Admissions Read online

  I open the rest of the Christmas cards. Mom’s card bulges with a folded letter, most of it chatty news from home, details about the weather. The part that I can’t get past . . .

  …I called the hospital several times. They said you didn’t sign a release, and they can’t give us any information about how you’re doing. Jeff said they told him you were doing well. I’m so glad to hear that. Molly and I are waiting to hear when we can visit.

  Love, Mom

  I feel my chest cave in. I gasp, curl into a ball and rock.

  “Luanne?” Nurse Judy rubs my shoulders. “What is it?” She pats my back, waits for me to stop crying.

  “My family…Jeff, he tried …oh my god … ” I can’t stand the thought of the hospital withholding information, scaring Jeff and my mother. I leave my body. I float up above the dayroom, bump against the corner, look down at my own misery.

  “It’s okay. The rules can seem harsh, I know. Thirty days is a long time without a visit. Luanne?” Nurse Judy shakes my shoulder. “Luanne. Can you hear me? There are no letters allowed on Hall 5, then you were in protection …I’m sorry, honey.”

  I hover, suspended like a helium balloon. Somebody tugs at my string. “Luanne? Luanne?” Nurse Judy continues to shake me.

  Reconnecting with my body, I look at the nurse. I think of Jeff. If only I could feel his arms around me. “Can …could …my husband visit me now?” I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  “Discuss it with Dr. Murray. When she okay’s it, I’ll put in your request. The hospital will contact him. One week on Hall 9, and if you’re doing well, you can have a visitor.”

  I sit up, examine Nurse Judy’s face. I can’t help suspecting her. “Thank you.”

  “It’ll get better. Hall 9 is safer, quieter. You already know Heidi.”

  “Are my other friends here?”

  “Now who would that be?”

  “Isabel, Beth, Autumn, and Estee?”

  “Isabel Jackson transferred in this week. I don’t think so on the other three.”

  “Oh.” My gaze drifts through the frosty windows to the frozen world outside. I imagine sinking into the snow, gracefully moving my arms and legs, creating an angel.

  “What happened, honey? Do you want to talk?”

  “My baby died. I …I …it just hurts so much.” I hold my stomach, lean forward. Nurse Judy puts her arm around my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, I’m too upset.” My voice squeaks out the words.

  “It’s okay.” Nurse Judy squeezes my arm, waits silently for me to speak. I stare into space. Finally, I begin fingering the envelopes. “I don’t want to be here.”

  “Luanne, you stay right here, read your letters. I’m going to get your friends.”

  Soon Isabel trots across the floor of the dayroom, Heidi behind her. “You okay, Lu?” The cushion hisses as Isabel plops down next to me.

  “Yeah. Just reading my letters.” I adjust the pages. “Listen to this.”

  I hope you’re not mad at me, Luanne. It’s been almost six weeks and I haven’t heard from you. I pray every day that we made the right decision about the hospital. Your mom agreed, we all thought you needed help. You almost died, we had to do something. I love you and can’t wait to hear from you. Please write to me. I called the hospital on December 18, thirty days after you were admitted, and they called me back just before Christmas and said you couldn’t receive visitors yet. I’m sick with worry. Your mom wants to drive up there and see what’s going on. I told her we have to follow the rules. Please, honey, write to me, or call if you can. Love, Jeff

  “Can you believe it?” My voice cracks.

  “Bastards.” Isabel says

  “They can’t do that! They can’t keep your family away forever. When they get here, tell ‘em what’s been going on,” Heidi says.

  Chapter 11

  I settle into my usual seat in Dr. Murray’s office, a wooden chair with curved arms, Early American, like my dining room set at home. “I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “Protection is tough,” Dr. Murray says.

  I start to cry, reach for a tissue. Crying hurts my head. I close my eyes, push off, swimming down for my thoughts. “It’s like being dead. Only you can still feel—cold. I have to get out of here.”

  “Do you think you’re ready to leave the hospital?” Dr. Murray asks.

  I study her face, wonder if the question is some sort of trick. I figure there must be rules, secret rules, and if I follow all of them, I can leave the hospital. I see the names in the Observer. People do get out, it’s right there in black and white. If I could just figure it out …Finally, “I’m afraid to go home.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “People looking at me like I’m crazy …going home and not finding Alexander there …Jeff with that look on his face.”

  “What look?”

  “Pity? I’m not sure. Like he’s miserable, and it’s my fault.”

  “Is Jeff getting help, too?”

  “How would I know? I just got his letters. I haven’t heard from anybody in almost seven weeks. Did you know they kept all my letters from home?”

  “Yes. It’s one of the rules.”

  “Nurse Judy said I could have visitors next week if you give your approval.”

  “Who would you like to see?”

  “My husband. My mom.”

  “Anybody else? Family members, friends?”

  “Maybe my sister, Molly. She still lives at home.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “What are you getting at? Am I supposed to have lots of visitors? I don’t want anybody to visit me here!”

  “There’s no right answer, Luanne. I just wondered if you felt close enough to anyone else.”

  “That’s not it. I’m embarrassed …Jeez.” I pluck another Kleenex from the box. “I’m not even sure I can talk to anybody from home. I’m afraid I won’t know how to chat about things, you know, normal things.”

  “Is there somebody in your family who could help you with that?”

  “Nobody in my family ever had this kind of trouble.”

  “Everybody has problems.”

  “Not my family. If they do, they don’t talk about it.”

  “So you’re saying your family has never had a problem of any kind?”

  “My dad died. That’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to our family. And my oldest sister got pregnant in high school. I guess that’s no big deal, but it sure seemed like it at the time.”

  “What about Jeff’s family?”

  “They’re nice, but sort of rigid, German and Finnish.”

  “Is Jeff like that, rigid, as you say?”

  “Jeff’s a nice guy. Everybody likes him. He loves his parents, stops over to visit them, helps them out. Jeff wants to please.”

  “It sounds like you think that’s a bad thing.”

  “Maybe …I don’t know. I guess it’s a good thing …”

  “How do you feel about Jeff visiting?”

  “I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He let me down. I can’t imagine how he could dump me off here. It’s unbelievable, really.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m not crazy. But he brings me here, locks me up like an animal? My Lord, I’m plenty good enough when I’m all together, and when I need him the most, he gets rid of me.”

  “Can you talk to him about that?”

  “I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “I see. Maybe I can help you with that. And when you’re ready to begin transitioning home, we can offer you family therapy.”

  “Without my little boy, I don’t have a family.”

  “Have you remembered anything more, Luanne?”

  “Not really, snippets of the funeral home, the service …not much else. I’m still trying to accept …he’s gone.” I grab a wad of Kleenex and hold it to my face. “None of the letters say anything about it. It’s like nobody
will tell me what happened. I know I tried to kill myself. Jeff told me about that.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That Saturday he had worked afternoon shift at the foundry. It was just thirty minutes before the shift-change whistle put him out of his misery.”

  “What kind of foundry?”

  “Jeff said, If hell had a basement, it was there where the blast furnace melted dune sand into engine cores for General Motors. He pretty much hated the job. His eyes and ears were protected, but the sand found its way most everywhere else. From what he said, he and Bill Murphy shoveled their last pile in the core molds when the foreman tapped Jeff on the shoulder and motioned him out. A young police officer, his hand on his nightstick, stood by the drinking fountain. He nodded and waited for Jeff to pull out his earplugs.”

  “Go on.”

  “I guess the cop asked him if his wife was Luanne Kilpi. Told him a young couple had been smoking weed in Ojibwe Park when they spotted me floating down the river.”

  “He must have been terrified.”

  “Yeah. The cop said I was at St. Mary’s and Jeff ran out the loading door to the back parking lot before he realized he had carpooled with Bill. I asked him why he didn’t ask the officer for a ride, but he just shook his head. Said he sprinted all the way to St. Mary’s in his steel-toe boots. He must’ve been scared, running all that way on such a cold night.”

  “I’m so sorry, Luanne.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose …”

  “What?”

  “Try to drown myself. I’d never do that …I can’t even believe I did. Everything is so unbelievable to me. I want to talk to Jeff about it when he visits.”

  “That might be a good idea, Luanne.”

  “If I can work up the courage.”

  The attendant walks me back through the tunnels to Hall 9. I replay my meeting with the doctor. I shouldn’t have complained about Jeff. He’s doing the best he can. For God’s sake, what happened? I can’t get my head around it. The guilt is overwhelming. Jeff lost a son, too, then his wife tries to kill herself?

  Chapter 12

  There are no mirrors. I’m not sure why. I smooth my hair. I’ve barely felt human, let alone attractive, in almost two months—good grooming and life in the disturbed ward are not compatible. Make-up, hair products, anything personal just isn’t allowed.

  I close my eyes, imagine myself twirling in front of the mirror in a rainbow tiered crinoline, a skinny six-year-old, my bird legs disappear into huge black and white saddle shoes. At seven, a white organza Holy Communion dress made by my mother. A proud ten-year-old in a straw Easter bonnet and patent leather Mary Janes. And all the fads and fashions since then—a watch-plaid kilt with an oversized gold safety pin, knee socks and penny loafers, my school uniform, rolled up at the waist, a homecoming dress, burnt orange wool, with a carnation corsage pinned on the cowl neck, my first formal taffeta for the J-Hop, the green velvet prom dress that made me feel like a movie star. The homecoming queen finery and, finally, the wedding gown I designed myself, showing off my tiny waist, falling gracefully into a long train.

  Today I imagine myself as I used to be. I have to, Jeff is visiting. I pick at the fuzzy pills on my emporium sweater. I haven’t felt attached to my body in quite some time, even before the hospital. I think my body started to break away during those long nights, sitting upright in a chair, Alexander’s moist head against my breast, my back aching with fatigue, my muscles tense with worry. When Alexander stopped shifting with pain, finally escaping into sleep, I tried to hold so very still, making my body his cradle. At first, it was by sheer will and necessity, now it’s automatic. Before I know it, I’m floating up against the ceiling.

  I’m terrified. Seeing Jeff will demand me to be aware in a way I haven’t been since my breakdown. And the not knowing. Jeff is scheduled. Will Mom, Molly be waiting in the visitors’ room? I feel the panic rise.

  “What time is he getting here?” Heidi says.

  “Visit’s scheduled for 2:30. I’m not sure if my mom’s coming, but they told me Jeff should be in the visitors’ room by 2:15. Nurse Judy will come for me when he gets here. How does my hair look?”

  “Looks good. Excited?”

  “Nervous. Even with my meds, it feels like my skin is going to split open.” Fear, plain and simple, raw nerves exposed like an aching tooth.

  “It’ll be fine.” Heidi puts her arm around my shoulder.

  “Does this sweater cover my butt? Jeans are so big.” I hike up my Levis.

  “A belt would help.”

  “A belt on jeans, can you imagine that? It doesn’t seem that long ago I eased them to my thighs, fell back onto the bed, shimmied them past my hips, sucked in my breath, and zipped up. I loved how I looked in those tight jeans.”

  “Jeff probably did, too.” Heidi said.

  “Yeah …now look at me.”

  “You look fine, really.”

  “Thanks.” I give Heidi a hug. She’s a good friend, but I can’t tell her I dread the visit, she’ll think I’m crazy.

  Jeff charges to his feet when Nurse Judy and I come through the door of the visitors’ room. He holds out his arms. I stagger, my peripheral vision falls away. I feel dizzy, hot. Jeff’s face blurs, his smile, pain-filled eyes fragment, then blackness.

  “Lu, Luanne, you all right?” Jeff catches me before I hit the linoleum. Nurse Judy takes my hand, turns my wrist, presses her finger on my vein as she tracks the second hand on her watch.

  “Her pulse is racing. Let’s get her over to the couch.” Nurse Judy takes one arm, Jeff the other.

  Slowly, I come back. “I’m okay, really …just a little too excited.” I turn toward Jeff, “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He holds my hand, face ashen, beads of perspiration across his forehead.

  “Sorry.” Damn, this is what I feared.

  “You okay, dear?” Nurse Judy takes my wrist again. “Pulse is settling down.”

  “Yes, thanks. I want to stay for my visit.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Nurse Judy feels my forehead.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Kilpi, please ring the bell if you need anything. There’s staff behind that window at all times.” She points to the glassed-in reception desk.

  “Wow, you scared me.” Jeff sits beside me on the couch and puts his arms around me, holds me close. I lay my head on his chest, pull my legs up beside me as I lean against him.

  “Thought Mom might come,” I say after a long silence.

  “Your mom and Molly are at that canteen thing. They said you were only allowed one visitor this time.”

  “Oh no …they came all this way.”

  “They’ll come back, don’t worry. How are you? You’re so thin.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s the medicine.” I don’t want Jeff to know what I’ve been through. Why make him feel worse?

  “Oh.” He rubs my arm. It irritates my skin. “Hard to get any news from here. Are you feeling better?”

  “I think so. I hope to be home soon. How have you been?” I look up into Jeff’s face.

  “Pretty good …better now.” His voice quavers. “Do you …remember anything?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Do you remember going into the river …or before that?”

  “No. I still don’t remember what happened.”

  “All I know is that guy pulled you out of the river …don’t know anything before that,” Jeff says.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know.” He hugs me again. “Do you remember the funeral, or …before that? The day the funeral director came to the house?”

  “I remember picking out the casket, some of the funeral service …nothing really about the day Alexander died.”

  “We woke up that morning, and he was gone.” Jeff pats the back of my hand.

  “You were on days, then? Who went into his roo
m?”

  “Ah …we both did, I think.”

  “I just can’t remember that. I miss Alexander so.”

  “Your mom and Molly were anxious to see you. I’m sure they’ll be back the next time.”

  “Are you doing okay? It’s only been a couple of months.”

  “I’m working a lot. We were wondering where your room was when we drove up. What part of the hospital is it in?”

  “First floor, far north wing, facing the front.” I didn’t see it coming. Here I am, smack dab in the middle of it, avoidance. If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.

  We talk about the holidays at home, Jeff’s work, mutual friends. It’s hard for me to hear about life outside the hospital. It’s like watching a movie, life moving along, but I’m not in it. I nod, smile as Jeff talks.

  “Rooms nice?”

  “Well …it’s a hospital. My roommate is nice.”

  Nurse Judy escorts me back to the dayroom.

  “Good visit, hon?”

  I slump into a chair, exhausted, and stare out the window.

  “What is it?” Nurse Judy asks. I don’t have a clue how I should feel. Jeff is a stranger, speaks a different language, a language from my other life, the life outside.

  “My husband …he was so distant …I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “It’s okay to talk about it, Luanne.” Nurse Judy sits down beside me.

  “I thought Jeff would understand, maybe even feel some of what I do, but he’s shut a door on me.”

  “Each person handles grief in their own way,” Nurse Judy says.

  “I guess so …You don’t know how it feels.” All of a sudden I’m mad.

  “You’re right, of course I don’t.”

  “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

  “Um-humm.” Nurse Judy nods her head.

  “Why would babies die? Alexander never even got a chance.” I start to cry. Nurse Judy reaches into her pocket, pulls out a rumpled tissue.

  “Here. It’s clean.” When I stop crying, she says, “Give it time.”

  “You sure time will do it? You know that?” I know I sound cold, but I can’t help it. Time?