The Back Building (7 page)

Emily urged me to try harder. She seemed to care about my welfare more than anyone and didn’t make me feel edgy or nervous like the doctor.

“I tell you what, let’s have a picnic by the lake again tomorrow. Would you like that?”

“Thanks, Emily. I would like that.” I would look forward to it and until then I would plot a way to get home.

I wrote a third and fourth letter home over the course of the week, asking, or rather, begging my parents to respond to me. I asked them how Hetty was and told them I missed her presence. I asked about the baby and signed off with love as always. I didn’t hear from my mother but by my forth week at the hospital a letter arrived from my father.

Dear Iona,

We have received your letters and have also had correspondence with Dr. Macy. He tells us your violent spells have become worse and that you are in no shape to come home.

I would ask you not to torment your mother with your letters. She is only now starting to realize how much you needed to be treated. She is recovering from the guilt she has felt and I ask that you allow her this peace.

Yours,

Father

My heart broke all at once. A fountain of tears cascaded from my eyes and did not cease for hours. I cradled my knees and rocked back and forth on my bed, alone. I had never felt so betrayed or unloved. What had I done that was so ghastly that my parents would send me away and ask that I not correspond with them? I was sorry I acted irrationally and cut my hair, sorry for setting traps too, but nothing deserved this treatment. Surely not my counting spells.

I decided I would write instead to Hetty, my only friend and ally. I didn’t know her exact address but the post-master would get my letter to her. Also, I would write to my mother once more. If she wrote to tell me she didn’t want my correspondence then so be it.

***

Emily checked on me regularly during the week trying to motivate me to take part in activities with the other patients. When I refused to leave my room she scheduled an appointment for me to be seen at once with Dr. Macy. The power of my parents’ hatred caused me to decline and become more agitated and reclusive.

“Iona, I understand you are overcome with melancholy. Please tell me what I can do.”

“Yes, I am sad, Doctor Macy. I had a letter from my father.” I reached into my pocket and retrieved the crumpled note so the doctor could read it for himself.

“It seems pretty clear to me that your parents just want you to get well. Iona, take part in the process and then maybe you can go home.”

“Maybe?” I asked nerves getting the better of me once more.

“Well, we have some things to discuss yet, some topics I had hoped not to delve into until you developed trust in me and faith in our institution. Now that trust is shattered because you have seen that your parents and I correspond and you feel betrayed. It is true, I did tell them you had a few occurrences that were not entirely your fault, but nonetheless, they did occur. Is this a false statement?”

“No, it’s not.” I still didn’t trust him.

“Let me tell you a story about our very first patient at Willard. Her name was Mary Rote. She arrived on October thirteenth of 1869 by steamship. She was escorted by several men down the gangplank because she was both deformed and demented and unable to walk without assistance. Her hands were held together by chains. She was considered a “lunatic” and had spent the previous ten years in the Columbia County poorhouse in New York.

Let me back up for a moment; Dr. Willard, whom our hospital is named after, was appointed at the time to research the conditions of facilities that cared for the criminally insane. He drafted a questionnaire that he sent to each and every county judge in New York State. The judges then hand-picked respectable medical professionals to carry out inspections of poorhouses, alms houses, insane asylums, and jails. They answered the questionnaire and returned them with their findings directly to Dr. Willard. His research found that in the fifty-five counties there were one thousand, three hundred and fifty-five chronic cases of patients who were deemed insane. Furthermore, the conditions in which these individuals were kept were described as deplorable and unfathomable. These patients were neglected, abused, and mistreated emotionally and physically.

As a result of this study, the Willard Bill, that regulates insane asylums, was put into effect. This is how this hospital came to be and one of the underlying laws was that the criminally insane be treated with better care. We call this moral treatment. I am morally obligated to treat you, Iona, with respect and the utmost care I can deliver.

Now, back to Mary Rote for a moment. When she arrived here, she was deformed and who could blame her for becoming despondent and demented after the treatment she received? She was held, against her will, for ten years. She was held naked, was deprived of food, and was chained to a wall at all times and stood no chance of healing. However, once she arrived here she was taken in and bathed. She was treated with kindness and grace. She was given her dignity back. She was fed, she was shown to a warm bed, and do you know what? She improved markedly.

Why am I telling you about this? Well, Mary Rote was extended an olive branch, and I am extending one to you now. I know you feel uneasy but if you allow us to care for you using the tools that work, then we can discuss getting you home.”

“I am nothing like that woman.”

“We don’t know why she was insane, back then if one was poor they could be called insane and be subject to an almshouse. No, you have a family that loves you and wants to see you improve. Your condition is unusual for an adolescent, but I have seen it once before.”

“My condition, what is my condition, Dr. Macy?”

“I’d rather not get into that today. But, I suggest that you take the olive branch you have been extended. That you agree to meet with me for some intensive therapy and then we can more thoroughly discuss your state.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“If you have another suggestion, I am open to it.”

“I don’t.”

“Well then let’s meet the day after tomorrow. I will give Emily your new schedule of appointments. I also want you to partake in our Occupational Therapy. This is meant to keep you occupied. We offer textiles, sewing, pottery, leather work, basket making, chair caning, and so on. You might enjoy these activities more than you think.”

“Doctor, I am a kid, how many kids do you know that want to cane chairs?”

“Point taken, Iona. Just open yourself to finding something you like, okay? It will help you adjust.”

Emily retrieved me and I mulled over all we had discussed. Mary Rote’s story was pathetic and unjust. I wondered what she did to deserve her foul and humiliating treatment. I was exhausted and somewhat defeated and just wanted to go to bed. My eyes were swollen from all the crying I had done and Emily agreed to fetch me ice to help with the swelling. She tucked me into my bed for the night and I slept like a baby.

Chapter Four

Therapy

I sat rather uncomfortably on the wooden chair in front of Dr. Macy who stared at me before beginning therapy. I didn’t know where to look so I just stared back without blinking. I had an uncanny ability to stare for long periods of time without blinking. This was just one of the games Hetty and I played for fun.

“Let’s start with why you count. Do you know why you do it?”

“No, I just like to.”

“What do you count, besides paces?”

“I suppose I count just about everything. I count the wrinkles on my dress and your forehead, the panes in the windows, the hands on the clock, and the spaces between the numerals.”

“Even if you know the answer, do you still do it?” He asked laughing and feeling his forehead for a moment.

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you that it occupies so much of your time and energy?”

“No. I never thought about it that way.”

“Counting can be symptomatic of obsessive compulsive disorder. Some patients count, others have to do things in succession. Some wash their hands repeatedly or open a door a given number of times before leaving a space. Do you do any of those things?”

“Just the counting, but doctor it doesn’t harm anyone so why is it wrong?”

“It’s not that it’s wrong, Iona, it’s just a small part, a window if you will, into your mind.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like to discuss Hetty. What makes her special?” Dr. Macy asked as he shifted his right leg onto his left knee in a more casual position. I found his shifting movements to be off-putting.

“I didn’t say she was special.”

“Well, what is it that drew you to her and made you want her as a friend?” Why on earth did he care so much about Hetty?

“She paid attention to me. She was nice to me.”

“I understand. How did the other girls at school treat you?”

“With disdain.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“They closed me out of their circles, laughed and scoffed at me, and I didn’t like it. They were anything but ladylike and charming towards me.”

“Why do you think they behaved like this to you?”

“Because I am not a girly girl. Because I like to play stick-ball and marbles. Because I am smarter than they are.”

“You are very smart, I will give you that. Your vocabulary is quite impressive.”

“I like to read, that helps.”

“Ahh, excellent. We shall try to provide you with whatever reading material you’d like. Now then, tell me when exactly do you get to spend time with friends?” This was a repeat question, an attempt to trick me up.

“I have no friends. I only see Hetty on the days she works.”

“Yes, I am sorry, I should have realized that. However, I wondered if Hetty goes to school? If so, does she have any other friends?”

“I don’t know if she has other friends,” I answered truthfully. I tried to remember if Hetty ever mentioned anyone but nothing came to mind.

“Let’s move on. Have you made any acquaintances here, or met anyone you deem worthy of your friendship?”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” I said.

“Well, you’re an interesting girl.”

“I like Rose Mary. I feel bad she is so sick, but she is very friendly and helpful to me.”

“In what way?”

“She is nice, and seems to like me. She helps me get through the day because she makes me laugh.”

“Laughter is important, it’s said to be the best medicine.” Dr. Macy asked a few more seemingly irrelevant questions and our session ran out. We would meet again in two days’ time. It plagued me why he was so curious about my friendships, what was it about them that he found intriguing enough to focus on? I thought we would discuss my parents and family more but so far we hadn’t at all.

The next few days passed with my participation in numerous different activities, as a part of my occupational therapy and acclimation as it was called here at Willard. I was interested in pottery. I used the clay to mold figurines of animals and time passed quickly while I perfected my shapes. I was allowed all the time I wanted in the art studio and did enjoy it. A few other patients came to the class, one woman was so melancholy she cried the whole time as she worked the clay with her fingers. Another patient was volatile, she spewed insults to everyone and no one in particular, her language was vile and shocking. She tore at the clay relentlessly and threw large clumps at the wall to see if they would stick. I sat far away from her and was glad when her time was up and she was ushered by her attendee back to her room.

Other than pottery, I enjoyed my time walking outdoors and sitting alone by the lake. Sometimes Rose Mary joined me, but usually I was alone. If it weren’t so chilly now I would attempt to swim or paddle one of the canoes across the lake.

My next appointment with Dr. Macy arrived and I fully anticipated it would be more of the same ‘let’s get to know each other’ banter. I was surprised by the seriousness with which he approached me.

“Iona. It’s time to get to the heart of why you are here. Do you feel ready to really listen to my assessment?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, I want to know how to get better so I can go home. Doctor, please tell me what’s wrong with me.” The moment of truth had arrived, leaving me feeling exposed.

“Well, it appears you are delusional. In addition to this, you are rather excitable and highly emotional. You are also obsessive compulsive as we discussed earlier. The word ‘delusions’ can encompass many things, but in your case it has to do with figments of your imagination. I have spoken to your parents at length. They have sat in this very office with me discussing your case,” he admitted.

“What? My parents were here? How come I didn’t get to visit with them?” I was irate and confused.

“It’s strictly prohibited during your first month, Iona. I know it is hard, but they did inquire about your overall health and are willing to do anything to get you the help you need.”

I ran my fingers through the fuzz on top of my head and rested them in fists beneath my chin, I didn’t know how to feel. I wanted to spit nails I was so angry, but I also had a sudden urge to sob. I could feel my chest tighten and wanted to leave the office at once.