Finding Alice (10 page)

When I get into the reception area, I see neither Nurse Kelly nor the receptionist. I can hear a scuffle going on in the hallway. I’m guessing a new and very distraught patient has arrived, and they are now attempting to subdue—

That’s when I notice it. The door to the waiting area is propped open with a black rubber doorstop, the way they do when someone is being difficult or in a stretcher or wheelchair. Without even thinking or looking back, I pass through the open door. This time I don’t even have to take a pill to make myself fit. I just walk right through like a normal person. Then I simply walk across the vacant waiting room and continue past the main entrance, and suddenly I am outside.

I continue walking, more quickly now, but without looking back. I can hear my grandma speaking to me now. She is saying,
“Go, honey. Just keep on going. Stay to the right. Walk in the shadows of the evergreen trees, and keep on going.”

It’s getting dusky outside, and I happen to be wearing a charcoal-colored hooded sweatshirt and my dark jeans. Good camouflage for moving through the shadows. I pull the hood over my hair and begin to jog.

I couldn’t have planned this whole thing better if I’d tried. It’s as if some hand of fate or God or even my dear departed grandma just opened the doors and said, “Go.”
Unbelievable!

As I jog, I think it might’ve been nice to have my backpack with me, but then it might’ve slowed me down too. I feel excitement surge through my veins like electricity. It’s the first time I’ve felt this alive since the day they dragged me in and drugged me up. My morning meds are just beginning to wear off now, and I am incredibly free.

And, oh, does it feel good. As I reach the fence by the road, I know I can easily scale it, and climbing like a crazed monkey, I do. I honestly believe I may have escaped. Over my shoulder I hear my grandmother urging me on.

“Go, honey, just keep going.”

chapter
TWELVE

The Pig Baby

I
t’s the first time I’ve ever hitchhiked, but I am not a bit afraid. I believe that God or Grandma or maybe even Amelia is watching out for me. I stand close to the interstate entrance with my thumb sticking out and am picked up within minutes. I run toward an old blue VW van with bumper stickers all over the back. One sticker makes me laugh as I see it in the headlights of a semi: Pray for Whirled Peas.

“Where you headed?” asks the chubby guy at the wheel. His hair is a peacock blue and spiky. He has on a leather vest, and numerous tattoos decorate his arms.

I think for a minute, unsure of my final destination, just anyplace away from Warren and Forest Hills. “Portland,” I announce as he takes off, reentering the fast-moving traffic with his little engine whirring but barely going forty. A horn blasts behind us, and a set of headlights illuminates the back window.

“Hey, whazzup?” calls a sleepy voice from the back.

“Just picking up a hitcher,” says the guy at the wheel.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“That’s Phil. I’m Lane.”

“Where you guys headed?”

“Salem.”

“But I thought we were going north.”

“You’re turned around, sister.”

“H’m.” Why should I be surprised?

“What’s in Salem?” I ask.

“Peace rally.”

“Huh?”

“Want to come?”

I consider this. “Sure. Why not.”

He laughs. “All right! A new recruit.”

“So what are you guys protesting?”

“We’re not protesting. We’re advocating peace.”

“Cool.”

“This whole Middle East thing is getting way out of hand.”

I nod, as if I’ve been paying attention to world events.

“We got to make the Senate understand we’re not just playing around here. We’re expecting like two, maybe three thousand folks to show up.”

“Wow. That should make an impression.”

“That’s our goal.”

“What’s going on up here?” asks Phil as he sleepily drapes himself over the back of my seat. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alice.”

“Cool. Where you from, Alice?” he asks. I smell the mix of stale cigarette smoke and beer on his breath.

I consider my answer. I’m guessing these guys can be trusted, but
then you never know. “Portland,” I finally say. “How about you guys?”

“Seattle.”

“Cool.”

“What’re you doing down here?” asks Lane.

“Just visiting.” I imagine myself telling them that I escaped from the nut house, and part of me wants to tell them, but a more careful part says don’t. And so I keep it to myself.

Then Lane begins to exit the freeway.

“Why are you exiting?” I ask, a tinge of fear creeping down my spine. Suddenly I imagine all sorts of horrible things with these two strange guys I’ve never met before, things far worse than the Queen’s Prison at Forest Hills.

“We got to pick up some others,” he says as he pulls off the freeway and turns down a dark side road.

“Others?”
I hear a slight tremor in my voice.

“Yeah, don’t freak,” says Phil. “We’re not like going to drag you out into the sticks and hurt you or anything. There’s just this commune out here, and we need to give some folks a ride is all.”

I am a bit relieved but still shaky, and I’m not sure I can believe him.

“What do you do, Alice?” asks Lane. I get the sense he’s trying to calm me, and I wonder how he knows I’m feeling pretty scared. Or maybe he wants me to be scared.

“I’m a student.” I consider this, then add, “Or I used to be.”

He laughs. “Yeah, we all used to be.”

“Right on,” says Phil. “The used-to-be’s.”

“Do you work or anything now?” asks Lane.

“Not really. I’m not really sure what I’m doing, you know.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Lane is driving down a bumpy road now. I hold on to the door and consider jumping out. It’s pitch-black out here, and I think I can get away if I don’t break any bones when I leap.

“Want a beer?”

“No. Actually, I think I’d like to get out.”

“Out?” Lane sounds surprised. “You mean you want to get out here? We’re still a few miles from the commune. I don’t think there’s much of anything out here.”

“Yeah, but I, uh …”

“Look, Alice,” says Phil. “I can see why you’re nervous, but we’re really not going to hurt you or anything.”

“Yeah,” adds Lane. “It probably looks weird though. I’m sorry about that.”

For some reason I think maybe they’re telling the truth. “Well, you guys, I’ll be straight with you, okay?”

Lane turns and looks at me as if he thinks maybe I’m going to pull out a gun or something. This almost makes me laugh. Almost. “You see, I just got out of the loony bin, you know, the nut house. I’m really not crazy, but that whole ordeal sort of made me come unglued, you know?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Phil. “I can see why you’d be nervous. But really, we’re just ordinary guys out trying to change the world, you know?”

“Yeah, I believe you.” And mostly I do. However, a small part of me is still suspicious.

Finally Lane turns the van toward what appears to be a run-down farm. I see lights on in the house, and back a ways is a barn. There is
a variety of decrepit vehicles parked here and there, and several dogs run up and bark at us as we pull in front of the house.

“Here we are,” he announces as he turns off the engine. “Just in time for dinner too.”

So we climb out, and feeling relieved, I follow these two guys up the front porch steps. Some pumpkins and cornstalks stand guard in a corner, and I am surprised to remember it’s still autumn. It seems as if months have passed since all this started and it should be springtime or summer by now.

Soon we are seated at a big wooden table with a bunch of others eating some kind of bean soup and homemade bread. Even though it’s not much, it tastes better than the institutional food I’ve grown accustomed to lately.

“Are you from Seattle too?” asks the girl next to me. I think her name is Cammie, but I can’t remember for sure. I’m guessing she’s about my age, but she has a baby balanced on one knee.

“No, Portland.” I smile at the baby. “What’s his name?”

“It’s a she.” She grins. “She just doesn’t have much hair yet. Her name is Poppy.”

The guy across from us grins. “Cammie may have named her Poppy, but we call her Poopy most of the time. She usually needs a diaper change.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Cammie as if she’s not amused.

The girl with cherry red hair and a ring in her nose refills my soup bowl, and I thank her. The room is warm and noisy, and I’m suddenly very sleepy.

Cammie gently nudges me with her elbow. “So, are you a regular?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Huh?”

“You know, at the rallies?” She glances around the table, and it seems everyone else is engaged in fairly loud and animated conversations about everything from food labeling to whether terrorists are about to attack.

Cammie lowers her voice and continues. “I’m just not sure if I should go or not. I mean with Poppy. Do you think it’s okay for babies?”

“Oh. Well, I don’t really know. This is a first for me, too.”

She nods, then looks down at her baby and strokes her pale wisps of hair. I can tell she really loves her child. I think I’m going to cry, but that seems silly. Suddenly I want to tell her that she and Poppy should stay home, but I have no idea why I think this, and so I say nothing.

After dinner the whole group piles into the van and another old truck, the only one on the farm that actually works. I think there are a dozen of us in the van, packed in like sardines, but I may be exaggerating. Their plan, I have surmised, is to camp at the capitol tonight so we’ll be ready to march first thing in the morning. I sit next to Cammie and her baby. I try to help but don’t really know much about babies. I find that I’m useless when Poppy begins to cry. In fact, her crying aggravates me, and I am reminded of the Duchess’s crying baby again, and I begin to imagine that Poppy is really a pig baby, and this bothers me a lot.

It’s not long before we arrive, but it’s getting late, and it appears that most of the campers are settled in. The guys begin to toss out a bunch of tents, sleeping bags, blankets, and other bedding from the back of the pickup.

“You girls and the baby can sleep in the van if you like,” offers Lane. As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure I want to sleep with that noisy baby.

“Come on,” urges Cammie as she hands me Poppy. “I’ll go get us some blankets and stuff.”

I jiggle Poppy, and she suddenly quiets down, and I begin to think that perhaps it won’t be so bad after all. It is pretty cold outside, as if it might even rain before the night is over. Cammie and I climb into the van and are soon joined by another girl from the commune. Her name is Feather, and she has a squeaky voice. I suspect, from her constant chatter, that she’s rather flighty, which seems to fit with her name. Perhaps she’s simply excited because she hasn’t been off the farm for a few months.

We finally get the bedding arranged, and Poppy is fairly quiet. A mixture of exhaustion and nervousness washes over me. I remember this sensation from before, back when I was just moving into my apartment. It’s as if I’m so tired I can’t think, and yet I can’t stop myself from thinking either. My brain is running about three hundred miles an hour on empty. Amazingly I find myself longing for a sleep med, which just makes me angry.

“I’m going back out there,” Feather announces only minutes after we’ve settled down to sleep. “I need to use the can.”

It’s a neurotic night of disturbing noises. The van is cramped and damp. The insides of the windows are dripping with humidity, and the air is foul and stinky. I suspect Poppy is being poopy. It seems that Feather comes and goes all night long, and the pig baby is constantly squealing to be fed. Cammie breast-feeds her but actually manages to sleep for what seems like twenty minutes while Poppy
wails at the top of her lungs. I begin to suspect Cammie is wearing earplugs.

I can relate to the wild Duchess now, for it’s all I can do not to grab the pig baby and toss her right out the window. Finally I reach my limit, and fearing that I might perform such a feat, I get up and go outside.

I can tell by the smoky gray of the sky that morning isn’t too far off, but it is cold and damp outside, and I wish I had a heavier coat or had thought to bring a blanket with me. I decide to run around to warm myself. I pretend I am a jogger out for my early morning exercise. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to be that kind of person, one who gets up early with a clear head and jogs just for health’s sake. I jog all around the capitol. I am amazed at all the strange vehicles parked about and all the campers. It looks like a refugee camp.

As I’m rounding the east side, the sun begins to come up, glinting off the gold statue on top of the building, and I’m utterly amazed at the beauty. I just stop and stare. It is so spectacular that I am certain I must be looking at God. I believe he is talking to me and gently reassuring me that everything is going to be all right. It only lasts a moment, but it feels real. I think it’s going to be a good day.

chapter
THIRTEEN

The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

I
t’s clear that I’m in way over my head with these peace demonstrators. First of all, I must admit that I’ve managed to keep myself pitifully ill informed about world affairs. I fear I’ve been leading a rather self-centered life, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Especially since I find this whole protest to be stressful. At first I was somewhat amused, but now I am sick and tired of the continuous noise. People constantly bang on pots and pans or chant and shout. Anything to get attention. This whole business is starting to make my head split, and I’m afraid I might start screaming like the madwoman that people like Dr. Thornton believe me to be. Not that anyone would notice. Perhaps the disturbing part of all this is that I’m beginning to believe Dr. Thornton might have been right about me after all. Not that I plan to go back there. I think I would rather die.

The peace rally started out quietly enough. Early this morning we marched toward the capitol in a peaceful procession. I walked beside Cammie, and we took turns carrying Poppy. We even got filmed by Channel 6 News, which worried me a little at first, but then I reminded myself that my mom and her church friends don’t
own televisions. During this march we sang some of the old sixties and seventies songs like “What the World Needs Now” and “Give Peace a Chance,” and it was all pretty cool. I almost felt like I belonged to something.