I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (17 page)

“Sometimes, when the train comes, I wet the bed. It is quite humiliating.”

“Grace, let me see the train. Draw me a picture.”

“It is a locomotive. It roars and hisses steam.”

She answers, “A locomotive suggests power, and force, and energy. The train may simply represent your unconscious, trying to find its way into consciousness.”

“I'm afraid I wouldn't know much about power or force.”

“You do though. Those qualities are a part of you, just as they are a part of me or any person. The unconscious part of you is not just ugly and dangerous, it is also resourceful and creative.”

“But the train is so scary.”

“It is indeed, but so is your unconscious. It wants to become part of you, but you repress it and suppress it. You fear it and resist it so completely that you have divided yourself.”

Her voice is starting to crackle. When she speaks to me like this I feel like I'm being scolded. I blink back the tears which are forming and sit up straight. I fold my legs into the lotus position.

Dr. Rowe continues, “Grace, deep down inside, in your unconscious, you have decided that life is a battlefield. A place of enemies and adversaries. Your father went like a hero to do battle, but you can't.”

I say, “My father went to do battle while Mother stayed at home to darn socks.”

“Yes. Exactly. Participating in life is like going to war. Life is treachery and life is danger.”

She has such insight but her static makes things confusing. “I'll tell you one thing for sure,” I say. “I don't know much about trains, I don't think I've ever ridden on a train in my life.”

She says, “Grace, if the train is frightening, try and think of it this way: you won't allow your unconscious to reveal itself in a conventional way, or a natural way, so it forces itself through in an unnatural and uncomfortable way. One thing's for sure: your unconscious won't simply go away, as much as you might want it to.”

“You're saying I'm pretty sick.”

She lights one of her cigarettes. “I'm trying to say that the things which upset you are the consequences of the way you have divided yourself. When you learn to receive and accept some of the unconscious elements of yourself, you will begin to get better.”

I understand the logic of the point she is making, but I want to change the subject. I tell her so.

“What would you like to tell me?” she asks.

“I need to tell you about Luke Wolfe.”

“Okay, what do you want to say about him?”

I lick my lips. “When he lost his temper in the cafeteria, he was provoked. I saw the whole thing. I was wondering if you could please release him from lockup.”

“I can't do that, Grace.”

“But he really was provoked.”

“How was he provoked?”

“Mrs. Youngblood and Miss Sloan were taunting his roommate, the one called Chris. They were manipulating him. It was cruel.”

“How were they manipulating him?”

“They were teasing him with his food to get him to react, then they were laughing at him. They have no right. I know how unlikely it sounds, but I am telling the truth.”

Dr. Rowe is making notes. She says to me, “I thought you said Luke frightened you. I thought you wanted to be as far away from him as possible.”

“He has much violence and an explosive temper, but I think he has redeeming qualities; I think he is not evil. He never knew his parents. Please, Dr. Rowe, I would never tell you how to do your job, but he was provoked.”

“Don't apologize; I'm encouraged to see you sticking up for him. But I can't release him from lockup. His loss of control proves that he is a potential danger to other patients. I went out on a limb for him once, but I have to consider the safety of all the patients on this unit. Not to mention the staff.”

“But Dr. Rowe, please believe me.”

“It's not that I don't believe you, Grace. I will look into what you are telling me. But even if he was provoked, the provocation was not equal to his reaction. Luke's life is not going to work until he learns something about appropriate ways of dealing with problems.”

I'm not sure she truly believes me, but I have already argued far beyond my normal limits. My throat is tight but I say, “Then may I please visit him?”

“You want to visit him?”

“Please, I'd like to visit him on lockup. I feel sorry for him.”

She is putting out her cigarette. For several moments, she looks at me without speaking. She finally says, “You were terrified of him. What has happened to the fear?”

My eyes are suddenly filled with tears. I'm going to start crying, but I don't know why. I never know why. “I'm still scared of him. But he is a human being and I feel sorry for him.”

“Of course he's a human being.”

Now the tears are running down my face. “I'm sorry for crying so much.”

“You don't need to apologize. Tears are fine.”

“But they don't feel fine, why are they fine?”

“Because emotions at the surface are better than buried emotions. Especially in your case.”

“Dr. Rowe, I want to understand things, but I can't.” I wipe my face but the tears keep coming. “I don't know if the medicine makes me better or not. I don't know if I would be the same without the medicine or worse.”

Dr. Rowe doesn't speak.

“Everything gets so electrical and there's so much data. I don't know if my problems are biological or psychological.”

“Or both?”

“Or both.”

“Or neither?” I look at her smile. Then she says, “We were talking about Luke. You want to visit him.”

I blow my nose and tell her, “I think I would like to visit him. Would it be okay?”

“I think it would be just fine. It would probably be beneficial to him if he did have a visitor.”

“Thank you.”

“You'll have to wait until tomorrow. I know that he's tied up today with lawyers and social workers.”

“Thank you.”

At six
A
.
M
. there is only the hint of gray lifting the darkness. I awake refreshed from a restful night's sleep and slip into my robe. I follow the blue line, past the nurses' station, through the lounge, down the north hallway, and into the cafeteria.

“Please Mrs. Bonner, if you don't mind, I'd like a cup of tea.”

There are staff members sitting at some of the tables, drinking coffee, but I do not listen to their conversations; I wait for my tea.

When the hot water comes, it is in a Styrofoam cup. Dipping my teabag as I go, I walk back to the lounge, but since it is now the latter part of October, the windows by the blue couch are closed. I go out through the double doors that lead to the parking lot, where I sit on the concrete ledge which borders some evergreen shrubs. I continue dipping my tea. There is not enough light to see the highway, but I can hear tires whining in the distance. Tomorrow is Saturday and I will go home with my mother for the weekend; I know this is so because Dr. Rowe has written me a pass.

The first streaks of pale pink are layered along the eastern sky. A cool breeze is firm from the northwest. The breeze carries the smell of fresh manure from the university farm, and the lowing of the cattle. They are lined up for milking, the way that cows have done for thousands of years. They are the roots of the whole world, rooted deep and firm.

Cooooo ooooo ooooo

Oooooo ooooo ooooo

I look for the dove and find her perched on the power line overhead. Her graceful tail-feathers are flared like a swallow's tail. The dove brings peace and harmony while I sip my tea slowly.

Cooooo ooooo ooooo

Oooooo ooooo ooooo

The cool breeze turns chilly; I pull my robe up tight around my neck. I sip the tea as best I can, but my teeth have started to chatter. The light is stronger now, and I can see the interstate.

“Grace, how long have you been out here?”

It is Mrs. Higgins. Her abrupt voice startles me.

“Grace, you'll catch your death of cold out here. Please come inside.”

“I don't think it's been long. I'm never sure of the time.”

“You haven't had your medication yet.”

“It's so quiet and peaceful here. I'm listening to the dove.”

“You heard me, Grace. Come inside please.”

We go inside and she gives me my medicine.

“Dr. Rowe has interpreted the train dream for me.”

“That's good, Grace, but you are shivering and your teeth are chattering. How does a nice hot bath sound?”

“That would be very nice, Mrs. Higgins; it might have an element of purification.”

“I want you to have some breakfast first.”

I pick at breakfast without appetite or enthusiasm. I drink my orange juice.

Mrs. Higgins takes me to the tub room so I can soak in bubblebath. She sits in a chair next to the tub. I don't mind that she looks at me while I'm naked; the process of purification has many parts.

“I understand you're visiting Luke this morning.”

“Yes, that's true. I forgot.”

“I think you'll look lovely when we're finished here.”

“Mrs. Higgins, it's only one patient visiting another. Did I mention that Dr. Rowe has interpreted my train dream?”

“Yes, you did mention it, and I said I was happy to hear it.” She hands me a white plastic Bic razor, which I use for shaving my legs, until the skin is slick and clean. It takes longer to shave my armpits, where the hair is dense.

“Mrs. Higgins, it was in a bathtub like this that I cut my wrists.”

“I know.”

“The water was crimson billows, like swift-moving storm clouds.”

“Does it serve any purpose for us to talk about it?”

“No, you're quite right about that.”

“Here's a bottle of conditioner. Would you like to try it?”

She's trying to make me over. I use shampoo and then conditioner until my hair is squeaky clean. I stand in front of the mirror and dry off with a fluffy white towel. After I use the towel to squeeze the heaviest moisture from my hair, Mrs. Higgins plugs in a red Clairol blow drier.

My body is dry. I step into a pair of clean white underpants.

“Do you have a clean bra?” Mrs. Higgins wants to know.

“I don't have any bra at all, Mrs. Higgins. I never wear one.”

She makes no comment, but hands me the blow drier. It whines out its heat as I go, lifting my hair. When my hair is dry and full, I give it several strokes with the hairbrush to give it shape. It's hard to see properly because the mirror is steamed.

She gives me baby powder, which I rub on my neck and shoulders and underarms. Then she shapes my broken fingernails with a nail file, and applies some clear gloss nail polish.

I spread my fingers and admire my glistening, oval fingernails. I now have the hands of a lady and my armpits are slick and fragrant.

“You have made me a new woman,” I say to Mrs. Higgins.

“You look lovely, Grace. Doesn't it make you feel better?”

“It's very nice, Mrs. Higgins, but on the inside I'm still the same person.”

“How would you like to try a little make-up?”

“What kind of make-up? I know nothing of make-up.”

“Nothing heavy, maybe just a little mascara.”

She darkens my eyelashes with mascara, then applies a touch of blush to my cheeks and a tiny bit of orange lip gloss.

“You look lovely,” she declares. “Let me look at you.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins. I feel better too, but I don't have any clothes on. I need to get dressed now.”

I go back to my room so I can finish dressing. I am going to visit Luke on lockup but I will not be afraid. I look in the mirror; the face in the mirror has make-up and mascara, but it is still my face.

To get to the lockup wing, you have to follow the yellow line. It leads down long corridors to the right and to the left and continues on beyond the end of the blue line. But what if the lines ran out? What if they disappeared? I will not be afraid; I will visit Luke and we will find a way to make conversation.

And then suddenly, without a warning, the voice comes:

Only three short weeks ago, he filled you with fear. You must not go to him. He is one of them
.

The voice wants in but I must not honor it.

He stands with the forces of darkness. He has seduced you
.

I press my hands over my ears and keep walking. There is the yellow line ahead of me. He has redeeming qualities. He never knew his parents.

He is a psychopath. He murdered his friend and he devastated the cafeteria. Can you blind yourself to every piece of evidence?

He was provoked; I was there.

He has seduced you. He is one of them. If evil always appeared evil, it would not be insidious
.

I say out loud, “I don't have to listen to you. You are not real, and you are not my father. You are a delusion.”

I will not be afraid; I will visit Luke and we will know what to say to each other.

The double doors at the entrance to the lockup unit are locked; they have very small windows with wire mesh. A nurse I have never seen before sits in a glass cubicle; she slides a panel and asks me what I want.

I tell her I would like to visit Luke, and she says, “You need a pass to visit a patient on this unit. Whose patient are you?”

“Dr. Rowe's patient. She gave me permission to visit him.”

“You need to get a pass from Dr. Rowe. If she wants you to talk to Luke, she'll write you one.”

“Please, could you call her? I only want to talk to him for a few minutes, then I'll leave.”

“I'm trying to tell you there's a procedure for this. You need a written pass.”

She has static now. “But could you please just call her? I didn't know about the written pass.”