Finding Alice (6 page)

All I can think is that I want her to be gone and how maybe she’ll leave sooner if I play along.

They’ve barely begun to pray when I feel myself growing blurry and sleepy again. Maybe it’s due to lack of food, but Mrs. Knoll insists it’s those demons at work in me.

After what seems like hours, the two churchwomen grow weary and finally leave. I remain on the couch with my mom sitting in the
recliner across from me, as though keeping some sort of a vigil. There is a small comfort in her presence. I sleep off and on, and each time I wake up, she is still there, and so I think it is safe to sleep some more. Sometimes I wake to hear her praying again. But not like the church ladies, none of that “binding and loosing” talk. This time she’s praying simply, as if she’s really talking to God. I am a bit stunned by this kind of prayer. She sounds earnest and childlike.

“I don’t understand what’s going on with Alice,” she says quietly. “But I believe you have her in your hands, O Lord. I believe you will take care of her. Please show me what to do. Help us through this thing.”

I sit up then and tell her that I’d like to try to eat again. “Maybe some juice,” I suggest.

“There’s some apple juice.”

I nod. “Yes, that might be good.”

I drink most of the apple juice, and by morning I am able to eat a small bowl of thin cream of wheat, with milk. That is something.

“I’ve called Dr. Thornton,” my mother announces as she clears the breakfast dishes.

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “Who’s that?”

“He used to treat your grandmother—”

“A psychiatrist?”

“He’s an experienced doctor, Alice—”

“He must be about a hundred and two by now.”

“He’s probably close to retirement age.”

“So you really think I’m crazy? I thought demons were my problem.”

“I don’t know
what
to think anymore. But I’ve been praying about this, and it seems the right thing to do.”

I sigh and slump down into the straight-backed kitchen chair. I’m not sure which is worse, having people thinking I’m demonized or crazy. Maybe I am both.

“The appointment’s at ten.” She frowns at me now. “Do you think you could clean up a little? Take a shower? Wash your hair maybe?”

I nod, then slowly trudge up to my old room. I am eager to check on my backpack and make sure that my journals haven’t been removed or tampered with. However, I can tell that someone has gone through my things. I suspect it’s Mrs. Knoll, probably searching for drugs. But fortunately my journals are still there. Of course, it occurs to me, they could’ve been copied or photographed by now.

When my mother comes up to get me, I am still sitting on the floor. I haven’t showered, but I have layered on several items of clothing from my backpack.

“Are you ready?”

“I guess.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

I looked down and shrug. “Why not?”

She shakes her head. “You look like some sort of refugee.”

I slowly stand and look at her. “Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what I am.”

My mother speaks in a forced calm voice as she drives her Taurus down a country road. It’s as if she’s afraid to say anything that might upset or disturb me. I realize that this is the exact same tone she used to use around her mother. But I am getting seriously aggravated by
it, and even more and more nervous and agitated. It’s as if all my nerve endings are exposed on the surface of my skin now, raw and sensitive. Most of all I feel really frightened. And when my mother turns into the same gated road that we always took when we went to visit my grandma, I seriously begin to freak. The sign above the gate reads Forest Hills.

“You’re taking me to the nut house!” I scream and grab for the door handle. “The same place you brought Grandma. Why are you bringing me here?”

“It’s just for an evaluation, Alice.”

“No!” I shriek, trying to open the door only to find that it’s locked. “You’re going to leave me here!”

She stops the car now and turns to look at me. “I promise you, Alice, I am
not
going to leave you here. Not unless you decide you want to stay, that is. I swear to you, this is just an evaluation. Dr. Thornton’s office is here. Have I ever lied to you about anything?”

I shake my head, but I am not completely certain. “You can trust me, Alice. I’m your mother. I would never do anything to hurt you. I
love
you.”

I want to believe her. I want to believe
somebody
. But somehow I know this is all just a trick. Part of the big plan to get my journals, to silence and ultimately destroy me. As she drives down the blacktop road toward the big beige building, I hear Amelia whispering from the backseat. It’s the first time she’s made an appearance since my mom showed up and whisked me away.

I glance over my shoulder and see Amelia sitting there with one leg crossed over her knee, swinging a cowboy boot in a cocky sort of way. She’s not wearing her seat belt, and this amuses me.

Amelia leans forward and points through her palm at my mother. “She slipped something into your cream of wheat, Alice,” she whispers into my ear. “Some sort of mind-controlling substance. I think Pastor John must’ve given it to her yesterday. Or perhaps Mrs. Knoll.”

I slump down into my seat and clutch my backpack to my chest. How do you fight something like this? Where do you turn when it seems even your own mother has betrayed you? How do you resist this sort of thing? Why not just give up and give in to it? Well, I try to console myself, at least Amelia is back.

chapter
SIX

The Golden Scissors

A
t some point, I imagined God with a pair of golden scissors, neatly snipping my life into two separate sections. One life I call “BC” (before crazy); the other one is simply “now.” But it’s not until I hear Dr. Thornton say that hideous word that I begin to differentiate between the two separate lifetimes. Even then I am not entirely convinced. The convincing will take time.

“Do you
know
what schizophrenia is?” he asks me in a voice that reminds me of a grade-school teacher. We are seated in his woodpaneled office, dimly lit and somber, as if the room itself is warning me that all is not well in here. The sun sinks low into the sky, and I am terribly worried that my mother isn’t coming back to get me. I fidget with the stack of papers that I have promised to read.

“Schizophrenia.” I pronounce the word as if it’s my turn in a spelling bee, as if I’m about to articulate each letter correctly, although I doubt I can. Still, I don’t want to appear stupid. It seems I’ve spent the entire day trying hard not to appear stupid or crazy. “Doesn’t it mean you have a split mind?” I venture carefully. “Or is that like a multiple personality disorder?”

“I can see you’re a smart young woman, Alice, and I want to speak candidly with you now.” He leans forward, and the bald spot on the top of his head glimmers from his desk lamp. He is a small man but intense and, I suspect, powerful. At least in this God-forsaken place where everyone seems to jump whenever he walks by.

I nod in agreement, as if I’m his colleague and not some crazy misfit that he’d just as soon lock up.

“The word
schizophrenia
does mean ‘split-mind’ in Greek, but that’s not what this illness is about. This is an illness of the brain. You might call it an impairment or chemical imbalance, but for whatever reason the brain is unable to differentiate between what is real and what is not. It experiences hallucinations that can be very deceptive. These hallucinations can come in audible or visual forms. Some people even experience what seems like an assault on their entire sensory system. They smell aromas that don’t exist. Like smoke for instance. It’s as if the brain’s ability to send messages is completely scrambled. Does this make any sense to you?”

I press my lips together and nod without speaking. As much as I hate to admit it, some of what he’s saying
does
make sense. But then how would I know since I’m the one who’s supposedly crazy here? Besides, I am fairly tired and discouraged right now. It’s been a long day filled with all sorts of tests. I’ve been poked and prodded and quizzed and examined. During my “questionings,” I lied again and again. Particularly in response to the inquiries about hearing voices or seeing faces that don’t exist. I mean how would I know if they exist or not? I’m the one who’s supposed to be bonkers. How can I be expected to discern what’s real and what’s not? If I’m nuts, that is. I’m still not convinced that Dr. Thornton hasn’t been sent by Pastor John
and my other enemies. How to tell if you’re crazy or not? Aren’t we all a little crazy?

I guess I must’ve let my guard down there for a moment and possibly even said some of those thoughts out loud, because I am now being lectured on how they don’t use the words
crazy, nuts
, or
bonkers
here.

“Okay.” I shrug now, getting weary of the game that never ends.

“It’s an illness,” he tells me again, as if being told that you are sick is encouraging.

“So, how’d I catch it?” I ask in a flippant voice.

“It’s not contagious, Alice. But it is hereditary.”

“Grandma.” It’s not a question as much as an answer.

He nods. “You know that she was diagnosed as schizophrenic-paranoid?”

“Paranoid? As in thinking that people were trying to get her?”

He nods again. “Do you experience that too, Alice?”

“No,” I answer quickly, probably too quickly. I look down at the papers in my lap and pretend to be quite interested. Then in a quiet voice I ask the dreaded question. “When can my mom take me home?”

“As soon as we finish.”

I’m not sure whether I can trust him, but I wait while he writes something on one of those little white pads that doctors like to use. “I am prescribing an antipsychotic. It should help you to think more clearly.”

I don’t tell him that I
have
been thinking quite clearly. Too clearly, I’m afraid. Or that I am able to interpret the ancient Scriptures, discern God’s deepest mysteries, and even write prophetic inspirations. Somehow I don’t think he’d appreciate this sort of clarity.

He tears off the sheet. “This is for clozapine. My nurse will give you some samples to tide you over until your mother can get to the drugstore. It’s fairly mild with some side effects like dry mouth, sleepiness, and rapid heartbeat. Just read the paper in the sample box; it’s all there. You need to avoid caffeine and nicotine, as well as alcohol and any other drugs, of course. However, I am pleased to see that your blood test shows you are clean of drugs, Alice. Good for you.”

Clean of drugs until now, I’m thinking. Until I start taking his little prescription. But what makes his particular brand of drugs so good? Still, I keep these questions to myself. Or at least I think I do. I can never be sure what’s going through my mind and coming out of my mouth these days. I take his little white notepaper and nod as if everything is perfectly fine. I just want out of here. But I’m thinking, You can’t make me take your stupid pills. It could be more of the poison they’ve been slipping into my food.

“It’s natural for you to want to resist the meds.” He peers over his half-glasses at me, and now I am worried he can actually read my mind because I am certain I didn’t just say that.

I hold up the paper and force a smile to my lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll take these. I want to get well.”

“You need to understand that the only reason I’m not keeping you here at Forest Hills today is because your mother has promised to oversee your recovery at home. She has assured me that you will take your meds. But it’s your choice, Alice. If you refuse, you will find yourself right back here with us. Not that that’s a bad option. This is, after all, a place of healing.” He smiles now, and I suddenly remember, word for word, a poem from the Alice book.

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

I hold tightly to Dr. Thornton’s little white slip of paper and assure him once more that I do want to get better as I carefully back up toward the door.

“That’s the key,” he tells me as he pats my back.

No, I’m thinking, that is not
the
key. Not the golden key. Still, I am cornered. What are my choices anyway? As I walk back toward the reception area, I wonder again if Dr. Thornton is in cahoots with Pastor John and Mrs. Knoll. Perhaps even my mother is involved. Who can you trust? Who can you trust?

Trust Jesus
.

I turn around to see who said that. I know it’s not Amelia, although the voice is somewhat comforting. And it’s nothing like Pastor John’s voice or any of the church people. There’s obviously no one in the hallway, but then it’s nothing new to hear voices that have no bodies attached. But it’s not like those other voices, the vicious ones that threaten to destroy me. I’m sure that I just imagined it.

Nurse Kelly already has the clozapine samples ready for me when I reach the reception area. She is smiling, just as she did earlier when
she talked me into eating a green salad and a small bowl of peaches in the cafeteria. She told me she’s a vegetarian and can understand my aversion to meats. She’s a pretty woman, early thirties I’d guess, but not the showy type. She has nice white teeth and dark hair that’s smoothed back into a neat ponytail. For some reason I don’t think she’s part of this particular conspiracy. But then how can I be sure?

“Make sure you take these with food.” She gently squeezes my arm. “You could use a little more weight on you, Alice.”

Despite her kindness, I’m still not convinced they’re going to let me leave. I walk quickly to the waiting area. I expect to find it empty and deserted, the front door locked. But there’s my mother, reading what looks like a well-worn magazine. She stands quickly and walks my way.

“Everything okay, dear?”

“Just peachy.”