And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) (31 page)

Nancy, age 16, and
Deborah on graduation
day
.

Nancy, age 16, after
she returned from
Colorado. She wore the
outfit once and then
threw it away
.

Age 17 in St
.
Thomas. Nancy's
favorite photo of
herself, she carried
it with her until
her death
.

The Spungens—
David, Susie
,
Deborah and Frank
(left to right)
.

In my heart, I guess I was still looking for an answer. There had to be a way of helping Nancy, a magic pill. There had to be an end to all of this pain. Nancy seemed totally out of control, dangerous to herself and others. We were afraid of what she would do next if she wasn't stopped.

Nancy didn't take the news of her commitment to a hospital well, but she was so shaken and exhausted at that point that she didn't fight it.

There was still the problem of finding a bed for her in a mental hospital. I phoned Mallory Brooke at Darlington. She concurred with our decision and gave me a list of a few possibilities. Then she wished me luck.

The first hospital I called took teenagers but didn't have a bed available, not even for an emergency. They referred me to a nearby state hospital, which had a ten-day evaluation program. I spoke to them and they agreed to admit her for evaluation. At the end of ten days they would make a determination as to how to proceed.

The juvenile aid officer was satisfied with this and released Nancy into our custody. He said we would receive a summons for a hearing in about a month.

Nancy dozed in the car on the way to the hospital. Our route
happened to take us past the wreck of the Volvo, which sat—totaled—by the side of the road. She woke up when Frank and I gasped at the extent of the damage.

“It can be fixed” was all she said.

We spent several hours at the hospital. Nancy was examined individually by a psychiatrist, then slept on a couch while Frank and I were interviewed by a team of doctors and psychiatrists. Then they asked us to wait while they discussed Nancy's case. We sat on a sofa across from Nancy and I watched her sleep. Her hair was spread wildly over her face; her makeup was smeared. Her satin skirt was torn and had dried blood on it. But still, asleep, she looked like my little Nancy, my baby.

The psychiatrist joined us. He spoke softly so he wouldn't wake Nancy up. “We're against admitting her for the ten-day examination. I'm sorry to drag you over here and put you through all of this, but it's our feeling that Nancy has simply had herself a real bad week. She's upset, exhausted. Take her home. Love her.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

He smiled. “She's fine.”

“No, she
isn't
fine,” I argued. “She is a lot of things. She is disturbed, troubled, unhappy, in pain, miserable. She is
not
fine!”

“Uh, Mrs. Spungen—!”

“Don't tell me she's fine!”

He looked at Frank uncomfortably. “We can't keep her here.”

We had to place Nancy somewhere. That was the condition of her release.

Suburban Psychiatric Center was the last name on the list Brooke had given me, so I phoned. They had a bed and were willing to evaluate her, possibly admit her. We woke Nancy up and drove over there. She was still very groggy and didn't fight us.

Suburban Psychiatric was a large, new private hospital. Again, a team of doctors and psychiatrists spoke to us and to Nancy. Then we waited for their verdict. This time Nancy was awake and eating a candy bar.

The doctor who sat with us was young and casually dressed. “We think Nancy should be here,” he said. “We'd like to admit her.”

Nancy's response was the most shockingly violent I'd ever seen. She hurled her candy bar at the wall and began to scream. She went berserk with rage—all of it directed at me. It spilled out in a nonstop torrent like the verbal tantrums she had had when she was two.

“You motherfucking bitch cunt shithead evil motherfucking bitch cunt! You'll die for this! You'll die!”

“Now, there's no reason to get upset, Nancy,” the doctor said calmly. She ignored him.

“I'll have you killed! I'm not staying here! I'll leave! I'll have you killed. You wanna know how I'll have you killed, bitch cuntface? I'll have them tear your fucking head off and gouge out your fucking eyeballs with a fucking icepick and tear off your fucking arms and break off every finger … and you fucking cunt you can't lock me up here—”

“Now, there's
no
reason to get upset,” the doctor repeated, a little less calmly. People had stopped what they were doing all over the hospital, and watched.

“I'm not gonna stay! I'll kill you
myself!
With my bare fucking hands! You know how I'll do it? I'll stick a knife up your motherfucking cunt and rip you wide open!”

I covered my ears with my hands, horrified. I couldn't listen anymore.

“That's how I'll do it! I'll cut your cunt and you'll die! Die! Die like an evil shithead motherfucking cunt!”

She was sobbing now, her voice hoarse from yelling.

“Perhaps,” the doctor said to me, “you and your husband should wait in my office.”

We did. It was down the hall. Though we closed the door, we could still hear her screams and curses.

“… gouge out your fucking eyeballs you fucking cunt!”

I sagged against Frank, my insides melting. My child hated me with such a vengeance. Such venom and ugliness came out of her mouth. I had seen and heard her rages before, but never like this. Never. It broke my heart. All I was trying to do was save her. I loved her. I was doing whatever I could.

I guess they led her away. Her screaming faded and mercifully died out.

“I don't care what happens,” I said weakly to Frank. “I'm never going through this kind of scene again. Ever.”

He nodded, dazed.

If the law interceded and had her forcibly committed, fine. But we were agreed: we wouldn't try it again on our own. We couldn't. This door was too horrible to go through. We closed it.

The doctor came in a moment later.

“Don't be concerned,” he said. “We'll take care of her. We can help her. I'll call you.”

We went home. It was a Sunday. Suzy and David had been home
alone all day. They had made dinner and were waiting for us. We explained everything that had happened. They were upset and saddened.

“Do you think she'll ever come home again?” Suzy asked.

“She can't stay at the hospital for more than a month,” Frank said. “Our insurance will run out. So I guess she will. Yes.”

And then what? I couldn't look ahead. Ahead I saw nothing but pain. I saw a life of trying to get through each day, one at a time. I saw no other priority besides surviving. No hope. No optimism. Ahead, I saw no kind of life. How could we live with this child in our home?

I crawled into bed and slept fitfully. I was still weak and tired in the morning, when the psychiatrist called.

“She's calmed down quite a bit,” he assured me. “I'm about to have another talk with her. I suggest you not see her for a few days.”

We set up an appointment with him for Friday afternoon, by which time he hoped to be ready to discuss Nancy's condition in depth. After the appointment we'd be able to see her.

I phoned the clothing store and told the owner that Nancy would not be coming back to work.

Nancy still hadn't unpacked. One night later that week I decided I'd do it for her. Somehow I thought it would make the transition easier for her. I opened the cartons and suitcases and began to remove the contents.

There were books—her textbooks in English, psychology, and marketing, and a frayed paperback copy of Hunter Thompson's
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
. Tucked into the paperback was a small bundle of notes the other students on her dorm floor had left her when they heard she'd been expelled. I glanced at them. They were nice notes. One of them said, “You're too smart to fuck up. Get it together and come on back.” There were cosmetics and some bottles of shampoo, several pairs of jeans, some longjohns, turtleneck sweaters, hiking boots. There was a workshirt. When I unfolded it, several syringes, a rubber catheter, and some spoons spilled out onto the bed.

I stared at them for a second. Then I screamed.

Frank came running. He stood there next to me, staring at the drug paraphernalia. It looked so ugly and evil, its presence seemed to refute everything we stood for. I was numb with horror. I could barely breathe.