Bend

by Nancy Hedin

  After a few minutes, Twitch came outside and interrogated Gerry.

  “She been talking this religious gibberish the whole time?”

  Gerry nodded.

  “She really did those injuries to herself?”

  Gerry nodded again.

  “What does it mean, Twitch?” I asked.

  “Well, she’s the right age for a first mental breakdown. I don’t know enough to tell you the precise name for what she’s got, but if I had to guess, I’d say she might have some sort of schizophrenia. Christ, I hope I’m wrong.” He turned again to Gerry. “Could you get Peggy, Lorraine, and the boy home again if Joseph and I take Becky over to the hospital in Langston?”

  “I can,” Gerry said.

  “I’m going with you,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” Twitch said. “Little Man and your momma need you at home.”

  “You’re out of your mind too if you think Momma is going to let you take Becky without her.”

  “Your momma is the general most of the time, but I’m not in her army. I’m an independent, a mercenary, and I’m only taking Joseph and Becky with me.” Twitch marched up the steps and into the house.

  I handed Little Man to Gerry and followed Twitch. He whispered something quick to Dad and stepped over to Momma, who was crying and hugging Becky.

  “Oh, my dolly, my baby girl, I was so scared I’d lost you too.”

  “Momma, it’s so good to see you. How are you?” Becky hugged Momma back. “Where’s that Little Man of mine? I miss him.”

  Twitch leaned in and whispered a longer message in Momma’s ear. Her face drained of color. She released Becky, and stepped back against the wall and shut her mouth.

  Dad and Twitch each took one of Becky’s arms, but she resisted them.

  “Get behind me, Satan.”

  Dad started to cry.

  “It’s okay, Becky; God led us to help you.” Twitch glanced at Dad and nodded. “Sing.”

  Twitch began crooning the hymn, “The Old Rugged Cross.” Dad joined in next, and then Becky. Only Becky came close to the right tune or words. She didn’t seem to notice their ill attempt. Caught up in the praise of it, she glowed like someone finally understood her heart.

  They walked her to the Jeep. She walked right past Gerry and Little Man. She just kept singing. She didn’t run to Little Man and take him in her arms. She didn’t as much as smile or wave to him. That told me more than Becky’s talk of Satan or her self-inflicted wounds. Becky was very sick.

  Becky, Dad, and Twitch left in Twitch’s Jeep for the hospital in Langston. Twitch drove and Becky sat in the back with Dad. Their singing faded as they drove away from Gerry’s yard.

  Gerry offered to let Momma, Little Man, and me stay with her longer.

  “Our family has inconvenienced you enough for this century, Gerry. But do come over for a game of Scrabble once Becky’s well again and I can think.”

  “Peggy, you and I are from the same town. We have more in common than we have different. You are no inconvenience to me and neither are your daughters. Get in my car and I’ll drive you home. I’ll bring some Hamburger Helper over tomorrow to help you through the wait.”

  “Goody.”

  Once home, I settled Little Man on the floor with the dogs and a teething biscuit for each of them. I dialed Sheriff Scrogrum to tell him Becky had been found, but Momma told me to stop.

  “What about Kenny? He didn’t hurt Becky like we thought.”

  “One more night in jail won’t make a big difference,” she said.

  Of course that was only true from our side of the bars.

  It was past midnight when Twitch dropped Dad off at home. Twitch didn’t come in the house. Little Man was long asleep. Momma cheated at solitaire while I chewed my nails bloody. Dad joined us at the kitchen table. Out of habit, Momma got Dad some coffee. He looked like he’d been pulled through a knothole.

  “Well?” I asked. I had my own idea. While he’d been gone I’d found every book in our house that mentioned mental illness generally and schizophrenia specifically. I found a short article in the World Book Encyclopedia and an entry in the dictionary. Neither gave me any comfort.

  “We got her into the hospital, and she was sleeping when I left.”

  “What’s wrong with her, Joseph?”

  “They didn’t have any psychiatrists on duty. A psychiatrist from St. Paul will drive over tomorrow to give a consultation,” Dad said. “The young intern who talked to her called it a psychotic break. She may have schizophrenia. They want to talk with both Gerry and Kenny to figure out how long she’s been sick and what all’s been out of whack.”

  “It’s something like she hears and thinks things that aren’t,” I said. “She might have problems taking care of herself and problems getting along with people.”

  Dad pulled some papers out of his pocket, unfolded them, and slid them across the table for Momma and me to read. I read every page as fast as Momma surrendered them to me. As far as I could tell, schizophrenia was a big wheelbarrow of a disease where doctors threw things they couldn’t explain.

  “The doctor gave us this information. Near as I can tell, Becky is going to need to be on medicine, probably for the rest of her life,” he said. “There’s no cure, and the treatment isn’t any picnic either.”

  He rose from the table and said good night. He started down the hall and turned back to Momma.

  “Peggy, the doctor said if Becky’s got this, it would be helpful to know any family history of mental illness or medications used so that they can figure out the best treatment for her.”

  There would never be a right time to ask the question I had been both burning and petrified to ask since my visit to Grandma Larson. So even though Momma and Dad were shell-shocked already, I dropped another bomb and waited to see who would be among the causalities.

  “I suppose you better tell our father.” I looked at Momma and then at Dad.

  Dad came back to the table.

  “What are you talking about, Lorraine?” Momma asked.

  “I’m not a kid anymore. Grandma told me about you and Allister. You should tell him about Becky before he hears from somebody in town.”

  “Allister?” Dad almost always looked beaten down and tired. Now, I added confused to that list.

  I turned to Momma. “Doesn’t Dad even know?” I was a festering boil that had reached a head. Pop. “Tell him for Chrissake! Tell me! Allister Grind is Becky’s and my biological father, isn’t he, Momma?”

  “What? No.” Momma shook her head. “This day has been painful enough for two lifetimes, Lorraine. Don’t add to it.” She looked down at her hands.

  “Tell me. Tell me that Dad is not my father. I deserve the truth, especially now. Tell me.”

  Momma’s hands shook. The water in the glass she held quaked and splattered onto the table. She put down the glass of water and picked up her notebook. Her face reddened and her eyes bore into me as if to stop my words, but I plowed ahead.

  “Tell me, you self-righteous, cold woman!” I knocked the notebook out of her hands.

  “Stop writing down everyone else’s sins and confess some of your own.”

  Dad slapped me. His open, callused hand stung my face, but the pain in my heart was worse. He grabbed me by the shoulders and yelled in my face. “I am your father. I am Becky’s father. I have always been—”

  “It wasn’t Allister Grind,” Momma began. “Allister Grind was married and already had Charity before I met your father. I never in my life had sex with Allister Grind.”

  That was a relief. I felt a little stupid that the math hadn’t occurred to me already, and I felt damn ignorant thinking I’d missed the opportunity to make love with Charity because I thought we were half sisters.

  Dad let go of me. “Peggy, you don’t—”

  “No, Joseph, I do.”

  Dad went to Momma’s side and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. He was red-faced and panting. Momma patted Dad’s
quavering hands.

  “Allister Grind was interested in me, and I was mildly interested in him. I thought he was the kind of man my parents expected me to marry, but when William died, I felt dead inside too. Then I ran away and landed in Bend.”

  Momma looked at me as she grasped Dad’s hands.

  “Just when I thought I’d not dare love anything or anyone again, this fool came into the diner and I found my one true love. My only regret was that I’d made a mistake with his fool friend a few days before.”

  Tears came in a steady stream for all of us.

  Dad shuddered and jerked.

  “My father thought I was a whore. And I proved him right. I had sex and got pregnant with Ben Twitchell’s babies, but I didn’t love Grind or Twitch. I loved Joseph, your dad. Still do, and will forever.”

  “Twitch?” My head swam. I was definitely out of my depths. I thought Twitch had shown Momma to Dad for him to have her. Why would Twitch be with her too?

  Dad nodded and cried harder.

  “Twitch is— It was his sperm, but no one has been a father to you more than Joseph. No one loves you and Becky and me more than your dad.” Momma said the words with more conviction than her Bible thumping.

  Dad raised his head and wiped his face on his sleeve, and when he came around in front of Momma and knelt beside her, she wiped at his tears and snot with the hem of her dress like he was a little boy. They looked at me. They probably wondered how much more ugliness I was capable of.

  “I’m sorry,” came out as a whisper, and I repeated it until I could see them nod and their eyes take me in. I swallowed and let their words sink into me, hoping the truth would feel less frightening than the lies. And it did. Twitch was my biological father, and although I loved him, he sure as hell wasn’t my dad.

  I was as awkward as a ballet dancer on ice, but I grabbed them and hugged and cried, snuffled and snotted, as I tried to climb in their arms and be alone with them, not letting an inch of me touch anything else in the world. And they hugged me back and cried and laughed.

  There were choruses of “sorry” and “I love you” and reassurances that must have piled up inside of us over time only to come flooding out that day. I wished Becky were there to see us and pile on. We were a litter of puppies just glad to be with each other and part of each other.

  Eventually, Kenny was released from jail. I heard he’d likely only get probation for his part in hiding his dad’s death and body. He didn’t come to our place the first day or the next. He had to bury his father the right way and tend to his mom, but after the funeral, Kenny came to the farm. It was totally awkward. There wasn’t any guide to help our family go from having thought Kenny killed Becky to just thinking of him as the same old Kenny again.

  Kenny knocked at the door and stood on the porch with his seed cap in his hand. Dad answered. Kenny said, “I’d like to see Little Man if that’s okay with you.”

  Technically, Momma and Dad could have said no. They still had temporary custody of Little Man. Dad invited Kenny in and asked him if he had time to stay for lunch. This was Tyler speak for an apology. From then on, with Becky in the hospital for the foreseeable future, Kenny and Little Man became fixtures at our table.

  Eventually the broken ribs he’d suffered in his come-to-Jesus with the steering wheel of his truck healed enough for him to help Dad mend fences, rotate stock, and tend the sheep and goats we pastured for Holcum. Stage two of a Tyler family apology was to put him to work.

  Kenny told how he had convinced his mom to sell the pigs and seriously consider selling the whole farm. She was a strong wind away from getting herself a place in town close to a grocery store. She had not met many people in Bend. Momma said Kenny’s mom’s folks were from the Dakotas. and she had lived isolated by Mr. Hollister’s wrath when he was well and by his cares when he was sick. Kenny said he hoped she could make a friend and have more of a life.

  With tears and a strained voice, Kenny described how his dad had been a hard man, but that Kenny loved him and grieved his death. Kenny said that the old man had died in his bed peacefully. Kenny’s momma had panicked that without his social security check along with hers, they wouldn’t be able to keep the farm. Kenny said he should have known better, but he panicked too and buried his dad. He admitted he’d been afraid the dogs would desecrate the grave. He cried even harder as he confessed to shooting his dogs. He swore to us that he’d never hurt Becky and never would.

  His words rolled off me. Becky was alive, so he hadn’t killed her, but I knew he could be violent. He’d left bruises on me and on Becky. It would take more than his words to convince me he was fit to be Becky’s husband or Little Man’s dad.

  Kenny bore his sadness and worry, but summoned energy for Little Man. I watched Kenny roughhouse with Little Man and hold his hands as he tried to stand and then walk. Sometimes, when Kenny took the boy, Little Man would put his arms out to me. I accepted every opportunity to supervise Kenny’s time with his son. I wasn’t ready to trust him with precious cargo. I stayed close and watchful.

  Becky was locked in a psychiatric ward in St. Paul. I read books and articles Gerry brought me from the library. The history of mental health treatment read like a horror film. It gave me scary imaginings of shock treatment, leeches, bloodletting, and heavy tranquillizers. I had no idea what they were doing to her in the hospital. Despite Momma’s calls, letters, and visits, the doctor wouldn’t tell anyone anything. The doctor said that because Becky was an adult, she had rights to privacy, and because she was in a hospital, there was no imminent danger. Becky would need to sign a release for the doctor to talk with us. Becky refused.

  I was frustrated. What had the doctor thought we were going to do with the information? We just wanted to know if Becky still talked crazy about Satan and when she could come home.

  Momma, Dad, and I drove to the hospital every week on Sunday, but the hospital staff wouldn’t tell us anything, and Becky wouldn’t see us, only Kenny.

  Suddenly, just before Easter, Becky was released. I suspected that the State’s part of paying hospital costs ran out, and one look at our family didn’t give the impression of deep pockets. The doctors and social workers nearly fell over themselves to give our family and Kenny information and instructions. They said Becky had schizophrenia and now that she finally agreed to take a medication, we were conscripted to “monitor” her medication compliance. If Becky became “religiously ideated and dangerous,” we were “authorized” to bring Becky straight back to the hospital.

  I didn’t think a one of us understood what the doctors said. The prospect of making sure Becky took her medications seemed more daunting to me than drenching sheep or fixing stray cats. How do you prepare for someone’s reentry back home from a psychiatric hospital stay? I had no clue. Momma, Dad, and Kenny seemed excited. I was scared shitless. Could she implode at any moment? Should we talk louder? Use more hand signals and shorter words?

  Becky looked pretty much like herself. The bruises and cuts had healed. But she didn’t have the energy I remembered. She talked and moved stiffly, but to my relief, she didn’t talk about God or Satan right off. She didn’t talk about the time she was missing or hospitalized. I was torn about whether I should hover around her or stay out of her hair. She made the decision for me. She had Little Man and Kenny to manage, a household to run. She got back to business, and her business was again none of mine. I sometimes spied on her with Momma’s binoculars, and made up excuses to visit so I could get a look at Becky and make sure she was caring for Little Man.

  Kenny called our house every day with reports. The postings were blessedly mundane.

  “My girl cooked us all oatmeal for breakfast, and today, she and Little Man are doing laundry.”

  As the weight of worrying about Becky lifted, Momma, Dad, and I got back to living our own lives. Momma worked full-time at the diner. Dad called Twitch and told him that I could take the full-time job with him. I called the admissions department at college and asked for t
he paperwork to apply again. And with my parents’ permission and reluctance, I asked for student loan applications. I saw Charity when I could, but I kept one eye peeled in case Little Man needed me to step in.

  At first, Becky visited the farm every day, or every other day, and seemed herself mostly. Occasionally, she let her anger slip. She berated Dad and Twitch for taking her to a hospital, and she accused Momma and me of abandoning her there for days on end. Becky’s anger made sense to me in one way. No one likes a cage, and mommas certainly don’t like being separated from their babies, but we hadn’t abandoned her. She’d left us without an explanation when she got sick, and when she was getting well she had refused to let us have a part in her treatment at the hospital.

  I could only imagine how it irked Becky seeing how comfortable Little Man had become in my arms and the arms of Momma and Dad. I don’t know if she knew about Kenny having called the house with daily reports. I didn’t see any new bruises and couldn’t tell anything from his reports. Once Becky stopped visiting our place as regularly, it was pretty tough to know what was going on with her.

  One day Kenny said, “My girl is back to her old self. She’s got what’s left of the farm running like a clock. I can’t tell she was even in the hospital.” Another day he said, “Boy, you should see the energy she has. Everything is spic-and-span and then some. She’s even cleaning at night.”

  Before I could ask her why in the hell she was cleaning at night, Becky stopped visiting with us period. She offered no explanation or excuse. When she came over at all it was to drop off Little Man. She mumbled about things she had to do. Kenny’s calls to the house decreased and changed too.

  “My girl is having a quiet day today, resting,” Kenny told me. “Probably from all the work she did last week. I’ve got the boy with me. May have to drop him off at your place later so I can get some work done.”