And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) (17 page)

Frank got her to school, then came home to have breakfast before going to work. His hands were shaking.

“I know the therapist said she had to go,” he said, “but to tell the truth, by the time I got her there she was in no condition to go to class. I took her to the counselor, and she said she'd take care of her until she was calm enough to go to class.”

I poured Frank a cup of coffee. Before he had time to take a sip of it, the phone rang. We both looked at the phone and then at each other. There was no doubt who it was. I answered it.

“Mrs. Spungen, I'm so sorry,” the counselor said, her voice quavering. “Nancy was right here, she was sitting right here in my office. Next thing I knew she got up and just walked right past me out of the office into the hallway. I ran after her, Mrs. Spungen. I called her name. But she didn't see or hear me, I swear. It was like she was in a trance. Her eyes were … were …”

“Her eyes where blank.”

“Yes, that's it. She just kept going out the front door of the building. She's gone, Mrs. Spungen. She's gone. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to phone the police?”

“We'll find her. Thank you.” I hung up.

“She's gone,” I told Frank.

“I'm not surprised,” he said.

We started out the door to look for her. The phone rang. It was Nancy.

“I'm at the Buck Road Mobil station,” she said in a wooden monotone. “Come and get me.”

“Nancy, why did you leave?” I asked. “Why aren't you at school?”

“Come and get me.”

“Stay there. Don't leave. We'll be right there.”

“Come and get me,” she said again.

Frank followed me in his car. Nancy was waiting by the phone booth at the gas station she'd mentioned. She got in my car. She had That Look. When Frank saw that she was calm, he kept on going to the office. I drove Nancy home.

“I'm never going back to school ever again,” she said quietly.

“But Nancy, you
have
to go back.”

“I don't need to. I already know everything I need to know.”

“But you won't be able to go to college if you don't go back to school.”

“I'm not going.”

I was surprised and very disappointed to hear her say this. Until now, Nancy's intellect had been the one thing she could hold on to. She was proud of it. She read constantly, knew a great deal about what was going on in the world. College had always been her goal. Frank and I had encouraged her. Here was one area in which she excelled and could have a positive self-image. Moreover, pointing her toward college kept her headed in the direction of a normal life—a life we still hoped she could have. College was her anchor to a useful adult life. By repudiating school, she was, in effect, saying she didn't believe she'd ever have that normal life. She was setting herself adrift. This upset me deeply.

When we got home she went straight up to her room, sat on her bed, and stared at her feet. I went in, sat down next to her on the bed, and put my arms around her. She didn't push me away, but she didn't return the hug, either. It was like holding a dead person.

“I wish I could make you happy, Nancy,” I said. “I love you so much. You're my firstborn, and you're special to me. You'll always be special to me. I want you to be happy. So does Daddy. We both love you.”

She just stared at the floor.

I left her. I phoned the counselor at school to let her know Nancy was safe. She was relieved.

“Mrs. Spungen, I … I … well, what I have to say isn't easy.”

“Yes?”

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I don't think Nancy belongs in school. At least not this school. I don't think she ought to come back. I'm sorry.”

I hung up, staggered. The public school system was no longer able to handle Nancy. It was as if a door had been slammed in our faces.

I called Dr. Blake and told her. Then I poured out my frustration.

“We don't know what to do,” I said, trying to choke back the emotion in my voice. “We do what you tell us to do and it doesn't work. We don't know what to do.”

“I have spoken to the director,” she said coolly. “He agrees with me that a reevaluation is called for. He would like to see Nancy tomorrow, then meet with you the following day. Can you bring Nancy tomorrow at ten a.m.?”

I said I could, and I delivered Nancy to the director of the clinic the following morning at the appointed time. He held a lengthy individual session with her. The details of his reevaluation, dated September 29, 1969:

The director's evaluation was thorough and concrete and signified a major change from a year before, when he had seen Nancy
as a bright girl with a personality problem that stemmed from her troubled environment. He now believed what we had long believed. He now put a label on it. He now thought Nancy was schizophrenic. In recommending neurological studies for “organic determinants,” the director was referring to brain tumor as a possible explanation for what he perceived to be Nancy's marked deterioration.

He did not, however, share any of this information with us when he ushered us into his office the following day. I only obtained it years later, when Nancy was already dead, at which point I felt bitter vindication—I had been certain for a long time that Nancy was seriously ill—but no satisfaction.

What he told us that day was that Nancy was being terminated from the clinic because she needed more care than they were capable of giving her.

He did not share with us his diagnosis of schizophrenia. Rather, the diagnosis he chose to offer was basically a continuation of his original one. He acknowledged that she was worse, but he still put the blame on us.

The clinic's own report of this meeting, which I also obtained after Nancy's death, jibes with what Frank and I recall of that day.

The clinic report makes no mention of the director saying anything to us about schizophrenia or about recommending a neurological study for Nancy. That's because he didn't.

I asked him that day, point-blank, for a diagnosis. He told me, point-blank, that he had none. I asked him what our next step should be. He made a steeple of his fingers, looked me in the eye,
and replied, “Damned if I know.” Not a word about a neurological work-up.

If the director had been more candid with us that day, we would have had a better understanding of what was wrong with Nancy and of where to search for treatment. We wouldn't have had to stumble along blindly like we did. Maybe it wouldn't have altered the course Nancy's life took. Maybe it would have. If nothing else, we wouldn't have felt so helpless and confused, so lost.

Why wasn't he more candid? Doctors now tell us that up until about five years ago it was not uncommon to “spare” the parents of a seriously impaired child—just as they did the parents of a terminally ill one. The director probably felt that Nancy needed a hospital-like psychiatric setting, and was fully aware that not one such place existed for an eleven-year-old then in the Philadelphia area. So for him to have spelled it out to us straight would have been for him to say, “You're going to have to live with this for as long as you live—there's no hope.” That would have been just like telling us our daughter had incurable cancer.

Doctors also tell me that psychologists find it much more difficult to diagnose schizophrenia in a child than in an adult—so many of the dream-world symptoms are natural behavior in a child. But even if a psychologist does suspect schizophrenia, he or she will still be reluctant to use that label for behavior the child may outgrow. This is especially applicable to Nancy's case, since she was such a bright child and since the director may have wanted to see the results of a neurological work-up before disclosing his suspicions to us.

Why didn't the director himself undertake the neurological testing before electing to terminate Nancy? Why didn't he advise us to have the tests done? I don't know. I have no explanation.

All the director did was stand up, wish us good luck, and shake our hands.

Frank and I reeled out to the parking lot, just like we had a year before—only now we knew even less. All we knew was that we had a disturbed eleven-year-old daughter who neither the school system nor the clinic could deal with.

We drove back slowly through the quiet afternoon streets of our suburban development, not saying a word. We had no idea what to do with Nancy. If the professionals didn't know, how were
we
supposed to know?

I wanted to cry, but I stopped myself. There was no time to cry.
No time for the luxury of tears. Tears meant giving up, and I wouldn't. I had made a commitment to Nancy that day eleven years before in the nursery, when I saw her fighting for her life. I had promised her a life of quality. Now that promise had real meaning, real direction. I had to find a way out of this maze. I had to do everything in my power to keep my promise to my child. I took several deep breaths. I did not cry. I would not cry.

I sought out Nancy's pediatrician for help. He saw her a few days later and was concerned about her physical condition. He said her pulse rate was unusually high and her pupils dilated. He gave her a blood test on the spot. When I asked why, he said he wanted to see if she was taking drugs. This surprised me—drugs were not yet a problem with the kids in our neighborhood. Besides, Nancy was only eleven.

She was clean. There were no drugs in her system. She was speeding on her own.

Through the pediatrician, I found a psychiatrist who was willing to see Nancy. I scheduled an appointment, and though Nancy didn't want to go, she did. I sat outside in his small waiting room.

Within five minutes I heard a crash, then a thump, then a scream. Then another crash.

He opened the door. His forehead was bleeding. His glasses were smashed and hanging from one ear. His wristwatch was shattered.

“Please come in,” he said.

Nancy had swept everything off his desk. The floor was covered with papers and the broken remains of his family photo album. She sat on the couch smirking.

“We've had some problems here,” he said quietly. “Please take
Nancy home and call me.” He turned to Nancy. “I'll be seeing you later.”

“I'll do it again,” she warned.

“Call me,” he said to me.

I did when I got home.

“I'm very concerned,” he confided. “I think she's a very disturbed girl. All I did to provoke her was ask why she walked out of school.”

He agreed to take her on—provided I sat in on her sessions. He pointed out, though, that he regarded his involvement as an interim step. He said my top priority should be to place Nancy in some sort of full-time residential treatment center/school facility. He gave me some names and addresses.