Finding Alice (35 page)

“That’d be great.” I look at the bottle of pills again, then back
to Julie. I have made up my mind. “Should I take one of these right now?”

“It’s up to you, Alice. Read the instructions first. I think you need to have a little food in your tummy with those.”

“We just ate lunch a little while ago,” says Faye hopefully.

“Okay.” I nod my head firmly. “I am going to do this. I want to get better.” Mostly I’m thinking I don’t want to hear Amelia or the others ragging at me anymore. It has just occurred to me that the voices of people like Faye and Julie and Simon are much preferable to Amelia and her bossy cohorts. I wonder how I have been so deluded, but the fact is, I was. I am. And any form of denial won’t help me get better. I already know this from listening to one of my CDs.

So I take my pill, and both women seem pleased for me. Then Faye announces that she should go, so I hug her good-bye and thank her, once again, for everything. She promises to return tomorrow with Cheshire, and Julie mentions she has a few people interested in knitting classes again.

“I’d like to learn to knit too,” I say.

“And so you shall.” Faye nods. “You can make Cheshire a sweater. I think he would look splendid in blue.”

Now they are both gone, and I am alone in my new room, playing a classical CD and putting my clothes into the drawers and closet. I really don’t have much to put away, but I am taking my time and doing a careful job. Waves of anxiety flood me, that old feeling that I’ve made a huge mistake. Amelia peers out from the bathroom, haunting me with her sharp words of criticism.

Julie explained that it will take a while before the meds begin to kick in—from a few days to a couple of weeks. I’m determined to
continue taking them unless I begin to feel like I felt at Forest Hills—dead and zombie-like. Then I will stop immediately. But it is a consolation that I am the one making the choice here. It’s good to have this kind of control. It feels right. Maybe Dr. Golden really knows his stuff after all.

Julie said that I’m not expected to help out on my first day here but that she will have a schedule for me by dinnertime. “We like to keep you busy,” she said with a wink. I think that sounds wise since I really don’t need too much time on my hands. I don’t want to dwell on things.

Finally there is nothing left to do in my room, and I tell myself to go out to the common area and make some sort of an attempt at being “social.” But I must admit the mere idea of this new step frightens me beyond words. I just know I will say or do something totally stupid, and I am so inferior, like I’m a crazy person among a bunch who are already well on the road to recovery. I tell myself this probably isn’t the case, and I remember the guy peeling potatoes in the kitchen, yet I am not convinced. Finally I force myself to leave my room. I lock the door, slip the golden key into my pocket, put one foot in front of the other, and walk toward the big room.

I sit in an armchair next to a window and just look out over the grounds. The view is so peaceful and pretty with grass and trees and a long pond that meanders around the property. I even spy a few large orange-colored fish swimming happily along. I wonder what it would be like to be as carefree as a fish.

It’s not long before a young woman, about my age, comes over and leans against the chair next to me.

“New here?” she asks.

I nod and swallow.

“Scared?”

Somehow I manage to say yes.

“Yeah, so was I at first. But believe me, you’ll get over it.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Margot.”

“Alice.”

“Nice to meet you.” Then she glances outside and back at me. “You smoke, Alice?” I shake my head no.

“
Really?
Almost everyone smokes—at least when they first get here—but the Goldens only let us smoke outside.” She acts as though she’s shivering. “And it’s so blasted cold out there.”

“Guess that might make it easier to quit.”

“Nah. I’m not quitting. A few do, but I’ll bet they go straight back to it once they’re out of here and on their own again.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know really, but I read somewhere that something like ninety percent of people with schizophrenia are smokers.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Weird, huh? You must be in that lucky ten percentile.”

“I guess.” I’m thinking I should be thankful for small favors.

“Well, I think I’ll go out for a smoke. You wanna come along?”

I decide to join her. Not that I want to take up smoking, but she seems nice—or at least friendly. We walk around the gardens and along the pond, and mostly she talks. She tells me she’s been here for a month and plans to stay for another. She says that despite her “attitude,” it has helped her a lot.

“I’m not, like, totally well,” she tells me as she blows out a puff
of smoke. “But I’m way better than I used to be. I feel like I can actually return to my job now.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a chef.” She stands up straighter, as if merely saying this gives her a sense of pride or purpose.

“That’s cool. Have you done a lot of cooking here?”

“Yeah, I’ve been teaching some cooking classes too.” She takes a long drag.

“Maybe I’ll learn to cook while I’m here. I’m pretty hopeless in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, and watch out. When Julie finds out whatever you’re good at, she’ll really put you to work too.”

I shake my head. “Well, I’m not really good at much of anything.”

Margot laughs. “Then she’ll probably help you find something totally new that you didn’t even know you were good at. She’s just like that.”

“But you
do
like Julie, right?” I am a little worried now. Margot’s cynical attitude is hard to read.

“Oh yeah.” Then she snuffs out her cigarette. “But to be honest, I couldn’t stand her at first. She reminded me of my mom, and I thought she was acting superior. But after a while I decided I was totally wrong. I think I’ve been wrong about a lot of things.”

We head back inside, and Margot announces that she needs to go help in the kitchen. I am glad to stand by the fireplace and warm up a bit. I consider what Margot said about being wrong and hope that I’ve been wrong too. Not about this place, but about believing Amelia and the others. The more I think about it, the more I believe that they have been entirely my own invention and not real. Not that
this is new to me. I think parts of me have known this all along. But the problem was my inability to distinguish. I still can’t. I guess that just comes with the whole crazy territory. And I suppose it’s true that it is all in your head. But even so, it doesn’t make it any less real.

After I am warm, I decide to find the little chapel. I head in what I think is the right direction and, surprisingly, walk straight to it. No one is there, and I slip in and sit somewhere near the middle. I bow my head and just sit there for a bit, thinking I should be praying. Isn’t that what people do in a chapel?

But I am distracted with uncomfortable memories of my previous experiences in a church sanctuary. I hear Pastor John’s raised voice and see his brow furrowing deeper and deeper as he chastises his listeners about
sin
. I hear his fist pounding on the pulpit, and I cower down in my seat, wishing I could just disappear in a puff of sinful smoke.

I tell myself that this chapel is different and that Pastor John is not here, but I’m still not sure what to do with myself right now. I think that something must be expected of me, and yet I know I am unable to do it. My life is a shambles, and I have nothing to give.

Finally I look up and see the stained-glass window in front. I study Jesus and the children, and I read the words inscribed below: “Unless you become as a little child, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

It sounds so simple, and yet it’s so foreign to all that I learned as a child. As a child I was taught that I needed to “grow up” and “become mature” and “do good works” and “be a disciple” and most of all “to sin not.” That was always the hardest part because it seemed like everything I naturally wanted to do was considered sinful.

So trying to grasp something like this—that it’s not only good to
be
a child, but that it might actually be required—is fairly confusing to me. I’d like to believe in something that sounds this simple and good, but it goes against everything in me. Or almost.

Once again I try to pray. Now I am unable to form any actual words in my head. I tell myself that it’s just talking to God, like I’ve been doing the past few weeks. But something about being in a church setting brings back all the old prayers that I learned as a child. It’s as if all these prayer words are mixed up together—like every one is a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that’s been shaken in a box.

So I just sit here and wonder what I am supposed to do. Surely I should
do
something. I become anxious again, then remember the CD that instructs on the practice of controlled breathing—an exercise that’s supposed to reduce anxiety. I take myself through the steps, inhaling slowly, deeply, filling my lungs to capacity, then slowly exhaling, emptying all the stale air out. I do this again and again. And as the recording suggests, I imagine that I am breathing in God’s truth and God’s love. I imagine they are becoming a part of me and that I am exhaling old lies and confusion, blowing them away from me.

I continue this exercise, feeling more and more relaxed. And it’s not long before a strange sensation begins to wash over me. Warm and unexpected, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and yet familiar somehow, like something I experienced without really knowing it. Yet how can that be?

Then it occurs to me; I am experiencing
peace
. A quiet yet substantial peace. And I believe it’s coming from God. Part of me wants to grab hold of it and cling tightly, but I have a feeling it will vanish
like a vapor if I do. And so I just sit there and breathe it in, hoping it will simply become a part of me.

I sit there for a long while, as if I’m on the edge. But it’s not the bad sort of edge where I’m afraid I will fall or leap to my demise. This is the edge of something new and good. It’s a beginning, a door, an entrance. I want to walk through it, but I’m not sure I can. Already I hear the voices again, mumbling and grumbling as they threaten and scold me, warning me to avoid this dangerous passageway at all costs.

When Alice stepped through the looking glass into a different world, it turned out to be a twisted and crazy world, not unlike the place I have wandered these last few months. If only I could pass through this new entrance, I believe I would find myself in a better place where life makes sense. For the first time I sense a wave of real hope washing over me, and I want to hold on to it, savor it, even if only to remember this moment. I slowly inhale and exhale—breathing in the good clean air of change, blowing away the bad smog of my disease. A small sense of control returns to me. And it feels good.

Then I hear a bell and suspect it is for dinnertime. I slowly rise to my feet, reluctant to leave. But as I stand, I tell myself that even if this feeling, this experience, is gone in the next instant,
I will remember what it felt like
. And perhaps more important, I will expect to experience it again.

chapter
THIRTY-SIX

Waking

A
full month has passed since I entered the Golden Home. It hasn’t all been easy and wonderful, but I will never regret coming here. Never. As Dr. Golden likes to remind us, we have to work out our sanity as much as we have to work out our salvation. For the first time, I believe the two go hand in hand.

I’ve found the greenhouse to be my favorite place. Sometimes I think I could live in there. Maybe it’s all the oxygen the plants put out, but I always feel more alive and energized after spending time among the green growing things. I love the smell of fresh dirt and have become especially attached to the orchids. They’re so strange and mysterious, so fragile and delicate, yet it seems to take so little to keep them alive—as long as you keep their environment perfectly balanced.

Margot says it’s like making bread, which I’ve been learning to do this week.

“You need the right balance of flour, water, sugar, and yeast,” she explained as she watched me sift the flour. “Remove or mess up any one of these vital ingredients, and the bread ceases to be bread.”

I nodded, remembering the pasty glop I had thrown out the previous day.

“It’s quite philosophical, really,” she continued in a serious tone. “Don’t you think?”

I considered this as I carefully measured the salt. “I guess so.”

“It’s like our lives. When one part of us, like our body or mind or spirit, isn’t right, it knocks us completely out of whack.”

I eyed my yeast-and-water solution, worried that I might’ve gotten the water too hot, and I know this can ruin the yeast and consequently spoil the bread. “You’re right,” I told her. “It’s all about balance, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Margot looked at my yeast mixture and smiled with satisfaction. “Mess up your ingredients, and you cease to be who you were meant to be.”

As it turned out, the water wasn’t too hot, and my bread came out just fine. Now if only I can keep my life ingredients as well balanced. I feel more hopeful with each passing day.

It took more than two weeks for Amelia and the others finally to depart from my life. For the most part I think they are gone, although I can sometimes still hear them nattering away in the back of my mind—especially if I am overly tired or stressed. But I try to tune them out. I am still taking the meds, but Dr. Golden says I probably won’t need to take them indefinitely. However, I am not so sure, and the idea of quitting frightens me. I don’t want to go back to my “old ways.” It’s ironic, considering how opposed I was to medication at one point. Now I fully appreciate that it’s more important to function than to fret over taking a little pill each day. The only side
effect I’ve experienced is a little dry mouth. Small price when you consider the large picture.

Medication is one of the many areas where Dr. Golden departs from some of the “old school” psychiatrists who still believe that “once on meds, always on meds.” He is quick to admit that a few of his patients are still on meds and may always be, but he and his staff continue to monitor them carefully, and he stays up to date on the latest advancements in medications.