Admissions (14 page)

“Lu …Luanne, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, hands me the pass.

“Hell, you’re the sane one and you still don’t know what to do, Jeff? You never do.” I turn, hurry up the path, eyes riveted on the ground. When I hear the old Mercury fire up, I clench my fists. As soon as I round the corner of the building, I slide onto the grass, my hot cheeks against its cool comfort. I lie there under a locust tree.

“You all right?” Carl reaches down and touches my back.

I turn over and sit up. “I think so.” I pull a Kleenex from my pocket, blow my nose.

“What is it?” Carl sits down beside me.

“My husband …he’s leaving me.” I release a jerky sigh.

“Sorry.” He picks at the grass.

“Why does everybody leave?”

“Don’t seem right.”

“No,” I say. “How do you get over it?”

“Don’t know. Maybe you never do.”

“Did you? I mean, your baby, and then your wife.”

“Baby?”

“Nurse Judy told me she lost her baby.”

“She told you that?”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“My wife must have liked you. To be talking about things like that.”

“Yes, I think so. She was kind to me.”

“You gonna be all right then?”

I watch Carl limp down the walkway, reach into his back pocket, pull out a white handkerchief. As he disappears behind the north wing, I lie on my back so I won’t look like I’ve fallen in a heap, put my hands under my head, cross my ankles, and close my eyes. The grass tickles the back of my arms, the soft humming of bees takes me to another place—a place where children don’t die and loved ones don’t throw you away when you’re on the fritz.

Chapter 26

H
ave a seat, Luanne.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, how did your visit with Jeff go?”

“Good.”

“How is he doing?”

“Good.”

“Would you like to talk about his visit?”

“No, not really.”

I take a drink of water, shift in my seat, play with my hair, look out the window.

“Okay, what would you like to talk about?”

“Jean, on our hall, is shitting all over the place.”

“Yes, Luanne, I know about that.”

“Can’t you do something about it?”

“We’re working on it.”

“This place is unbelievable.” I shake my head.

“Did Jeff say that?”

“Jeff?
I’m
saying it. This place is gross, unfit for human beings …it’s like a nightmare. I …I …want …” My voice grows thin as I began to cry. “I … Why …why, can’t he love me?”

“What happened, Luanne?”

“He’s …leaving …me.” I bring my hands to my face and wail. “I’m all alone.”

“Go ahead and cry, Luanne.”

“Here we go again …” I sob.

“Again?”

“My dad. Alexander. And now Jeff.” I reach for a tissue. “The Kleenex box is empty.”

Dr. Murray walks to her desk for another box of tissues, and when she returns, I sit straighter, try to regain my composure.

“Is this a punishment?”

“Loss is a part of life. You can’t avoid it.”

“Screw that.”

“I didn’t say it was easy.”

“I hate him.”

“He’s let you down.”

“Let me down? He’s locked me up and thrown away the key. He can go back to his nice little life and I’m stuck here with the cuckoos.”

“Yes?”

“What am I going to tell my family?”

“The truth.”

“What’s that?”

“Something like …Jeff abandoned you when you needed him most?”

“Yeah. I guess so. I just feel …so …embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“A loser. Nobody …My dad …he loved me. But he died…”

“Yes. And your mom, and brothers and sisters love you.”

“Yeah. I’m not as strong as I thought I was …Maybe God is testing me.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sometimes strength is vulnerability, the ability to face challenges, pulling through difficult times.”

“I guess so …a kid in my neighborhood drowned when I was little. I always wondered why.”

“Sometimes things don’t seem fair.”

“My dad, cripe, compared to the other girls’ dads, he’s a saint. I have a good family. Not like the others. I feel like a big crybaby.”

“You’re not a crybaby.”

“At my dad’s funeral, I wondered how I’d get along without him. I loved him a lot. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe.”

“It sounds like you don’t believe you’re lovable.”

“Lovable? Ha.”

“Think about Alexander. How much you loved him and he loved you. You were a good mother. You have the capacity to love and be loved.”

I cry for a long time. “Something went wrong. It couldn’t have been Alexander. It must have been me.” Flashes of Alexander, his eye swollen shut, a thin little gnome with tufts of fuzz where his curly blond hair used to be, smiles at his third birthday. His little white teeth look so out of place. Jeff crying and running from the room.

“It was hard to see him suffer. Just a little guy who had no chance to grow up.”

“I know.”

“See what I mean about God?”

“What’s that?”

“Why would He give us this beautiful baby and then take him away?”

“I don’t know, Luanne. I really don’t know.”

“Did I ever tell you how smart Alexander was? He was reading when he was two years old.” I try to smile, but it hurts too much.

Chapter 27

W
e all went to the concert Saturday night.” I want Dr. Murray to know about Autumn’s attack.

“How was it?” Dr. Murray asks.

“Great. A starry night, good friends, and
Wild Thing
. Couldn’t ask for more,” Isabel chuckles.

“A rock band, huh?” Dr. Murray smiles.

“You should have seen ‘em dance.”

“I brought it up because I’m worried about Autumn.”

“Oh?” Dr. Murray looks at Autumn.”

“Now why would you be worried about me, Luanne?”

“That thing with the June bugs.”

“I hate the sticky bastards. Dr. Murray, those suckers were as big as poodles!”

“What happened at the concert, Autumn.”

“They attacked me. The size of them, their buzzing. The sickening crunch of them under foot made my skin crawl.”

“Autumn, you were shaking all over,” I say. “We had to throw a blanket over you for the whole concert. When I asked you about it, you told me it was a flashback.”

“Was it a flashback?” Dr. Murray asks. “Something you need to talk about?”

Autumn’s eyes glaze over. “I was nine years old that summer night. My dad starts drinking when he gets up that morning. When I checked the fridge, the case was almost gone. I heard him yell,
Kids, get in the Mexican wagon before I kick all your asses. I’m ready to go. Gotta stop at the store.

“My mom was terrified of him, we all were. Mom started grabbing our popcorn and pops,
Everybody in the car.
She muscled open the back door of our old Chevy, its rusty hinges squawking. We lined up quietly in the back seat. I sat in the middle between my younger brother and sister; it was my job to make sure they behaved themselves. The combination of beer and a captive audience might trigger one of my dad’s tirades, accusing my mom of screwing the migrant workers over on the Johnson farm, or calling her a frigid bitch, a lousy mother, or a lazy deadbeat.

“He cracked open a beer, turned the key in the ignition.
Goddamn piece of shit.
The back of his neck turned red as he pumped the accelerator. Finally, the engine caught. The Chevy shook and rattled to life.
There we go. That’s my girl.
He fawned over that old Chevy like he did waitresses and party store clerks. He never used that voice at home.

“We headed out to the fairgrounds. In the summer, a giant movie screen was set up outdoors and the audience sat on blankets under the stars. It was like a drive-in without cars. He slammed on the brakes.
Goddamn it. I dropped my change on the floor and it fell right through that hole. Momma, get your ass out there and pick up that money. Kids, you get out there too.
He sat behind the wheel drinking while we scoured the road, our shoulders bent, heads bowed, trying to spot the coins in the dim light. Mom called out as each car approached.
Heads up, kids—car.

“Jimmy was only four and afraid of the dark. He went to Dad’s window.
Can I come in with you, Daddy?
He sounded like he was about to cry. My dad says,
Find any money?
I heard my little brother’s tiny voice.
No.
Then Dad yelled for me.
Autumn, come get your brother before I whip his butt.
I pulled Jimmy to my side and told him he could look by the street light where it wasn’t so dark.

“I’d just found a nickel when I heard tires screeching. I looked up. He was lying in the intersection, under the light. Mom ran toward the corner. Jimmy had been knocked clean out of his shoes. His toe stuck out through his dirty sock. Mom made a strange chirping sound as she held Jimmy’s head in her lap.

“All I could do was hug my sister, Christy, and cry as we waited for the ambulance. The June bugs were thick under the lights—slick as ice underfoot. They bumped and buzzed and stuck to my shirt, their picky legs dragging across my shoulder.

“Every spring since, I brace for the time the June bugs come out. Knowing if I’d been smarter, my little brother would still be alive.”

There’s a long silence before Autumn starts sobbing, pounding her thighs, pulling at her hair.

“Autumn, you did nothing wrong. You were just a kid. You did the best you could,” Dr. Murray tries to sooth her, but Autumn starts screaming. The attendant escorts her out of the group room.

After she leaves, we all stare at each other. Nobody talks. Finally, I say, “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay. You did the right thing,” Isabel says.

“I know how she feels. She didn’t cause her little brother to die, but she feels guilty. I do, too,” I explain.

“What do you feel guilty about, Luanne?” Dr. Murray asks.

“Not saving my little boy. Letting him die.”

“You did everything you could, Lu.” Isabel reassures me.

Estee speaks up. “I feel guilty for being like my mother—for being crazy. I’m causing my grandma such heartache. First, her daughter, now me.”

“Guilt is a powerful feeling. We all just try to do our best by people. Take responsibility for what is yours, but try to let go of the guilt,” Dr. Murray says.

“I could just eat and my parents would be happy. But I won’t. Is that what you mean by responsibility?”

“No. You have a disorder, Beth. But you are taking responsibility by trying to get help. I would like to break earlier today. I need to go check on Autumn.”

We all filed out the door, silent.

Chapter 28

I
shimmy out of my shorts, pull off my t-shirt, tug at the straps of the saggy tank suit I picked up at the emporium. Beth stands at the end of the blanket, smears lotion on her face and neck. Her peasant blouse ripples and fills with wind. She tucks it into her chinos to keep it from blowing up. She kicks off her sandals, spreads her toes in the warm sand.

“Lotion?” Beth hands me her Coppertone bottle. I thump it on my palm, squeeze out a long ribbon of lotion and spread it over my legs and arms. I fold my thin towel, stuff it under my head. I lie back, close my eyes.

I stretched the rules and forged my friends’ names to the signup sheet for a picnic at the hospital park at the base of the Leelanau Peninsula. I had to, the outing is popular, took only fifteen patients at a time. We could swim, walk the beach, and have a lunch of ground meat or tuna, donated windfall apples, and Kool Aid. Beth and I tan while Isabel, Autumn, and Heidi brave the cold water of Lake Michigan.

“It’s cold.” Isabel’s voice drifts toward me.

“You get used to it,” Heidi laughs and splashes.

Miniature suns appear under my eyelids, radiate onto my face, down my neck, and into my chest. It’s like being touched by a magic wand. My breathing slows, my hands go limp against the blanket. Waves lap over sand, hypnotize me.

I hear a child laughing down the beach. Alexander. No, no, no. He’s gone. I can see him, before he got sick. Kicking his chubby little legs, a picture of health. Jeff dips him in the water and smiles up at me. I smile back. He turns Alexander toward me …says in a baby voice, “Look at me, Mommy.”

I see Alexander sitting on the beach, bringing two sandy fingers to his mouth, scowling. My mother rushes over and wipes his mouth and fingers with a washcloth before he begins to cry. Alexander is the center of attention that day, his older cousins fill his pail each time he dumps it, covering his feet with sand, watching him wiggle his toes. Each time his piggies poke through, he reaches for them, not realizing until he makes contact, they are his.

“Here I come,” Estee yells. Autumn makes strange “oop, oop” sounds as she hops along, her hands slapping the surface. Heidi sits down. “I’m staying right here in the shallow water.”

The shallow water. The shallow end.

When I was a kid, I swam almost every day at the community pool. Sometimes swimming until my teeth chattered and my lips turned blue, staying in until Mom called me out to warm up. No matter how many times I went back in, I’d hear Mom hollering from the bleachers, “Luanne. Don’t forget. Stay in the shallow end.”

“Why?” I challenged her.

“Because if you stay in the shallow end, you won’t drown.”

“If I do handstands, I will.”

“Don’t get sassy, smarty pants,” she frowned.

Stay in the shallow end—it’s safe there. Mom promised me. I’d done everything right, everything she expected of me. But when the world turns upside down, there are no guarantees. Things happen …one day you’re happy, then …wham. The white picket fence falls down, the house, as it turns out, is made of straw …the boogeyman comes …babies die. The rush of memories dissolve into pain. I use the techniques Dr. Murray taught me—stop the intrusive thoughts, distract myself.

It isn’t working. Alexander’s face. Grandparents singing happy birthday …Jeff breaking down, leaving the room. The sickening sweet smell of Puffs tissues, or was it the cake? …or death? Whimpering …