Admissions (26 page)

“What’s that?”

“I’m not perfect. I did the best I could.”

“I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“Why did my little boy get sick?”

Dr. Murray sits back in her chair, crosses her arms. “I don’t know, Luanne.”

“So unfair …the suffering.” I pull a tissue from the box. “I prayed for it to end.”

“I understand.”

“Is that wrong?”

“No.”

“He died without ever having a life. He wanted to ride the school bus …Is that such a big deal? He just wanted to ride the school bus …”

“I’m so sorry.” Dr. Murray lets me cry it out.

Finally, I take a drink of water, blow my nose, adjust in my chair. “I think I remember that night …the night I went to Ojibway Park.”

“Go ahead.”

“After Jeff left for work, I cried myself to sleep. I dreamed about Andy Scully.”

“Andy Scully?”

“A kid in my neighborhood, growing up.”

“Go on.”

“He drowned.”

“What happened?”

“We lived by the river. When I came in from playing, my mom would always say
, You didn’t go near that river did you?
It never failed.”

“She was worried about you.”

“All the mothers were. They relaxed in the winter—the river froze back then, before it was too polluted. That’s the strange part.”

“Oh?”

“That’s when Andy drowned.”

“His sister Becky and I usually went sledding after school. Makes me think of my old snowsuit. Man, I hated that thing. A hand-me-down from my cousin. It had three-inch acrylic fur that snagged balls of snow and made me look like a yeti.”

“How old were you that winter?”

“Eight.”

“Mrs. Scully said she sent Andy out to play with us, but then he disappeared.” I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down.

“The hole was amazingly small, sent out a beautiful pattern …like cracked glass … Andy was under the ice …moved past the hole …headed down the river toward Bay City. “

“Oh god.”

“Becky and I just stood there staring at the red blob moving under the ice. He wore his red jacket and snow pants, but his boots were missing. His superman hat hung around his neck by the string. His mittens floated next to his hands on their silver clips. I started crying when he bobbed up against the smoky curtain of ice, his blue eyes staring. It was so scary. His hair swirled around his face.”

“How terrible.”

“Andy floated quite a ways down the river before the ice broke up, and they snagged him with a long hook.”

“You were just a kid yourself.”

“I was devastated, had nightmares about being frozen stiff. Now this is dumb …”

“What’s that?”

“I slept with my sister for awhile, then when she kicked me out, I slept with a knife under my pillow.”

“A weapon against bad luck?”

“I guess so. For a long time, I thought it was my fault.”

“How could that be?”

I shrug. “I’m Catholic. I figured we should’ve been watching him.”

“Do you feel that now?”

“No…I don’t think so.”

“Um-humm.”

“I really hadn’t thought about Andy since I was a kid. I was in bed all that day …I woke up feeling different …”

“Different?”

“Content …calm …I knew what I could do …just float away, so peaceful, like Andy.” I turn and stare out the window.

“And that’s when you went to the park? Luanne?”

“Humm?”

“You woke up knowing you would go to the park?”

“It was a clear cold night, the river lit by a starry sky …the water made a trickling sound. Ugh …the sludge …on the bottom …grabbed my shoes as I waded in …made a sucking sound at each step.”

“You were in the river.”

“Yes. I remember the icy water creeping up under my jeans. I stumbled …couldn’t stand up …all the junk on the bottom. Like slow motion …I swirled around …sat down …lay back. My sweatshirt floated out behind me. The current pulled me …icy cold. I heard Alexander calling me.”

Chapter 55

O
n my way out of Dr. Murray’s office, I pull a copy of the latest
Observer
from the stack on the secretary’s desk. “Guess I’ll take one for the road. I’m going home today, Francine.”

“Congratulations, honey. Good luck now.”

I roll up the paper, and hold it in my mittened hand as I leave the administration building. I have an hour before Mom picks me up. I’ve already packed my few belongings, just have to say goodbye to Heidi and Autumn, and sign some papers.

I stroll down by the frozen Willow Lake reflecting pool and sit on the cement bench. The knobby fingers of the oaks stretch across the sky as if they are reaching for something. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself leaving. I feel like a cork bobbing in a clean white sea, suspended, light. I open my eyes and look out over the frozen lawns, follow a flurry of powdery snow as it skims across the ice. Imagine myself blowing along with it. “Goodbye,” I say into the wind.

Mom waits by the door as I come down the hall with my suitcase and a small box of odds and ends, books, cards and letters.

“All set?”

“All set, Mom.”

“Roads are pretty bad.”

“I’d like to drive.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The car doors slam, echo off the brick of the tall buildings. I pull away from the cottage, down
Red Drive
, winding in front of Building 50 and out past the cairn of river rock.
STATE HOSPITAL, Traverse City, Michigan, est. 1885
carved on a cement triangle.

“What’s that you’ve got sticking out of your purse?”

“
Observer.
”

“Mind if I take a look at it?”

“Look at it all you want. It’s the last issue we’ll ever see.”

THE OBSERVER

December 24, 1969

Page 6

Leaves:

Weekend Passes:

Robert Price

Thaddeus Stahl

Franklin McNerney

Harriet Field

Victoria Keller

Home Care:

Autumn Bauer

Rebecca King

Salvadore Costes

Ronald Benson

Heidi Parsons

Maybeth Stoke

Phyllis Darnell

Dennis Murphy

Transfers:

Frederick Donacheski

Bernard Youngblood

Discharges:

Monica Benkowski

Carmen Ruiz

Danelle Cooper

Freda Rosselli

Gerald Tysen

Luanne Kilpi

Epilogue
2008

I drive my Corolla up the circle drive, park in the shadows of Building 50. I’ve lied to the agent, now I’m counting on the halo effect.

I hear you can tell somebody’s status by their shoes, watch, and car. I’m impeccably dressed, my outfit accessorized with my only pair of designer shoes, the ones I splurged on for Josh’s wedding. Instead of a watch, I wear the gold and emerald bracelet Jonathan gave me for our twentieth anniversary.

I smooth my skirt. Even with the car air conditioning, the humidity leaves deep creases across my lap. I’m a half hour early. My nerves are jangled. I walk across the lawn where the Willow Lake reflecting pool once was. I sit on a water stained cement bench, could be the same one Jeff and I sat on that afternoon he told me he was leaving.

Since the hospital closed in 1989, I’ve been back many times. I usually come alone …stroll under the oaks, staring up at the buildings, looking into broken windows, trying the doors …hoping to find one unlocked …to get back inside Building 50.

I brought Jonathan and the kids once years ago, the children laughing as they ran across the expansive lawns, scaring each other with tales of monsters and maniacs. But Jonathan can’t understand my need to return, to get a glimpse inside Building 50. I can’t explain it. I stopped trying. Like most compulsions, it’s a lonely mission.

“Dr. Iazetto?” The agent extends her hand.

“Please call me Luanne, or Lu,” I say as I give her my best professional-woman handshake.

“I’m so happy to meet you, Luanne. I’m Rita Copeland.” I guess real estate agent Copeland to be in her late sixties, mat black dyed hair, skin like a saddle from too many winters in Florida, stale cigarette smoke under her expensive perfume. “How did you hear about
The Village at the Commons
?”

“I lived in Traverse City years ago, and we vacation here. I’m fascinated with the old hospital, always have been.”

“It’s an amazing place, so beautiful. To think they almost tore it down.”

“Yes,” I agree. I’ve been watching the development and formulate a plan: pretend to be a buyer, and finagle my way into old Building 50. So far, the idea is working without a hitch.

“I would like you to see
Stella
, our fine dining restaurant, and
Gallery 50
at the end of the hall here in the building,” Agent Copeland drones on like a tape recording.

“Wow, this place is something,” I schmooze as we walk toward the restaurant. “Condos, huh?” I say. “Out of this old place?”

“The asylum is a hundred and twenty years old. A real historical gem. Our architects can work miracles, Luanne. You’d be surprised. This building will be a showplace.”

“What’s this door?” I recognize it’s the chapel, later converted to the patient’s library. I spent time here forty years ago, searching the shelves sparsely stacked with old donated books.

“I think it’s an auditorium or something. It’s big.”

“Can we take a peek?”

“We shouldn’t. I’ve been told not to enter the old part without a hard hat.”

“Oh really?” I try to sound deeply disappointed.

“Okay, but don’t tell anybody we did this.” Agent Copeland tackles her large bag like an arcade claw game, tipping it back and forth as she dips her hand in and out, finally snagging the key ring and carefully pulling it to the surface. She turns the key, the padlock snaps open, sending the chain clanking against the heavy door. It moans as it opens about a foot then scrapes to a stop. We both turn sideways and squeeze through.

“Maybe this used to be the chapel.” Ms. Copeland turns slowly, looks up.

I blink a few times. The room is dim and as cold as a walk-in freezer
.
The agent’s voice fades. What did she say? I’m distracted by the slide show in my head—red and cream tiled floors, a gray iron door with rivets, spinning women in blue smocks. The smell is getting to me, musty as a root cellar. And something else—the scent of
cold,
like wet metal. It starts again, a sickening stench brought to my senses from somewhere, body odor and blood, death. I lean against the doorjamb.

“Are you feeling alright, Lu? You look pale.”

“I’m just a little light-headed. I’ll be okay.” Focus on her voice. Focus. “Did you say this used to be the chapel?”

“Yes, I think so. Look, you can still see remnants of a mural on the ceiling.”

I look up. There it is—the arched dome of gold inlay, traces of painted clouds and angels. The fresco is faded, but the angel who reminds me of Alexander looks down through a smoky curtain, like dusty cracked glass.

“We never know when another piece of the ceiling will let loose. We’d better go …have a cup of coffee. I’ll explain what we’re doing here at
The Village
.” The agent takes my elbow, turns me toward the door. “Phase I is almost completely sold out, but we’re taking reservations for Phase II.” She snaps the padlock closed.

“Sounds good.” My stomach ripples. Concentrate. Try to sound normal. We walk to a brightly lit café down the hall. The menu is printed with colored chalk on a large chalkboard hanging on long chains. I flinch when I see the metal swivel stools with red vinyl seats. I also recognize the stainless steel bins behind the counter where they once served up cafeteria food to the hospital staff. The old canteen is now
Cuppa Joe.

“Isn’t this a wonderful retro look, Lu? We’re trying to preserve the ambiance of the period. This project is incredible. This building is almost four blocks long and will transform into condos, upscale restaurants, offices, and shops. Are you interested in an office or a residential condo?”

I don’t skip a beat. “Residential. I live in Chicago, teach English at Northwestern, but I plan to retire soon and move back here.”

Ms. Copeland continues chatting, “European village…towers, spires …Building 50, the centerpiece … its heyday.”

Who could have imagined it? The sleeping giant was about to awaken and become a beauty queen.

I shake the real estate agent’s hand and leave the building. The panic attack subsides, but I feel weak and inexplicably lonely.

There has been talk of ghosts wandering around in the old building, appearing at the end of dark hallways. I feel something more ethereal, like smoke from ashes, a spiritual residue of thousands of lives, perhaps a stain left by their suffering.

Now maybe I can let it go.

One thing is certain, no matter how many times I come back or how many years have passed, when I step out of my car, it’s that snowy November morning Jeff drove down the winding drive. I’ve left a trace of myself here, the broken young mother who came here so many years ago.

In that way maybe I, too, am a ghost.