Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [117]
Dr. James left and I stayed in my room for two more days, ignoring the nurse’s continuing insistence that I make my bed, take my shower, blah-blah-blah. On the fourth day, though, I caved in to hunger and asked for something to eat. The cost of the meal, I was told, was to get cleaned up and make my bed, which seemed like the equivalent of running a marathon.
But I did so, and then forced myself to go to the dining room. I was looking around the room, trying to figure out where the food was—lunch was over and nobody seemed to be around. Then a pleasant young orderly approached. “Need something to eat?” he asked with a friendly, midwestern farm boy smile. I nodded. “I think I can find you a sandwich,” he said. “Then from now on you can choose your meals from the menu.” I took a seat and he slid a tray in front of me. “That’ll put you right.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking it was the first time those two words had come out of my mouth in four days as I shoved the cheese sandwich into my mouth almost whole.
The next day I had my first session with Dr. James.
“It’s good to see you up and moving around,” he said. “Now, Dyan, do you know why you’re in the hospital?”
I clenched my jaw. I didn’t like the question. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess. Not really. But I’m okay now and I want to leave. I miss my daughter.”
“Let me just ask you this: do you remember what happened before we brought you here?”
I remembered a lot—everything actually. So what if I’d climbed out the bedroom window in the rain wearing only a white nightgown and had clawed my way up a steep, muddy hill barefooted? I needed some fresh air.
Seemed perfectly normal to me.
Or it did at the time. But when I started mentally retracing my steps for the first time since I’d been thrown in la loony bin, my actions did seem a little strange.
Actually, they seemed positively nutso.
Once I’d squeezed outside the window and splashed along the streets for a while that rainy night, I found an open garage with a car in it. I resolved to get farther away than I could go walking, so being the resourceful type, I decided I would hot-wire the car. They did it all the time in movies; how hard could it be? I opened the hood, looked at the engine, and was quite disappointed not to see two bright red wires marked “HOT” waiting to be twisted together.
That was so not fair. I decided to keep on walking.
I came to a very steep hill, at the top of which was a big, white two-story house. It was stark white but completely dark inside. I started scrambling up the hill, and as it got steeper, I found myself on all fours, grabbing at roots and scrubby canyon oaks to pull myself upward toward the house. I’ll be safe there, I thought. I climbed and climbed, and stopped a few times and rested. I thought I would never get to the top of the hill.
By the time I reached the front door I was covered in mud and scratches. No lights were on in the house, but I rang the doorbell anyway. Above me, a pair of French windows flung open and a man looked down at me. “Who are you? What do you want?” he called from the window above.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t talk.
He tried again.
“Where did you come from?” he said.
I pointed up to the sky.
The couple who lived there were kind. They brought me inside, dried me off, gave me a robe, fixed me some eggs, and asked if there was anyone they could call. I remained mute. They told me to watch out for their cat because the cat hated everybody. The next thing I knew, the cat was purring in my lap, much to its owners’ astonishment.
Outside the windows, the sun was starting to break through the dark. I’d been wandering the streets all night like a lost, wet ghost, and I dozed off for a while. Then I heard the doorbell. The husband got to his feet and answered. A second later, he said, “Your friend Vince