Lost in the Beehive

by Michele Young-Stone

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  For Merritt Daniel McGovern Stone

  Like George, you lassoed the moon

  The bee is a miraculous creature:

  it defies the laws of gravity and aerodynamics,

  carrying three times its own body weight,

  flapping its wings over two hundred beats per second.

  It is a creature not just of this world, but of the world to come.

  Pay attention to the bees. You might learn something.

  —MADAME ZELDA

  part one

  The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

  —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

  1

  ONE OF US WAS GOING to die. I watched the bees fly erratically along the ceiling. They hovered where the plaster hung in sheets. He was bearing down, his thighs straddling my waist, his hands at my throat, the back of my head pounding the bathroom tile. I heard Zelda scream, “Mommy!” but I couldn’t answer. I heard the hum of bees, the noise growing louder. I squirmed and kicked as he bore down. With my left hand, I dug at the cracked tile, feeling for a shard, something to fight back.

  Zelda shouted, “Get off Mommy!”

  The bees swarmed above his head while I clawed the floor. I felt a piece break free in my hand, my head whacking the floor once more, the light disappearing, something warm on my cheek. The black-and-white basket-weave tiles were cracking open, and I was falling between them. Then, I heard a familiar voice, one I hadn’t heard since I was just a kid. It was my very own Peter Pan, the boy who wouldn’t grow up. He said, “I’ve got you, Gloria. I’ve always got you.”

  2

  PETER PAN’S REAL NAME WAS Sheffield Schoeffler. I met him my first week at the Belmont Institute. The year was 1965. I remember that on the drive to the institute, my mother leaned over the seat back in her cat-eye sunglasses. “You’ll get better at this place. They’re going to make you like everybody else.” She reached out to touch my hand, and I thought about that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I’d never wanted to be like everybody else.

  My father said, “This is it.” I nearly said, Let’s turn around. I don’t want to do this, but everyone, especially my mother, thought that the Belmont Institute was a good idea.

  I wasn’t optimistic. The institute, with its spiked gate, winding black drive, and stone fortress, replete with towers and a parapet, looked like something out of a Vincent Price horror movie. I remember that the day was gray, the rain falling in spurts, the leaves on the pin oaks the color of marigolds and rust. Father pulled our car beneath the building’s awning, and before he cut the engine, Dr. Belmont emerged between two iron doors. He was a short man, wearing wire spectacles that matched his thick silvery hair. He wore an oxford dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and a navy-blue tie. His slacks and shoes were brown.

  He shook my parents’ hands, telling them that they’d made a wise decision. “Gloria will get the best care here.” He patted my father’s back. “Our success rate is unmatched.” Then, Dr. Belmont came toward me, his beady eyes magnified within the silver frames. He put his hand under my chin, raising my face to meet his. I wore a pink baseball cap, a gift from my neighbor Gwen Babineaux. He pulled it off my head. “She won’t be needing this here.” He handed it to my mother.

  Then, he clapped his hands together. “Everything’s in order. We’ve got your papers, and you have the information packet. Correct?”

  My mother said, “Can we see her room?”

  “No. Unfortunately not.” He shook his head. “We don’t allow family into the facility. It’s part of the recovery process. That’s covered in the brochure and the contract you signed.”

  My mother nodded. Then, she started to cry, dabbing her eyes with her white-gloved hands. Dr. Belmont pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. “We’ll take good care of her.”

  I pushed at the iron door. I was ready to go, get it over with already.

  “Gloria,” my dad called, but I kept pushing. This was what everyone wanted. This was what I’d agreed to. So be it. Dr. Belmont came up behind me. “All right, then. We’re eager to get started.” We passed through the door, and the world I knew was gone.

  Dr. Belmont put his hand at the small of my back and led me into a great hall. In the center of the room, there was a four-sided desk where his assistant, Mrs. Winningham, sat. He introduced us. She had long black hair and false eyelashes. “She knows most anything you’ll need to know while you’re here,” he said.

  I said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She laughed. “I’m only teasing.”

  “How long will I be here?”

  Dr. Belmont said, “You’ll be with us until you’re cured. It’s in the contract your parents signed.”

  Mrs. Winningham said, “Everyone responds differently to treatment. There’s no magic number. It depends on how hard you’re willing to work. Like Dr. Belmont said.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, Mrs. Winningham.” As Dr. Belmont walked away, he whistled a show tune that echoed in the great hall.

  Mrs. Winningham said, “This way, Gloria. I’ll show you to your room.” I trailed her up a marble staircase with an ornately carved wooden banister, down a narrow hallway, and onto a compact elevator. The iron door clanked as she latched it. I said, “I forgot my suitcase.”

  “You didn’t forget it. I have it. I’ll be going through it checking for contraband. You wouldn’t believe the items some people bring here.”

  The elevator rattled as we went up two flights. On the landing, there was a brass plaque set in the marble floor. Oxidized a bluish green, it read, Hard work is the path to righteousness. Already, I didn’t like the Belmont Institute.

  The ceiling was low and the landing was dimly lit. I followed Mrs. Winningham down another narrow hall, past a dozen beige doors.

  “What are all these rooms?”

  “They’re for patients like yourself. Please keep up.” I followed her down another hallway. “Here we are.” She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked my door. “It’s imperative that you keep your door shut and stay in your room unless accompanied by myself, an assistant, or one of the doctors. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I looked around. The room was a cell: a metal shelf was attached to a stone wall. There was a thin mattress, a small bedside table, and a window no bigger than my hand. I’d really messed up. I never should’ve agreed to come here. “When will I get my suitcase?”

  “Later today.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Rest.” She pulled my door shut. I sat on the mattress and waited for my suitcase. The window was more prism than clear glass. Would Mrs. Winningham bring sheets? I wondered. What was Isabel doing? Had my parents gotten home yet? How long would I be here? When I could see darkness through the prism, I lay back staring at the spackled ceiling, counting the peaks and valleys, craving my suitcase, my books and journals, the things that kept me sane.

  At some point during the night, Mrs. Winningham came to my room. “Here we are,” she said.

  “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  My suitcase felt lighter. “You must know the time,” I said.


  “Maybe seven. I’m not sure.”

  “It seems later.” I unzipped my case. “Where are my books?”

  “Those books were inappropriate.”

  “What about my journals?”

  “I read them, Gloria. Not good, sweetheart. You can share your secrets with your counselor now. Your notebooks were filled with the kinds of thoughts you’re here to overcome.”

  “Those were my personal journals.” I felt sick to my stomach. “Can I call my parents?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Can I see Dr. Belmont?”

  “No. Not today.” I stepped toward Mrs. Winningham, thinking I could push past her, find my way out of this maze down to the great hall and telephone my parents. If I explained how this place was, they’d come for me, but then a hulking woman with a square face came instead. She towered over Mrs. Winningham. “This is Miss Rondell. She keeps an eye on your floor.” Mrs. Winningham addressed the giantess. “Gloria is having a hard time with our rules. She only just arrived today, so she doesn’t understand how the mind must be cleansed before it can be restored to its original state.”

  Miss Rondell nodded.

  “I just want to call my parents.”

  Mrs. Winningham smiled. “You don’t realize it now, but we’re helping you. You’re being saved.”

  I felt defeated. “I’m thirsty. May I please have a glass of water?”

  “Miss Rondell will get you a glass of water. You get some rest, and someone will meet with you tomorrow.”

  “Can I have something to read?”

  “Of course. Miss Rondell will get you something.” The giantess wandered off. Mrs. Winningham followed.

  My water never came. I didn’t sleep. I thought about Isabel. I never stopped thinking about her. She was the reason I was here. I’d fallen in love, and everyone said that it was wrong, a sin, an illness even. I guess I kind of believed them. If there was a cure for the way I felt, I was willing to swallow that pill, get her out of my head for good, but lying on my mat all alone, I couldn’t help imagining her silky hair, the last time I’d run my fingers through it, and her tan breasts, her tiny brown nipples, how they’d felt pressed against mine. I rolled over, my hand between my legs.

  In the morning, Miss Rondell came to my room.

  “I never got my water. I never got anything to read.”

  “Come with me,” she said.

  I followed her to the dining hall. There were three rectangular tables, two crowded with young people about my age. They sat boy, girl, boy, girl. Miss Rondell led me to the third table, which was empty. “Stay here,” she said, “and I’ll get your tray.”

  “Can I call my parents?”

  She didn’t answer. I noticed that there were a lot more boys than girls at Belmont. I tried making eye contact, tried smiling at a couple of them, but it was like I was invisible.

  “No one is going to talk to you,” Miss Rondell said, dropping my tray in front of me. “If you talk to them, you’ll get them in trouble, so it’s best to keep your eyes on your tray.”

  “Why?”

  Miss Rondell left without a word. I looked enviously at the other two tables, then back at my tray. My eggs were gray, my toast was burned, and my orange juice was warm. I pushed the tray away, then made my way to the serving line. I was still thirsty. A middle-aged woman in a hairnet said, “What do you need, sweetheart?”

  “Just a glass of water, please.”

  “Just a sec.” She brought me a glass, and I drank it down.

  “May I have another, please?”

  She brought me another, and I quaffed it. “May I please have another?”

  “You sure are thirsty.”

  “I got here yesterday and they wouldn’t even bring me a glass of water.”

  She shrugged. I drank a fourth glass before returning to my table. A blond-headed boy at table two smiled at me, breaking the rules. I smiled back. Then, I managed to swallow my toast. The teenagers’ voices rose and fell, but as soon as Mrs. Winningham entered the cafeteria, the room went silent. With her black eyes, she was like some demon. She held a clipboard at her chest, walking the perimeters of the three tables, jotting down notes. When she left, the talking resumed.

  Miss Rondell came back, and I didn’t bother asking any questions. I followed her to an institutional bathroom where she handed me a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bar of soap. “I’ll wait outside,” she said. “There’s a towel and robe hanging inside the shower stall.”

  There were no mirrors. I brushed my teeth and took a shower. The water smelled of rust, and there were red rings around the metal grating. The robe had pockets but no tie. I slid my toothpaste and toothbrush in the right pocket and left the soap in the bathroom. My feet were bare. Miss Rondell looked down and said, “I forgot your slippers.”

  “It’s all right.” My feet actually felt good against the cold floor.

  As soon as we were back at my room, she pulled the door shut. No good-bye. Nothing. There was now a plastic pitcher of water by my bed (they must’ve heard how thirsty I was), and beside it, the King James Bible and a stack of pamphlets. My reading material … Of course. I flipped through the little books: What’s Wrong with Me?, How Can I Know God?, and Taking the First Steps. I started with What’s Wrong with Me? Why not?

  Homosexuality is a mental illness, a sexual perversion stemming from early childhood trauma. There is nothing wrong with you. There is something wrong with your brain. You are mentally ill.

  I set the pamphlet down, picking up another one. Basically, they all said the same thing. I was a sick pervert. I didn’t really feel like a sicko. I felt like a girl who’d been dumped, who’d had her heart trampled. I wanted a cure for that.

  I picked up the Bible, flipped to the bookmarked pages, to Leviticus 20:13: If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; then I turned to Romans 1:26–27 and read about God giving women up to vile affections. The Bible was talking about me: for even the women did change the natural use into that which is against nature. I rolled my eyes. I’d been raised in the Catholic church. I knew the Bible. I knew what I was doing: sinning and going to Hell. I had no illusions about any of it. Yes, absolutely, Hell for her. Since setting eyes on Isabel, eternal damnation had been something I was willing to accept.

  3

  ON DAY FOUR, I MET the blond boy, Sheffield Schoeffler, who’d broken the rules by smiling at me in the cafeteria. Mrs. Winningham escorted me to the great hall and lined me up alphabetically with the others. It was one of the few times in my life where I was beside an S (a Schoeffler) and not sandwiched between a Racine and a Russo. Sheffield was tall and thin. I’d been alone and silent for so long that when I spoke, the words sounded funny. First I said, “Thanks for smiling.” When he didn’t say anything, I said, “I just want to go home.”

  He looked at me. “I get it, Blondie. We all want to go home.” He crossed his arms. “They won’t let you go home. It’s in the contract. I’m sure you’ve heard about the contract.” His eyes were blue-gray and seemed to alternate between the two hues as he spoke. I was staring at them. He had an oval face and pink lips. He continued, “I know it’s hard when you first get here, and they won’t let you talk to anybody, but I promise that later, you’ll wish you could keep quiet. Just wait.”

  Dr. Belmont approached us in his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Mr. Schoeffler,” he said, “you’ve come back to us, and we are sorely glad for it. Please do us the honor of sharing what you needed to say to Miss Ricci that was so important that you had to interrupt morning prayers.”

  Sheffield cleared his throat. “Well, I was only telling her that she’ll really like it here. I liked it so much, I’ve returned.”

  Dr. Belmont said, “I’m not going to have any trouble with you, am I?”

  Sheffield didn’t answer.

  Dr. Belmont clamped
onto Sheffield’s jaw, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, the soft white side of his forearm exposed. “I’m not going to have any trouble with you, am I?” he repeated. A smirk crept across Sheffield’s face as a blue vein appeared on Dr. Belmont’s arm. They stared at each other until Dr. Belmont removed his hand and turned to me. “Welcome, Gloria.” He hadn’t spoken to me since the day I’d arrived, since handing me over to Mrs. Winningham. I kneaded the side seams of my blue dress.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “I’m sorry that you have the bad luck of alphabetically preceding Mr. Schoeffler here.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t know what to say.

  “Let us bow our heads and pray. Nothing is possible without the Lord’s grace. Heavenly Father, you sacrificed your only son so that we might be saved. Today, I ask that you forgive me of my sin.” Dr. Belmont walked down the line of teenagers, stopping every now and again to place his right hand on a person’s head or lift a chin. “Jesus loves you.” I started crying, not because of Jesus, but because of the way Dr. Belmont had grabbed Sheffield. Because I was lonely, because I missed my home, my bed. Everything.

  Dr. Belmont said, “Now, I want each of you to take as much time as you need and confess your own sin to the Lord.”

  Sheffield said, “Well, I couldn’t help myself. Really, I couldn’t stop myself. He was so handsome.”

  “Silently!” Dr. Belmont bellowed, his face flush.

  Sheffield stifled a laugh while I prayed, my lips moving, hoping Dr. Belmont would notice, hoping he’d believe that I wanted to be cleansed or whatever it was I had to do.

  Dr. Belmont said, “I know you are with me, Lord.” He walked up and down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “I am going to honor you in my life every day with every breath.” Then, he broke into the Lord’s Prayer, and everyone joined in because the Lord’s Prayer was like the Pledge of Allegiance. No one had to think about its meaning.

  After prayers, Dr. Belmont dismissed us to begin our daily routine. I turned to follow Miss Rondell, and Sheffield took hold of my pinky and squeezed. “You’re going to be all right.” I squeezed back.