Admissions (6 page)

“It’s okay. We have your room ready. There’s a stack of letters and cards for you.” Nurse Judy puts her right arm around my waist, holds me by the forearm with her left hand. She unlocks the door to Room 15. “Heidi, you asleep? New roommate.” Nurse Judy snaps on the room light from the hallway.

Despite her night medication, Heidi pops up. “Sweet Jesus, Luanne?”

“Heidi.” I’d never been so happy to see someone in my life.

“Holy shit, you look like death warmed over.”

“Lucky for you, they made me shower.” I sit on the bed trying to gather my thoughts, but I can’t think of what to say. I’m shaking from the inside out. I tremble so violently, I put my hand down to steady myself. Nurse Judy lowers my shoulders to the pillow, pulls my legs onto the mattress, covers me with the sheet and blanket. She hands me my meds.

“I put an extra blanket on your bed, Luanne. You’re shaking. Sleep well, we’ll talk tomorrow. Heidi, we should let Luanne sleep now.”

“Sure, sure. Night.”

“Night.” I whisper. The thin mattress with the starched sheets feels clean and fresh. Two blankets to warm me up. “Heidi, my baby died.” The words hang in the darkness. Heidi snores. I sink into sleep.

The next morning I sit in the dayroom on a chrome couch with brown plastic cushions, sort through the stack of envelopes. All six of my brothers and sisters sent cards, joking cartoon people wishing me well. Guess Hallmark hadn’t yet developed a line for cheering up mental patients, like
“Heard you cracked up. Get well soon”; “Wishing you a speedy release from the loony bin.”
I slide a card from a gilded envelope, from Father Barnes, our pastor, with a holy card and a small medal of St. Christopher. It probably should be St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.

Five letters from Jeff, three from my mother.

November 29, 1968

Dear Luanne.

They wouldn’t let me say goodbye. I hope you’re doing okay. They gave me a list of rules. I’m sure you know this, but we’re not allowed to visit you for thirty days. No phone calls. I miss you so much. I love you and pray you are well. I went to my folks for Thanksgiving, but also stopped in to see your family. They were all together at your mom’s. Everyone sends their love. I’ll write later.     Love, Jeff

It doesn’t sound like Jeff, but then again, I’d never gotten letters from him before, never gone anywhere without him. Maybe that’s why he sounds so distant, so matter-of-fact.

He sends a twenty dollar bill in his Christmas card along with a brief note.

I’m waiting for news from the hospital. They said you could write, why haven’t you written to me? I pray every day that you are okay. I called the hospital, and they said you were doing well and they would schedule a visit as soon as you were ready.

It’s a lonely Christmas here. I’m working as much overtime as I can so the guys can spend Christmas with their families. I love you. Jeff

I open the rest of the Christmas cards. Mom’s card bulges with a folded letter, most of it chatty news from home, details about the weather. The part that I can’t get past . . .

…I called the hospital several times. They said you didn’t sign a release, and they can’t give us any information about how you’re doing. Jeff said they told him you were doing well. I’m so glad to hear that. Molly and I are waiting to hear when we can visit.

Love, Mom

I feel my chest cave in. I gasp, curl into a ball and rock.

“Luanne?” Nurse Judy rubs my shoulders. “What is it?” She pats my back, waits for me to stop crying.

“My family…Jeff, he tried …oh my god … ” I can’t stand the thought of the hospital withholding information, scaring Jeff and my mother. I leave my body. I float up above the dayroom, bump against the corner, look down at my own misery.

“It’s okay. The rules can seem harsh, I know. Thirty days is a long time without a visit. Luanne?” Nurse Judy shakes my shoulder. “Luanne. Can you hear me? There are no letters allowed on Hall 5, then you were in protection …I’m sorry, honey.”

I hover, suspended like a helium balloon. Somebody tugs at my string. “Luanne? Luanne?” Nurse Judy continues to shake me.

Reconnecting with my body, I look at the nurse. I think of Jeff. If only I could feel his arms around me. “Can …could …my husband visit me now?” I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“Discuss it with Dr. Murray. When she okay’s it, I’ll put in your request. The hospital will contact him. One week on Hall 9, and if you’re doing well, you can have a visitor.”

I sit up, examine Nurse Judy’s face. I can’t help suspecting her. “Thank you.”

“It’ll get better. Hall 9 is safer, quieter. You already know Heidi.”

“Are my other friends here?”

“Now who would that be?”

“Isabel, Beth, Autumn, and Estee?”

“Isabel Jackson transferred in this week. I don’t think so on the other three.”

“Oh.” My gaze drifts through the frosty windows to the frozen world outside. I imagine sinking into the snow, gracefully moving my arms and legs, creating an angel.

“What happened, honey? Do you want to talk?”

“My baby died. I …I …it just hurts so much.” I hold my stomach, lean forward. Nurse Judy puts her arm around my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m too upset.” My voice squeaks out the words.

“It’s okay.” Nurse Judy squeezes my arm, waits silently for me to speak. I stare into space. Finally, I begin fingering the envelopes. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Luanne, you stay right here, read your letters. I’m going to get your friends.”

Soon Isabel trots across the floor of the dayroom, Heidi behind her. “You okay, Lu?” The cushion hisses as Isabel plops down next to me.

“Yeah. Just reading my letters.” I adjust the pages. “Listen to this.”

I hope you’re not mad at me, Luanne. It’s been almost six weeks and I haven’t heard from you. I pray every day that we made the right decision about the hospital. Your mom agreed, we all thought you needed help. You almost died, we had to do something. I love you and can’t wait to hear from you. Please write to me. I called the hospital on December 18, thirty days after you were admitted, and they called me back just before Christmas and said you couldn’t receive visitors yet. I’m sick with worry. Your mom wants to drive up there and see what’s going on. I told her we have to follow the rules. Please, honey, write to me, or call if you can. Love, Jeff

“Can you believe it?” My voice cracks.

“Bastards.” Isabel says

“They can’t do that! They can’t keep your family away forever. When they get here, tell ‘em what’s been going on,” Heidi says.

Chapter 11

I
settle into my usual seat in Dr. Murray’s office, a wooden chair with curved arms, Early American, like my dining room set at home. “I’m not sure I can make it.”

“Protection is tough,” Dr. Murray says.

I start to cry, reach for a tissue. Crying hurts my head. I close my eyes, push off, swimming down for my thoughts. “It’s like being dead. Only you can still feel—cold. I have to get out of here.”

“Do you think you’re ready to leave the hospital?” Dr. Murray asks.

I study her face, wonder if the question is some sort of trick. I figure there must be rules, secret rules, and if I follow all of them, I can leave the hospital. I see the names in the
Observer
. People do get out, it’s right there in black and white. If I could just figure it out …Finally, “I’m afraid to go home.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“People looking at me like I’m crazy …going home and not finding Alexander there …Jeff with that look on his face.”

“What look?”

“Pity? I’m not sure. Like he’s miserable, and it’s my fault.”

“Is Jeff getting help, too?”

“How would I know? I just got his letters. I haven’t heard from anybody in almost seven weeks. Did you know they kept all my letters from home?”

“Yes. It’s one of the rules.”

“Nurse Judy said I could have visitors next week if you give your approval.”

“Who would you like to see?”

“My husband. My mom.”

“Anybody else? Family members, friends?”

“Maybe my sister, Molly. She still lives at home.”

“Anybody else?”

“What are you getting at? Am I supposed to have lots of visitors? I don’t want anybody to visit me here!”

“There’s no right answer, Luanne. I just wondered if you felt close enough to anyone else.”

“That’s not it. I’m embarrassed …Jeez.” I pluck another Kleenex from the box. “I’m not even sure I can talk to anybody from home. I’m afraid I won’t know how to chat about things, you know, normal things.”

“Is there somebody in your family who could help you with that?”

“Nobody in my family ever had this kind of trouble.”

“Everybody has problems.”

“Not my family. If they do, they don’t talk about it.”

“So you’re saying your family has never had a problem of any kind?”

“My dad died. That’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to our family. And my oldest sister got pregnant in high school. I guess that’s no big deal, but it sure seemed like it at the time.”

“What about Jeff’s family?”

“They’re nice, but sort of rigid, German and Finnish.”

“Is Jeff like that, rigid, as you say?”

“Jeff’s a nice guy. Everybody likes him. He loves his parents, stops over to visit them, helps them out. Jeff wants to please.”

“It sounds like you think that’s a bad thing.”

“Maybe …I don’t know. I guess it’s a good thing …”

“How do you feel about Jeff visiting?”

“I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Why is that?”

“He let me down. I can’t imagine how he could dump me off here. It’s unbelievable, really.”

“In what way?”

“I’m not crazy. But he brings me here, locks me up like an animal? My Lord, I’m plenty good enough when I’m all together, and when I need him the most, he gets rid of me.”

“Can you talk to him about that?”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“I see. Maybe I can help you with that. And when you’re ready to begin transitioning home, we can offer you family therapy.”

“Without my little boy, I don’t have a family.”

“Have you remembered anything more, Luanne?”

“Not really, snippets of the funeral home, the service …not much else. I’m still trying to accept …he’s gone.” I grab a wad of Kleenex and hold it to my face. “None of the letters say anything about it. It’s like nobody will tell me what happened. I know I tried to kill myself. Jeff told me about that.”

“What did he say?”

“That Saturday he had worked afternoon shift at the foundry. It was just thirty minutes before the shift-change whistle put him out of his misery.”

“What kind of foundry?”

“Jeff said,
If hell had a basement, it was there where the blast furnace melted dune sand into engine cores for General Motors.
He pretty much hated the job. His eyes and ears were protected, but the sand found its way most everywhere else. From what he said, he and Bill Murphy shoveled their last pile in the core molds when the foreman tapped Jeff on the shoulder and motioned him out. A young police officer, his hand on his nightstick, stood by the drinking fountain. He nodded and waited for Jeff to pull out his earplugs.”

“Go on.”

“I guess the cop asked him if his wife was Luanne Kilpi. Told him a young couple had been smoking weed in Ojibwe Park when they spotted me floating down the river.”

“He must have been terrified.”

“Yeah. The cop said I was at St. Mary’s and Jeff ran out the loading door to the back parking lot before he realized he had carpooled with Bill. I asked him why he didn’t ask the officer for a ride, but he just shook his head. Said he sprinted all the way to St. Mary’s in his steel-toe boots. He must’ve been scared, running all that way on such a cold night.”

“I’m so sorry, Luanne.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose …”

“What?”

“Try to drown myself. I’d never do that …I can’t even believe I did. Everything is so unbelievable to me. I want to talk to Jeff about it when he visits.”

“That might be a good idea, Luanne.”

“If I can work up the courage.”

The attendant walks me back through the tunnels to Hall 9. I replay my meeting with the doctor. I shouldn’t have complained about Jeff. He’s doing the best he can. For God’s sake, what happened? I can’t get my head around it. The guilt is overwhelming. Jeff lost a son, too, then his wife tries to kill herself?

Chapter 12

T
here are no mirrors. I’m not sure why. I smooth my hair. I’ve barely felt human, let alone attractive, in almost two months—good grooming and life in the disturbed ward are not compatible. Make-up, hair products, anything personal just isn’t allowed.

I close my eyes, imagine myself twirling in front of the mirror in a rainbow tiered crinoline, a skinny six-year-old, my bird legs disappear into huge black and white saddle shoes. At seven, a white organza Holy Communion dress made by my mother. A proud ten-year-old in a straw Easter bonnet and patent leather Mary Janes.  And all the fads and fashions since then—a watch-plaid kilt with an oversized gold safety pin, knee socks and penny loafers, my school uniform, rolled up at the waist, a homecoming dress, burnt orange wool, with a carnation corsage pinned on the cowl neck, my first formal taffeta for the J-Hop, the green velvet prom dress that made me feel like a movie star. The homecoming queen finery and, finally, the wedding gown I designed myself, showing off my tiny waist, falling gracefully into a long train.

Today I imagine myself as I used to be. I have to, Jeff is visiting. I pick at the fuzzy pills on my emporium sweater. I haven’t felt attached to my body in quite some time, even before the hospital. I think my body started to break away during those long nights, sitting upright in a chair, Alexander’s moist head against my breast, my back aching with fatigue, my muscles tense with worry. When Alexander stopped shifting with pain, finally escaping into sleep, I tried to hold so very still, making my body his cradle. At first, it was by sheer will and necessity, now it’s automatic. Before I know it, I’m floating up against the ceiling.