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“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

“Yes.” Rhonda’s lips were working now.

“Do you know why you’re here?” She knew, but she was too embarrassed to respond. She ignored him and the question. “Do you know that you tried to hurt yourself?” There was no way to avoid this one.

“Yes. I think so. I mean, yes. I tried to kill myself.”

“Do you know why?” he snapped. He was being persistent. This was no longer wonderful. It was becoming painful and annoying, embarrassing and difficult. Keep it simple, she thought.

“Yes. Because my husband, I mean my boyfriend, told me we were going to move, but he lied, and the baby was crying.”

“You want to tell me about it? About moving. About the baby crying.”

“Babies cry when they are hungry or scared or cold,” Rhonda said. “They cry when they think they are alone, or when they think someone is about to harm them. If you make loud noises when they are asleep, they will wake up crying. If you don’t kiss them before you put them to bed, they will cry themselves to sleep.” Rhonda wasn’t sure she was making sense, but she continued anyway.

“Babies cry when their mothers die and when their fathers leave them. They cry when you lock them in closets and when you beat them. A baby will cry when it believes that you love all the other babies more than you love them. And if you do something mean to a baby, but tell it not to cry, then the baby will …” Rhonda’s voice trailed off. She was headed toward the ceiling again.

“What happens when you tell a baby not to cry?” The doctor’s voice anchored her back in the bed.

“Then the baby will end up in a mental institution.”

“Like you?” The doctor was following her.

“Yeah. Just like me,” Rhonda answered.

Once you scratch the surface, everything you know will spill forth. Rhonda was talking fast, just in case her lips stopped working before she could get it all out. She told the doctor about Ray and his asthma, about Nett having to work overtime. She told him about wearing a wig and about dancing. Just to impress the doctor, she threw in the fact that she worked all day and went to school at night. Then she started to cry and told him that she was ugly and fat and that she ate too much all the time.

She did not tell him about the rainy Saturday in the basement with Uncle Leroy, or that he had raped her because she stole his money. Or that at that very moment, a part of her was floating on the ceiling. She did not tell the inquisitive doctor about the beating Daddy gave her on Halloween night, or that he would ignore her when he drove by with a woman in his car. Why bother mentioning anything about the woman in the mirror—Carmen? Or the woman in the white dress who had been following her all of her life. When Rhonda had told the doctor everything she thought he needed to know, she looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Who in the hell are you? Where exactly am I?” The doctor paused a moment and considered his response before he spoke.

“I think you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

She had already figured that one out on her own. And she was grateful. When the doctor stood up to leave, she indicated the straps and asked meekly, “Can you please take these things off?”

As if every fiber in his body had to be readjusted in order for him to answer, the doctor took at least three minutes to ask, “Are you going to hurt yourself again?”

Rhonda was insulted. “No! Of course not!” she said curtly. “What do you think? You think I’m crazy?” This time, the doctor didn’t respond. He turned and walked away.

Several minutes later, another wonderful person entered the room and gave Rhonda another shot of the thrill-inducing narcotics. When she awoke, her hands and feet were free, and she remembered where she was.

The first telephone call she made was not to find out about her children. It was not to Nett, nor to her father. It was not to John. The first telephone call Rhonda made was to Gary, her son’s father. She told him where she was and