Admissions (10 page)

“Afternoon, ladies. I’m Carl and I’ll be supervising you today. I got one stop and then we’ll be on our way.” We head down
Red Drive
toward Building 35. We pull up in front where an attendant stands on the porch with a patient.

The man makes a break for it. He stumbles down the walkway from the porch, sweeping his arms in front of him like searchlights.

“Grab him, Carl,” the attendant hollers from the porch.

Carl leans into the handle to brace himself for the short hop to the curb. He lurches up the lawn like a lumber wagon on a rutty road. We all stare out the van windows. The patient veers off the sidewalk, slipping and high-stepping his way across the grass. His hands hit the tree first, but momentum carries him forward, his face smashes against the bark. He springs back and lands among the scattered chestnuts.

“You okay?” Carl presses his hand into his right thigh, lowers onto his left knee next to the patient. The patient’s eyelids hang at half-mast, revealing a dark black line across a pinkish background. I’ve seen this before—blind patients without eyes, removed so they’ll be easier to care for. The patient grunts, raises his hand and waves it.

The attendant runs up. “Is he okay?”

“Seems to be. Scraped his nose and forehead, though,” Carl answers.

“Cripe. He’s just getting out of the infirmary. What’s his problem? Darwin, you okay?”

The attendant pulls the patient to his feet, brushes off his pants. Tears seep from the patient’s sunken eye sockets.

Carl leans against the trunk and strains to his feet. Carl seemed so strong, I hadn’t noticed he was crippled. He guides Darwin into the seat in front of me. Poor guy, crazy and eyeless both.

“Take it easy. You’ll be back in your room in no time.” Carl pats the patient’s knee.

“I’m thirsty,” Darwin says.

“Well, hold on and we’ll make sure you get a drink.” Carl turns the key in the ignition.

It’s a beautiful spring morning, sparkly white trillium wink in the mossy foliage on the wooded hills behind the hospital orchards. When we step from the van, I see a small group of men loitering near the east side of the abandoned dairy barns. We women wait on the west side, in front of the large barn doors. It’s a chilly afternoon, but the sun is brilliant. The river rock foundation is warm, radiating heat into my shoulders. Some of the women lift their faces and close their eyes.

“Okay, ladies. Here comes the truck. Step back against the barn until the truck stops completely.” Carl leans against the foundation.

“What trucks do we take the plants to?” Autumn asks.

“Just wait for my instructions,” Carl says.

Carl tells us to form an assembly line from the large panel truck to a point where pickups back in and load. The doors of the truck swing open. We start our work as the first pickup backs in.

“One flat at a time?” Isabel asks as she passes Carl.

“That’s right. Take your time.”

After I slide my first tray of snapdragons into the pickup, I stop in front of Carl.

“You’re the one who helped me during the fire, right?”

“Not sure,” Carl says.

“I’m the one who fell, you held me up the whole way to Cottage 21.”

“Yeah, that’d be me. I remember that, sure.”

“My name is Luanne Kilpi. I remember you from the first day I came in here. You took me to
Receiving.
”

“By golly. I remember now. Sure, sure. How are you doing?”

“Better. Nurse Judy was your wife?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Carl looks away, as if he is checking the loading process. I can see his eyes tear up.

“Nurse Judy helped me a lot on Hall 9.”

“Is that right?”

“She was a special person.”

“Yup, yup, she sure was. Well, we’re running behind here.”

The work crew of patients returns to Hall 9 just before four. Most of us make it to the shower room before the dinner bell. I shower quickly, return to the dayroom for a smoke or two. On my way, I notice a signup sheet on the bulletin board.

“There’s a group going up Old Mission Peninsula tomorrow to gather rocks for the flower beds. Anybody interested in going?”

“I’ll go,” Isabel says.

Autumn says, “Does that mean we can skip our work shift?”

“The bus is leaving at two. I think the idea is you get your work shift over by then,” I say. “The signup sheet is on the bulletin board.”

“I overheard one of the nurses talking about the
Toap House
.”

“What’s that?” Beth asks.

“Toad House?” Isabel asks.

“No, p …pa, pa, p …
Toap House.
”

“Hell if I know.”

“How was it used?” Estee asks.

“Something about Marge saying she was at the
Toap House
.”

“Marge, the retarded girl?” Heidi asks.

“I guess so. I don’t know any other Marge in the hall,” Beth says. “I heard the nurses laughing about Marge and the
Toap House.”

Chapter 19

D
r. Murray starts our session with, “So, how are you doing, Luanne?”

“Not so good …well, good and bad. I volunteered to unload the flower truck. It was nice to get outside.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful to see spring arrive. Do you enjoy gardening?”

“My dad was a gardener.”

“You might consider working on our gardening crew this summer.”

“How do I do that?”

“I’ll recommend that your work shift be changed from housekeeping to garden crew.”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

“Carl Reinbold supervises that I believe.”

“Did you know he’s Nurse Judy’s husband? I mean …used to be.”

“Yes, the Reinbolds were some of our oldest and most valuable employees I hear. Way before my time. I think they’ve been here almost sixty years. I worked quite closely with Nurse Supervisor Reinbold. And I know Carl, too. He’s a very nice man.”

“I feel sorry for him. He’s crippled.”

“Unfortunately, Carl was attacked by a patient in the tunnels years ago. He used to supervise the entire dairy operation at the hospital, but since his injuries, he’s kind of a jack of all trades.”

“Losing his baby, and then his wife. Do they have other children?”

“As far as I know, the Reinbolds do not have children. Where did you get the idea that their baby died?”

“Nurse Judy told me.”

“Are you sure, Luanne?”

“Yes I’m sure. We were going to talk more about it but …we never got the chance.”

“I see.” She scribbled something in her notes.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you, Luanne. Now when you came in, you said you weren’t doing very well. What’s happening?”

“Night terrors, but they happen during the day, too. These flashes of memory, all of it bad.”

“We could increase your medication.”

“No, I’m just starting to feel a little bit normal.”

“Any suicidal thoughts?”

“No.”

“We talked about this before. We want you to get well, so we have to balance your medication with your ability to handle things as they come up. We don’t want to sedate you, but we want to make sure you won’t get desperate again. Make sense?”

“Yeah. I’m miserable, but I think I can handle it.”

“Why don’t you tell me about some of what’s coming up for you.”

“I know I did something wrong, but I don’t know what.”

“Wrong? You mean trying to kill yourself?”

“That too, but I keep thinking there could be something I should have done …you know, about Alexander.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve run it through my brain a million times, every detail. Every talk with every specialist, every trip to Detroit for radiation, every chemo appointment.”

“You remember these details?”

“I do now. Yes. I remember about when he got sick. Then, after his surgery, Alexander started to get better, gained some weight. The cloud lifted and spring came. The nightmare was over. But then it came back. It came back worse than before.”

I remember holding my breath through every endless day of bad TV, sitting next to Alexander, his world reduced to the couch because he was too weak to walk. Every long night, rocking him as my back turned to stone and my legs went numb. What had I done wrong?

“Tell me about Alexander getting sick.”

“It was just a regular checkup. I planned to talk to Dr. Costello about thumb-sucking and blankets. Just a couple of days before, I noticed Alexander’s stomach looked lopsided.”

“Lopsided?”

“Yeah, when I looked at his belly straight-on, the right side was just a little bigger than the left. He had no symptoms. But I asked the doctor about it anyway. At first he seemed puzzled, but when he asked Alexander to lie back on the examining table, he said,
Oh, I see
.

“He called the nurse and talked to her for a few minutes in the corner of the room. She looked concerned, nodded her head, and wrote something in the chart, then left, closing the door behind her. I didn’t know
what
was going on.

“Doctor Costello continued his examination, and then the nurse cracked open the door of the examining room and asked to speak to him. He excused himself. He was gone for such a long time, I had trouble keeping the baby entertained. When he walked back into the room, the nightmare began.”

“What did he say?”

“I’ll never forget it. He said,
Mrs. Kilpi, your son has a mass on his right side. I’ve contacted Children’s Hospital in Detroit. They have scheduled Alexander for surgery tomorrow.
I didn’t know what to think. My brain wouldn’t work. I remember saying that my husband had to work tomorrow. Sounds stupid now. Then the doctor said,
Your son needs surgery right away. They are the best equipped to handle a case like his.

“We got to Detroit before sunup that morning. The date is stamped on my brain, September 12, l966. The car crept along the dark streets of the slums downtown. Trash swirled along the sidewalks, swept against the doors of boarded up buildings. I’d never even been to Detroit before and it seemed very big and scary.

“Alexander’s blanket hung loosely across his lap as he slept against my chest. Later that day, it rested on the gurney next to him until the anesthesia took hold, waited for him in his room until he returned. It snuggled against his skin as he whimpered. The blanket went along to radiation therapy. Alexander clutched a corner of it as they taped his tiny body to the cold glass.
Hold very still, do not move,
I heard the doctors say before they pulled the heavy metal door closed behind them. I could see Alexander through the glass. He petted the satin binding on his blankie as the machine growled, its glowing white eye opening and closing with a whir as it clattered over him.”

“Poor little guy.”

“I know, I know …what he went through …Kleenex?” Dr. Murray handed me several tissues.

“I remember the day I took Alexander in for chemotherapy. I sat in the waiting room, Alexander on my lap, his blanket spread over his legs. Without warning, a great geyser of runny bright green vomit spewed into the air and splattered down. The amount was unbelievable given how tiny he was. It pooled between his legs and formed a puddle in the middle of his blanket.

“The waiting room full of mothers and children froze in mid motion, everyone stared. Time stopped, restarted when Alexander began to cry. Somebody called the nurse, she came running out with a little three-cornered plastic pan, held it out to me, stood there for a few seconds before she put the pan down. She folded Alexander’s blanket carefully to avoid spilling the stuff onto the floor. It’s hard to go back …Alexander was so good about it . . .braved the three inch needle without his blanket to help ease the pain …I …”

This time I sobbed. Dr. Murray patted my hand. The pain was so overwhelming.

“I’m so sorry, Luanne.”

“Six months later, blankie made its final trip with Alexander in his cardboard casket.”

Chapter 20

THE OBSERVER
            
May 23, 1969

 

Page 4

SPRING CONCERT AND DANCE

We have a real spring treat for you dancers! Mr. Jack Barden will be performing in the auditorium on May 31
^st
. Mr. Barden is a master on the Hammond organ, and he promises to provide a lively evening of dancing. Cupcakes and punch will be served. Dancers, please remember you must change partners for each dance.

“Tonight, ladies and gentleman, we are proud to have Jack Barden and his Hammond Organ!” Everyone cheers and claps.

Mr. Barden walks on stage in a black tuxedo with a red cummerbund, and shiny patent leather shoes. His short hair stands straight up in the front, held in place by butch wax. He sits down at his stool, inches it up to the keyboard, and breaks into
Wake Up Little Suzie
by the Everly Brothers.

Autumn, Isabel, and I line up for cupcakes and punch. Beth and Estee hide by the stage curtains just off the back of the refreshment table.

“Dance?” A gnome with red hair and bad breath pokes my shoulder.

“No, bud. I’m getting food. Maybe later.” He swaggers down the line only to be shot down each time he asks. Finally, he twirls onto the dance floor, his left hand extended straight up and his right hand bent out in front of him, smiling at some imaginary partner.

“I’ve never seen people enjoy dancing so much,” the woman pouring punch says. Her name tag reads
Jill Farley, wife of Dr. Ronald Farley, Chief Psychiatrist.
“Don’t forget your napkin,” she says to a stubby man in a plaid shirt.

“Yup. You see all kinds of dances goin’ on.” Carl puts out more napkins.

I come to the head of the line and take a cupcake. “Hi, Carl.”

“Well, hello there,” he says.

“I’m Luanne.”

“Yup, yup. I remember you.”

“This is my first dance.”

“How do you like it?”

“Ah …different.” I take a cup of punch and walk back to join my friends, hiding out by the curtains. The first dance of the night ends, and the male and female patients split to opposite sides of the room.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Jack Barden scoots back from the bench, bowing from behind his organ. “Now I’d like to try some psychedelic soul from Sly and the Family Stone.” He stoops, takes baby steps as he pulls the bench behind him. Barely recognizable,
Everyday People
begins.