Jen stands in the battleship green hallway, mesmerized by the flood of recollection swarming around her from years past, from times she’d buried like a shameful turd in a kitty litter box…a box that still stank.
“Jen. Earth to Jen,” Rosemary says.
Suddenly, Jen’s vision focuses and reveals her surroundings, quivering with the pulse of poor fluorescent light.
“Show some sign of life, kiddo, or they’ll keep you here with me,” Rosemary says, sotto.
Jen opens her mouth to speak but a sudden wave of grief takes over and she racked with sobs, years-old tears coursing down her face.
“Alby,” Rosemary says. “Take Jen outside for some fresh air.”
Like a child, Jen is led down the dismal hallway, into the elevator greasy with fingerprints, past the café-styled hospital foyer that betrays the dinginess beyond and out into the last shades of night. Dawn approaches, her second one witnessed this week. She is just so tired.
“Jen, just let it go,” Alby says, rubbing the spot between her shoulder blades that puts her in mind of childhood comfort, warm towels after rain, safety in touch.
“It all just hit me,” she sputters. “The full force of it. When I was here, I didn’t have nearly the excuse that Rosemary does. What a pathetic excuse for a human I was,” Jen says, meaning every word.
“Jen, I didn’t know you then, but I know that if you hadn’t crashed, your art would never have emerged. You’d never have sat still long enough in the wreckage to allow those creative forces to come to life. We might not like the way things go, but events are an inevitable part of becoming who we are. I truly believe there’s a part of us directing the play, agreeing in advance to let the story unfold a particular way…” Alby says, pulling Jen closer.
“But for what? For a brief moment touring my sculptures that seems like ancient history now? What was all that suffering for? I’ve become a suburban housewife with nothing to look forward to except a Dr. Spock milestone and a soiree with my girlfriends,” Jen sobs. “I barely have any money left in the bank from selling those pieces, and now they’re gone.”
“So make some more,” Alby sighs.
“Are you kidding? With Jace hovering over me like a mosquito – What are you doing? What’s that? What’s it going to be?– Then if I say anything, like, I need to be alone to try to work, he takes it personally. As if I’ve chosen clay over him.”
The moment she says it, Jen realizes she’s nailed it, nailed the whole Jace dynamic in a single mournful wail. He really does resent her art. He really doesn’t want her to be who she was, because he cannot see himself fitting into that life. He’s just as scared as she is. She takes a deep breath of the night air and tries to absorb what this means for them. Alby leads her to a bench and they sit down together while Jen wipes away her tears.
“That’s not your problem, really. Let him sulk. You are the only person you have to answer to over your work. I think the real problem is that you’re using motherhood and wifedom as a form of creative resistance. As an excuse to avoid going to that place inside you that produces the work. And you’re the only person who can do anything about that. Freedom isn’t something that’s given, Jen. It’s something you take,” Alby sighs.
Jen lights a cigarette and ponders the wisdom Alby has shared. She’s knows that on a whole other level, Alby is right. She feels so muddled and emotionally exhausted she can barely speak. And here she is, once again the self-absorbed drama queen crying over spilled milk while Rosemary is upstairs alone waiting for her doctor to arrive and while Alby, freshly pregnant, is sleep deprived yet again. The thought makes her feel even shittier, and makes her wonder if she’s learned a damned thing in her life.
“Okay. Thanks. Let’s go back upstairs to be with Rosemary. I can handle it,” Jen says finally, grinding out her cigarette on the pavement and resolving to be a better friend, human.
Rosemary is in a private room now, with a large, suicide-proof window overlooking the copse of trees beside the parking lot. It’s a great view considering, Jen thinks, but it sucks that the window won’t open. That’s because it feels like it’s 100 degrees and so dry she feels her sinuses collapsing. Hospital heat. Jen forgot how miserable, how like its inhabitants, this place is. She guesses it’d be worse if it were cold. The warmth at least makes you want to sleep, if your mind will let you.
They’re making a list of things Rosemary would like to cheer up this drab stay – books and movies and other things to shield her from thought. Fortunately, she agreed to bring her own comforter and pillows, so the tiny room would allow the imagination to pretend this was a shabby hotel or a boarding house, a kind of haven for wandering souls.
There’s a lot Jen wants to tell her about the people up here, but it was years ago and it may have changed. Jen doesn’t want her to worry too much either, so she is careful choosing her words.
“Rosemary, I don’t know if Dr. Manus is still the director here, but if he is, just ignore whatever he says to you and give him hell if he puts his hand on your leg. And don’t agree to take the medication. If they have to, they’ll give you shots of B12 instead and it really does improve your mood without all the other crap, side effects and spaciness,” Jen says matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean if he puts his hand on my leg?” Rosemary asks, brow wrinkling.
“I found him to be a bit of a pervert,” Jen says. “If I wore makeup and dressed for our sessions, he’d report that I was much improved. If I didn’t, he’d say I was depressed. He told me not to read so much literature because “readers are the highest number of suicides.” And he got ugly with me when I told him he was not respecting my boundaries every time he touched me. Made out like I was paranoid. So I talked to my group leader about it and filed a complaint. So just don’t take the meds and stay away from him,” Jen says.
She looks up to find Rosemary staring hard at her, in some kind of disbelief.
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“Very,” Jen says. “But Mitch Porter, now he’s a great guy, he’s a MSW. He’ll be a good guy for you to talk to. He’s funny too. He’s a little abrasive in some ways, kind of “So what are you going to do about it” type. But it’s pretty effective. You’ll be in good hands with him,” Jen says, realizing that there is something almost perverse about giving advice about navigating a psych ward. But she can’t stop herself. They’re the kinds of things she wished someone would have told her all those years ago.
“I also want to say that you probably won’t enjoy group, but they’ll make you go. Just stay away from most of them, on balance, they’re really nuts and will stir up all kind of shit and want anything nice that you have. That’s why I had you bring the lockbox. And just don’t get into it with the nurses and how they treat people. Just stay in your room instead. I made the mistake thinking I could make a difference around here. It messed me up a bit,” Jen says. She was going to continue but suddenly she can see Rosemary’s had enough.
“So that was then. It might be different now. Just forget about it,” Jen says.
“Okay,” Rosemary sighs, reaching out to take Jen’s hand. “Thanks. I’m just going to hunker down and consider this a temporary refuge. I’m going to read and do some writing and just catch my breath,” she says.
A nurse comes in the doorway and glances at the three of them, sitting on the bed together like teenagers. Jen’s heart catches in her throat. It’s “Ratchett” by God. Her icy blue eyes bore into Rosemary and her head cocks to one side, ready to utter a sing-song, iron-fisted command, Jen suspects.
“Rosemary, we allowed your guests to stay to get you settled, but it’s almost time for breakfast and you’ll need to have a nap. It’s likely best if they go now. We don’t allow visitors to stay for meals.”
Jen holds her breath, waiting for the evil “Ratchett” to recognize her, but if she does, she isn’t letting on.
“I’ll just have breakfast in my room then,” says Rosemary in her own forceful sweet school marm way. “That way I can visit a little longer.”
Jen feels like she’s watching two lionesses about to slash each other to death while pretending to serve each other tea and cookies. Both of these women are made of steel.
“Actually, no, you can’t. All meals have to be in the dining hall under our supervision. Our program here is structured, and there are only certain times you can have visitors. It interferes with your schedule,” Ratchett smiles. “So we’ll see you in the dining lounge in 15 minutes,” she says, and briskly walks away.
Jen puts up her hand before Rosemary manages to protest.
“What the hell,” she says.
“It’s true. Just go along for now. Give yourself a few days. I’ll be back tonight after dinner. If you hate it here, I’ll take you home with me,” Jen says.
“Jen, I love you, but you do realize Jace would be one of the people I’m avoiding right now,” Rosemary points out, looking mildly ashamed. Jen puts her arm around Rosemary’s shoulders and leans in.
“Well if Jace is on this story, he won’t be allowed in our house tonight, so don’t worry about Jace. Just call me if you change your mind. Otherwise I’ll see you tonight,” Jen says.
Jen gives her one more squeeze and gets ready to leave. Alby says her goodbyes and joins Jen in the hallway. It is now 7:15 a.m. and Jen is a little concerned about getting home before Jace to goes to work. But she also feels in desperate need of company.
“Alby, do you want to come over for breakfast?” she asks.
“Would you like me to?”
“Yes, very much so. But are you feeling okay?” Jen says, remembering that Alby is newly pregnant and has been up all night. Again. She likely hasn’t seen George in two days, but maybe that’s a good thing.
“A little queasy, a little tired, but I’ll take a nap at your place. I’m not going in today, I’ll get Sandy to take my clients,” Alby says.
“Okay, we’ll have a girls-breakfast-napping party. Chris is at mom’s right now. I’ll give her a quick call and see if I can pick him up tonight instead of this morning.”
“Why don’t you leave the scooter at Rosemary’s until tonight; I’ll take you back there to get it. It’s probably not a great idea to drive it after being up most of the night yet again.”
“Yeah,” Jen agrees.
As she climbs into Alby’s sedan, Jen is happy she will be bringing home proof of her whereabouts and protection from protracted Jace-fighting. She doesn’t want to think about that mess at the moment. As she watches the river glide by, tears slide down her cheeks. She is wondering what life would have been like for that baby that died the night she tried to take her own life. Whether all those sculptures were some perverted form of birth-giving. She thinks of Chris, and can’t imaging pumping his little body full of black beauties and valium and codeine and poison, but that is in fact what she unwittingly did to what would have been his older sister.
She is glad to have Alby with her today. For the company, the sense of safety. She’s not sure what would come of her if she hit the file cabinets alone, began recreating the story in her mind from snatches of Saint’s wicked letters. It is amazing to her how in a moment the mind can shift focus, like a depth of field shot on a long camera lens. One second the image in the foreground is crisp and the background a soft hazy blur. The next, everything shifts, and the close vision is completely blurred while the distant horizon is crisp and clear. That is how she is feeling about her life right now, and she is stunned by the picture she sees looking back.
Once they’re home, Jace is docile in Alby’s presence, just as Jen expected he would be. He’s playing his “sympathetic and supportive” persona. For some reason, she doesn’t believe it, but realizes her perspective is skewed, cynical, and that she is no longer sure what is real and what is not. She is no longer sure because she can now see clearly that backward horizon, can see the unreality she fabricated like some kind of black widow to obscure the harsh fact from view through the sticky gauze of web.
“Jen, I’ll do my best by Rosemary. I’ll take it up chain if Rob insists it has to be me. Just bear with me; it’s hard to be new in the newsroom and draw a line like that,” he says, while getting ready to leave.
Jen is so tired and emotionally raw he has caught her off guard. She looks deep into his eyes and sees the human there, scared to be reprimanded by his boss, wanting so badly to be valued, to win approval. Not just with her. With the newsroom, the world. She also sees concern and the same sinking anxiety she feels. Rosemary is about to become part of the public discourse. There is no way to bury a story that hints of a spinster high school English teacher and her suicidal star pupil. This town will tear her apart.
Suddenly, Jen lurches forward and wraps her arms around Jace’s torso, burying her head in his chest. He’s right here, he’s been right here all along. She is terrified of the stories she tells herself, of the fiction she’s become.