All Good Children - Catherine Austen [43]
“Oh. Linda told me when she called. I recognized the name.”
“As what?”
“It’s a derivative of one we use at the home.”
“On who?”
She shrugs or shudders, I can’t tell which. “Everyone.”
“Everyone,” I repeat. I lean against Ally’s dresser, rattling her plastic dolls. They fall on their sides, backs bent, legs splayed, smiles painted pink.
“It’s not how you think,” Mom says. “Our patients are in pain. They’re lonely and bored. Antisocial. That’s how this drug started out—for mood disorders.”
“Elaine wasn’t antisocial.” I recall stepping into the geriatric center with my class three years ago. From the sad ranks of old folks slumped in rows of collapsible chairs, Elaine jumped up and shouted, “Hallelujah! There are children alive in the world!”
“She wasn’t disordered,” I tell Mom. “She was a firecracker.”
My mother stares at me, biting her lip.
“I guess she’s no firecracker anymore,” I say.
She huffs and scowls. “These drugs help my patients cope, Max.”
“All of them? How could you drug all your patients? Most of them aren’t even sick. They’re just old.”
“I can’t give them happy lives, Max. I can’t make their children visit. I can’t find them jobs or make them feel important. I feed them and bathe them and give them their shots.”
“Did they ask for those shots?”
“There are seventy-two patients under my care every ten-hour shift! That’s eight minutes each. That’s what I give them. The other nine hours and fifty-two minutes, they are ignored. They used to lie there and cry. Remember when you visited? It’s not like that anymore. They eat well, they take part in social activities, they exercise, they have hobbies.”
“I bet they line up neatly too.”
“They are happy to be alive now, Max.”
“They’re not happy, Mom. They’re just not crying anymore.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No. I don’t understand. Why not just give me the shot if you don’t think it’s wrong?”
She gapes at me, outraged. “It’s not for children. It’s for people with nothing else in their lives. It’s wrong to give it to children.”
“You gave it to children!” I remind her. “Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you stop it?”
She squints at me, confused. “It’s not illegal. The school has the authority to treat students for behavioral problems.”
“We don’t all have behavioral problems.”
“Sure you do, Max. Everybody does. Everybody can be improved—you’ve told me that yourself. They’ve just never done it on this scale before.”
“Why didn’t you take us out of there?”
“Take who out? I’m not allowed to take your friends out of school. I doubt if I’m allowed to take you out.”
“You still should have done it.”
“And put you where? It would be the end of education for you and Ally. Linda says they’ve already treated the trade schools. There is nowhere else to go.”
“Take us to another town.”
“And live on what? How will you find work if you never finish school? Do you know what the rest of the world is like, Max? We’re lucky I have a job here.”
“A job where you drug people against their will.”
“Stop it! I did what I could today.” She looks away and lays her head on her knees.
“How did you fake it?” I ask.
She grabs a dirty napkin off the cluttered nightstand and peels back the layers to reveal a small stained sponge. “I was scared to try it with Xavier. I didn’t know how much it could hold. I only brought two patches anyway, for you and Dallas.” She sighs and shakes the memory from her head.
“What’s in my patch?”
“Estrogen.”
“Estrogen? No way. Am I going to grow boobs?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“It’s just a month’s worth. But you have to keep it on for three.”
“Three months? Linda said the patch was for a week.”
“She lied.”
“Why? People will take them off early. Is that safe?”
“Their parents will tell them to keep them on. Don’t worry. The patch is part of the treatment. It balances the side effects of the shot.”
“Will kids get sick if they take them off?”
She sighs. “They won’t take them off, Max. By tomorrow or the day after, they’ll do whatever they’re told.”
I scratch my head and stare at the ceiling,