“Why?”
“Why am I scared of my husband? Are you serious? You seriously do not know why I’d have a reason to be afraid of Alex?”
The therapist was still.
Pat could not be this good an actress.
“Let me see if I am understanding this. He’s been coming to you every week for seven months. Every single week. And he’s never once talked about how he gets violent with me?”
“Excuse me?” Pat was trying hard not to appear astounded.
“You two have never discussed his violent rages? How he’s made me bleed? How I end up in a different motel each time because I’m embarrassed to go back to the same place twice wearing my sunglasses at night? He’s never told you any of this?”
Nothing.
“Oh, my God. I feel sick.” Isabel grabbed for her purse on the floor and stood up to put her coat on. “I feel physically ill.”
“Isabel, wait.” Pat scrambled to think of what she could say.
“Wait? Wait for what? For you to do your fucking job and figure out why your patient is coming to you in the first place? Wait for my husband to kill me? Jesus! No wonder the fights haven’t gotten any better! He’s been lying all along. He hasn’t dealt with any of it. I think I’m going to throw up.”
Isabel ran out of the office, through the lobby and out into the fresh air. She stopped on the sidewalk and sucked in the air as though she’d been suffocating.
Thirty-Two
Isabel was as lost in her depression as an Australian shepherd dog would be without a herd of sheep. It can be a thing of beauty to watch the dog gracefully circling a confused herd. Speeding up, slowing down, sidestepping and charging forward—the dog’s every movement is intense. Lying deep at the instinct’s center is the simple, involuntary need to please.
“Isabel, you seem a bit subdued today,” her therapist remarks. “Is there any particular reason for that?”
Just tell me what you want from me. Tell me who to be and I’ll be it.
Daily meetings with her therapist, her psycho-pharmacologist, the nurse on the unit and then group therapy with Larry…Isabel is sick of it. It’s draining to appear to absorb all the good intentions of the mental health care professionals surrounding her. Outnumbering her.
It’s brainwashing when you think about it: people telling you you’re a valuable person, you shouldn’t think of dying as an option, you’re worth more than that…It’s like they hope that by osmosis you’ll feel better about yourself. You’ll be infused with the intense desire to live.
Why isn’t it working?
“She had it all…a successful career as a television reporter for a major news network, a marriage and a good circle of friends…find out what went wrong…Sunday at eight only on Lifetime, Television for Women.”
“Isabel, I think we need to revisit the medication issue,” Dr. Seidler is saying. “Have you given any thought to what we discussed earlier? You seemed pretty upset. I’ve tried to talk about ECT with you every day this week and each time you shut down. Isabel?”
Isabel stares at the Native American weaving hanging above the doctor’s desk. She hears every word as if she is underwater.
“I want you to know that I feel our options are becoming limited. With electroshock therapy we would take very few risks and see the most benefits. What do you think?”
Sometimes, if you stare at something long enough you can almost hypnotize yourself. Kind of like sleeping with your eyes open.
“Isabel? Are you okay? Isabel?”
The vibrant colors in the wool decoration blur together.
“Isabel? Do you understand that as your doctor I can act in your best interests if I believe your personal safety is in jeopardy? In other words, I don’t necessarily need your approval to move forward, and I am starting to feel like that is an option I may actively explore….”
She sure uses the word option a lot. How many times has that been? Two? No, three. Maybe it’s two.
“Can you hear me, Isabel?”
That voice is so grating.
“Isabel?”
Thirty-Three
“Who should we start with today?” Larry opens up the session by slowly circling the room. Under normal circumstances that would be annoying enough, but with a group of anxious mental patients it is maddening. Some nervous, others paranoid, all twist uncomfortably in their chairs to keep Larry in sight. In the end, he stops behind Ben’s folding metal chair. The others exhale in relief.
“Ben?”
“Um, what, Larry?” Ben sits bolt upright as if he hadn’t done his homework.
“We haven’t heard from you in a while. Why don’t we talk about where you are these days.”
“Where I am, Larry?” Ben has an unnerving habit of repeating his conversation partner’s name with each reply. “I’m here in the session, Larry.” While Ben is serious in his bewilderment and in his literal interpretation of the question, the rest of the group laughs.
Larry is gentle. “What I mean to ask, Ben, is, how are you feeling these days?”
“Oh! I’m fine, Larry. Just fine.” Larry waits for more. “Um, I’m looking forward to finding out about my next stop, though. They tell me they’re still waiting to hear whether I got a bed at Strawbridge Ranch.”
“Why don’t you tell the rest of the group about Strawbridge.”
“Sure!” Ben is relishing this time in the limelight. “Strawbridge is, like, a halfway-house-type place. It’s cool, though, ’cause we get to work on the ranch—milking the cows, feeding the chickens and stuff. Not wild animals but tame farm-type animals. It’s great! And I hear they have great food there. Unbelievable food, Larry. I talked to one of the nurses and she said they’ve got the best blueberry pancakes. I don’t know how often they have them. Maybe once a week or something…but blueberry pancakes! I can almost taste them now!”
Melanie laughs again. Ben is getting so revved up that spittle is forming in the corners of his smiling mouth.
“That’s good, Ben. Good. Let us know when you hear about the bed.”
“I will, Larry. I will definitely.” Ben is a little disappointed to see that his time is over and Larry is moving on to someone else.
“Melanie? What about you?” Larry has turned to Melanie because she is still laughing about Ben’s pancake reverie.
“Well…” Melanie, it is clear to Isabel, is feeling good today. Her animated elation points up Isabel’s empty numbness. Melanie surveys the room to make sure everyone else finds Ben as amusing as she does and then decides to proceed. “I was just wondering. I mean, we all talk about why we’re here and all Ben ever talks about is a bed at Strawbridge. We never have talked about why Ben is here.”
The room is silent as everyone looks from Ben to Larry and back again after this daring faux pas. It is as if Melanie has thrown a gauntlet down.
“That would be up to Ben, Melanie. It’s up to all of you to decide what to share with the group.”
“Yeah, but you always push us. The other day Isabel didn’t want to talk about herself and you made her. And you’ve done that with me before, too.”
“You’re right, Melanie, but keep in mind—I am a professional. I am trained to know when to push someone and when to let them be. It is entirely up to Ben to share what brought him here. Ben? Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
Ben looks surprised and pleased to find himself the subject of debate. “Um. Well, I don’t have a problem talking about it, Larry. If Melanie wants to know that’s fine with me.” He straightens his thick, square glasses and shifts in his seat.
Melanie, too, looks a little surprised that it has been this easy to get Ben to talk.
“I guess it started with the arrest. You may have heard about it…I’m the guy who got arrested because they said I was making terrorist threats to blow up my school.” Ben says this with veiled pride.
“Why were you making threats to blow up your school?” Larry ventures, knowing the answer.
 
; “I wasn’t making threats to my school!” Ben yells. So quickly has he gone from childlike enthusiasm over a breakfast item to adult rage over life’s inequities that everyone in the room looks startled. Larry does not check his volume. He calmly looks at Ben.
“Sorry, Larry. I wasn’t making threats to my school,” Ben repeats, “I was making threats to my teacher.” No one looks relieved at the clarification.
“Mr. Rickson. He was my ninth-grade teacher. He turned the letters in to the police. He’s the one that smeared my name and told them I was a terrorist. I just, like, wrote to him. I wrote him a few times.”
“How many times did you write to him, Ben?” Again, Larry seems to know the answer to his question.
“I don’t know. A lot of times, I guess. Maybe twenty. Thirty, maybe. I don’t know. But the point is—”
“And why did you write to him, Ben?”
“Why? Why did I write to him, Larry?”
“Yes.” Larry is stroking his beard.
“I wrote to him because he humiliated me. He humiliated me in front of the whole class. He said I was stupid, Larry. You shouldn’t do that to a kid, you know? He said I was an idiot. He called me ‘idiot’ when he called on me in class. He made me stand in front of the room and repeat after him ‘I am an idiot’ in front of the whole class.” Ben cannot look Larry in the eye.
“So when you wrote to him, did you tell him that? That he shouldn’t have humiliated you?”
“Yeah. I told him that. I told him how mad it made me. I told him how it made me want to kill him or something. I don’t know. I said a lot of things in those letters. I know it wasn’t good to send them.” Ben adds this last sentence halfheartedly, parroting back what he has, perhaps, learned at Three Breezes.
“What happened then? You sent the letters and what happened?”
“I sent the letters. I wrote him at least once a day. I guess he saved them. He let them build up or something, I don’t know. The next thing I knew he wrote me back denying that he had humiliated me! He had his lawyer write me saying he had no knowledge of the incidents I was describing and that I better stop writing.”
“And?”
“Well, I guess I went a little berserk, Larry,” Ben sheepishly admits.
“What did you do?”
“I, um…” Ben looks miserable. His medication has kicked in enough for him to discern between right and wrong and he knows that his behavior had been seriously dangerous. “I, ah…”
“It’s okay, Ben. It’s safe here,” Larry says softly.
“I got all my camouflage on and went to his classroom. I went to my school and went to his classroom.”
“Now, this wasn’t when you were currently in school, right?”
“No! I told you, Larry! He was my ninth-grade teacher! Sorry. Sorry, Larry. No. He had been my teacher eight years ago.”
“So then what happened?” Larry looks as if he has not heard this part of the story before.
“I had an old—used—grenade and I held it out like I was going to throw it on him. At him. Like I was going to throw it at him. I wasn’t, though! I mean, it was used. Anyone with a brain could’ve seen that! Who’s stupid now, Mr. Rickson? Huh? Who’s the idiot now? That’s what I said to him. You should’ve seen him…” Ben smiles with the memory.
“You should’ve seen that son of a bitch when I walked in. He practically jumped under his desk. I guess I surprised him, too, because I wasn’t this size when I was in his class. I’ve grown since then,” Ben says proudly. “Anyway, he was so fucking scared. Oh. Sorry. Sorry for cursing, Larry. He was shaking like a little baby. ‘Who’s stupid, Mr. Rickson? Huh? Who’s stupid?’ I asked him and he just stood there. Practically peed in his pants.”
“Did Mr. Rickson call the police then, Ben?”
“No. I don’t know who did, actually. After I scared the shit out of Mr. Rickson I went down the hall to the principal’s office. I had all my clips on so I looked fuckin’ amazing. Oh. Sorry. Sorry for swearing again, Larry. I had all my ammo clips on so I think they were a little nervous there. I think that’s why they might’ve called the police. I wasn’t gonna do anything, though. I just wanted them to see that they couldn’t push me around anymore. I just wanted them to know that I’m not stupid. I wanted them to know that you shouldn’t do that to a little kid. You shouldn’t tell a little kid that he’s an idiot, Larry. You shouldn’t do that.”
Larry walks over to Ben’s chair and gently places his hand on Ben’s slumped shoulder. “No, Ben. You’re right. You shouldn’t do that. You’re not stupid, Ben. You have a mental illness called schizophrenia. You realize that now, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Yes, Larry. I know. I’m schizophrenic,” he tells the group. “And Wellbutrin! Wellbutrin has saved my life, Larry. You know that? I just felt like saying that. It’s amazing this drug…”
“Ben, I’m proud of you.” Larry speaks quickly to block Ben from rambling on about his medication, as he is known to do. “This is the most you’ve talked about the letters in some time. I think we’ve done some real work here.”
Isabel is amazed that Ben, the disgusting yet strangely compelling giant, is the boy she’d remembered reading about.
“Larry, can I just say one more thing?” Ben asks innocently.
“Sure, Ben.” Larry looks as curious as the rest of the group—minus Sukanya.
“It’s just that…” Ben looks lost for a moment. “It’s just that…well…if it weren’t for Wellbutrin I think I’d be dead. I know I’d be dead. I’d be dead, Larry.”
Melanie groans out loud and then smiles as she reaches for her bottled water.
“I know, Ben,” Larry sighs. “I know.”
Just then the door to the living room bursts open and Connie the night nurse appears.
“Larry? Sorry for interrupting but we need your help on something.” She gives him an urgent look that says it cannot wait.
“Get away from me!” The high-pitched scream can be heard in the living room now that the double doors are open. Larry has ended the session abruptly and disappears around the corner into the unit bedroom area.
“Leave me alone!”
Isabel does not think twice about disobeying orders to remain in the living room. She wants to go back to her room. At the edge of the doorway she hears a familiar voice.
“Larry? Larry, please tell them to leave me alone. Please?”
Isabel looks around the corner and sees Connie standing in Lark’s doorway with an orderly. The orderly is Nick, Connie’s burly son, who is trying to earn money for school by working at Three Breezes during his summer break. He hardly speaks to the patients—as if their insanity is contagious. Isabel is uncomfortable around him—his collegiate air seems incongruous to this place. She senses he is filing away stories about all of them to be retold over beers at the frat house.
“Lark!” Larry shouts.
Connie suddenly turns and runs down the hall in Isabel’s direction toward the nurses’ station. She looks right through Isabel.
When Isabel turns back to the scene down the hallway, Nick is gone.
“Isabel, please go back into the living room,” Connie calls out over her shoulder as she heads back into Lark’s room with the “tool kit,” a case the nurses always reach for in emergencies. Isabel does not budge. Connie has already disappeared into Lark’s room.
Two men run past Isabel from behind, startling her. On their way down the hall she hears a couple of unintelligible bursts of static-heavy commands coming from the radios fixed to their belts.
This doesn’t look good.
After a few moments Nick and his mother back out of the room and make way for the rest of the group. Larry emerges, his eyes, sad and preoccupied, focused on the floor as he walks down the hall toward Isabel. His forearm is wrapped in gauze.
Then Lark, an orderly on either side of her bandaged body, is carried out. Isabel watches as the threesome, with its white centerpiece slumping, head toward her. She knows she will h
ave to move to make way for them but she is frozen. She is hypnotized by the jacket.
As the three pass, Isabel feels Lark staring at her but she cannot look. She goes back into the living room as Lark is shut into the padded room. The soft room.
“What is it? What’s going on out there?” Melanie looks panicked.
“Huh?”
“Earth to Isabel.” It is Ben. Smiling Ben. Psychotic Ben.
Isabel looks at everyone as if for the first time.
“Isabel? Melanie’s talking to you!”
“Oh, sorry.” Isabel is searching for words. “I didn’t see anything,” she lies.
“Nothing? You must’ve seen something. It had to have been Lark. She was the only one not here for group. Unless it was the new person in Keisha’s room.”
“I told you, I didn’t see anything.”
With everyone still gathered at the double doors, carefully following Larry’s directive, Isabel moves to the far side of the room and sits in the chair next to Sukanya. The two stare straight ahead into space.
We look like a sick version of that painting with the husband and wife farmers. What was the name of that, anyway? They had a pitchfork. American Gothic! That’s it.
Slowly and quietly Isabel slips a little closer to the depression always waiting for her just around the corner.
What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?
Thirty-Four
“What’s old is new again at this year’s Grammys. On the list of nominees—the Beatles and Eric Clapton. The Rolling Stones are also up for an award. But littered among these familiar names are new ones, and the combination will no doubt make tonight a night to remember.”
Isabel Murphy, ANN News, New York.
“When’s our first live shot?” Isabel asked Tom. “Do I have time to run to the bathroom?”
“Affirmative,” he said, looking at his watch. “T-minus ten minutes and counting.”
“Okay. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, soldier. I’ll be right back.”