my family who had come to visit me in a locked psychiatric center? What conversation could I make? Sure, Mom, there are bars on the windows, but they make terrific cheesecake for dessert every second Thursday of the month!
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” I finally said to both, or neither, of them.
Heather’s head jerked up from her tissue. “Not bad? Are you crazy?”
“Apparently that’s for the judge to decide.”
My mother pursed her lips and looked from Heather to me and back again. It was “the face,” the one she’d used when we were younger and I called Heather an idiot at the dinner table when she’d blabbed to our parents that I’d offered to show Lenny Hawkins my bra strap at recess if he paid me twenty-five cents (it was a dollar), and I yelled for her to shut her giant mouth and threw a bread roll at her. Mom’s look always stopped us both cold. Even though we weren’t kids anymore, and Lenny Hawkins was nowhere in sight, Mom’s look sent us both to our corners.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rested my forehead in my palm. “I don
’t know why I grabbed Heather like that.” I opened one eye a slit and looked at her. “I’m sorry.”
It was my mother who answered. “I’m confident things will end up all right. It’s a strange situation, yes, but, well, things have been hard for all of us lately.” And with that my mother managed to swat the whole situation away. “You won’t do it again, will you, Kate?”
My eyes flew open. Was she serious, talking to me like I was ten years old and caught stealing small change from her pocketbook? “No, of course not.”
Heather wiped her nose with a tissue. “She can’t. There’s a restraining order in place. She can’t come within one hundred fifty feet of Donna.”
“What are you, a lawyer? Did you read the restraining order and commit it to memory?”
Heather looked down at her lap. “Donna showed it to me.”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re still talking to her?”
She fidgeted with the crease in her denim capri pants. “We’re friends.”
I jumped up from my chair. “Friends?” I roared.
A large security guard who had been standing, arms folded, by the exit hustled toward us. Heather held up her hands, surrender-style. “We’re okay, nothing’s going on.”
“Nothing?” I loomed over Heather. “You befriend the whore who slept with my husband and you call it nothing?” I screamed so loud I could feel the veins in my neck strain with the effort.
The security guard reached me, one hand on my shoulder, one on his baton. “Easy now,” he said as if I were a trained horse.
I jerked my shoulder away. “Buzz off.” I turned back to Heather. “You come in here crying, spouting off like you have a clue about anything.” The guard clamped his huge hand around my arm; I felt my bone under the pressure of his fingers, like a twig.
Heather placed a protective arm in front of Mom, like a driver coming to a sudden stop. The sight of it shielding, barring her from whatever harm I intended sent a howl of outrage though my body. I reached for Heather’s arm.
