Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [119]
In the evenings, there were group sessions. I didn’t say much, but as I listened to the others, what made the biggest impression on me was how normal they all seemed. Of course, this wasn’t a mental ward for the criminally insane, along the lines of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but I was struck by how we were all there for the same reason: we’d lost our ability to cope. They were people who had hit bumps in the road, just like I had. Among them was a twenty-year-old girl who had tried to kill herself, a teenager who’d been driven to a breakdown not unlike my own by his parents’ bitter divorce, and a battered housewife in search of a way to forgive her husband.
Forgive him? I thought. Huh. That’s an interesting idea.
One night I lay sleepless. I was detoxing from the pills and I was in a cold sweat, but my mind burned like a forest fire. I tossed and turned, took deep breaths when I found myself hyperventilating. I stood in the corner, thinking I would stand until sleep came over me, but it didn’t.
And it slowly dawned on me:
I was in Fishponds.
A mental institution.
A lunatic asylum!
Had it been like this for Elsie?
Did an ambulance come for her, or did Elias tell her they were going for a ride, when the destination was really Fishponds? Did they take her by her wrists, and bind them to a stretcher, and take her away? Did she scream and fight and kick when they closed the door on her in her room at Fishponds? Did she know she’d be there for the rest of her life, her disappearance a mystery to her only son?
In a panic, I packed my bag. I was getting out of there first thing in the morning. But would they let me leave? What would I do if I did leave? I collapsed in the chair, feeling defeated. My mother had signed me into this place, and I wasn’t even sure I could sign myself out. But my parents were due to visit the next day. Visitors from the outside were greatly restricted. But at the end of the second week, Dr. James had agreed that a visit from my parents might be beneficial. He was also sympathetic to how desperately I missed Jennifer, and they at least would provide a firsthand account of how she was doing. But the next day, as the time for their visit approached, I found myself sinking. I felt ashamed of myself and sorry for them—to have a daughter who’d been completely knocked off her trolley.
There is nothing more miserable than trying to act like you’re all right in front of the people who know better than anyone that you’re not. Mom and Dad both showed the strain of this painful charade.
Of course, right off I asked about Jennifer. My parents had told her I was working far away and that I would be back very soon. I asked Mom if she was reading Pooh Bear to her and singing her to sleep every night—which was really crazy, because nobody knew better than me what a great mom my mom was. “Every night,” Mom assured me. “She misses you, honey, but she’s fine. And she made this for you.” Mom took a drawing from her purse. It was a picture of a lion and a giraffe, standing next to each other. Apparently, in Jennifer’s world, lions and giraffes got along just fine. She had written a little note in small, messy block letters. “I helped her a little with the lettering, but the words are all hers,” Mom said.
I read them. They said, “I miss you. You are the perfect mom. Come home soon.” She had signed it, “With lots of hugs and love, Jennifer.”
I looked at the drawing and wept.
I miss you. You are the perfect mom.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“It’s not time, honey,” Mom replied. “But hopefully it won’t be long. As soon as the doctor says it’s all right . . .