Adrift in the Sound (20 page)

“How?” Lizette flew from the grass before he could answer and threw her body against him, knocking him down, grabbing him around the neck, choking, her thumbs cutting off his airway. “How could anyone see my stuff? You stole my shit! I know you did! I saw you!”

Rocket saw the attack from third base and charged up the hill. The cops got up from their seats in the bleachers, stumbled over some newly arrived hippies blowing soap bubbles, and hurried around the back of the dugout. They pulled her off and Toulouse rolled away, downhill a couple of yards. He rose breathlessly to his elbows, purple faced.

“You’re crazy!” Toulouse shouted, crab-walking backward. Rocket had Lizette in a bear hug, pinning her arms. The cops hung back then and let the scene play out, the players stood by in suspense. Lizette spat at him. “I’m telling you, you’ve got some sales,” he yelled at her. “They want you to do a show in New York. They think you’ve got something, you crazy bitch.”

“Liar!” she shouted. Rocket held her tight as she strained for the poet.

“Listen to him, Liz,” Rocket said in her ear.

“You had your chance,” Toulouse said, getting up from the grass, wiping himself off. “Get your own agent then. I’ll have the gallery send the check to the ranch, minus my ten percent. I’m done helping you.” He stalked away and Rocket let Lizette go. She settled on the edge of the blanket where Violet slept, staring into the baby’s placid face. Rocket limped back to the field, covered his base, played shallow off third. Lizette turned her back on the scene.

During the confrontation, the Dogs hit the dugout cooler and Carl slipped into the parking lot to fondle Sandy. They entwined, whispered, broke free when Rocket called him to get back to shortstop, but the cops blocked his path to the field. They hunched their shoulders around him and talked. Sandy stood to the side and everyone wondered what they were saying.

The Dogs arrayed themselves again. Cadillac Carl took his position. Lucky hobbled to centerfield, an oven mitt on his gimpy right hand, playing deep. The Tuggers were ahead by a run, with a man on. The teams exchanged at-bats, lousy pitches and bad fielding kept the score one-zero, Tugger’s favor.

Bored with the game, disgusted with the level of play, at the top of the ninth inning the Tuggers had two outs, two men on, so they put Little Dickie up to finish it. They all agreed it was time to get back to the bar with the pizza money. Rocket signaled the Dogs to spread out, play deep. He looked at Lucky, leaning on his cane, near the centerfield fence, and scowled, signaled Slick to play over, trying to cover the gap.

Dickie stepped into the batter’s box, rubbed his toe against the dip at home plate, wiggled his butt, joggled his knees and stared Gizzard down. Gizz gulped loud enough for the cops to hear in the top row of the bleachers. He jerked into motion, wound his arm twice and delivered low and inside, brushing Dickie back. Bomber fell on the ball for a catch and threw it back to the mound. Ball one. Gizzard turned and threw to second, almost picking off the lead runner.

He pivoted to address the batter, adjusted the brim of his cap, dangled his pitching arm and smoothed out his windup. The ball came sweeping toward the strike zone, a shoulder-high release with good movement. The ball dropped into the zone and Dickie was on it, eyes lit, hitting the ball about as hard as it could be hit without splitting the stitches and blowing the cover off.

The crack brought the bleacher crowd to attention. Lizette turned and shielded her eyes to watch the ball’s white-lightning arc. The crowd noise rumbled behind the spinning orb, the sound fading like thunder after a hailstorm, gathering again, breaking in claps.

Rocket’s eyes jumped from the ball to centerfield and there was Lucky, stumping hard on his cane, racing the ball to the fence, back turned, head down, plowing ahead. His heart sank. No way … but then he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe? Maybe?

Lucky’s position was good. No time to think. Rocket fixed on the ball’s speed, the pure beauty of its dizzying rotation. He ripped his mind from the ball, looked for an instant at Gizzard tracking it, shoulders slack, helpless. The runners advanced, confident the ball would easily top the fence and they could saunter home for the win.

Switching back to Lucky, maybe a split second had elapsed since the ball was struck, but time stood still. Lucky checked over his left shoulder again, lifted his oven mitt, scorch marks showing along the edges. Then Lucky changed his mind and kept digging with his stick, hobbling faster than the crowd could register, racing the ball with all his might, long, greasy hair flying behind him. His “A & S Towing” hat popped off and no one saw it hit the grass, so focused were they on the ball.

It was close to him now, hovering in the air, spinning on its path toward the fence, twenty feet from the ground, coming down fast. Rocket dared to think, only for an instant, for that fraction of time it takes an electron to pulse down a wire or an atom to split that … that …

Lucky slowed up so he wouldn’t crash into the chain link and put both hands up, like he was tracking a well-thrown football pass in the end zone, using his good hand to lift his mitted one. He made a cup. Jumped. The ball sailed over his shoulder and dropped into the pocket like a well-struck billiard ball. Lucky went down, his good side collapsed on impact and he rolled in the deep grass. The crowd exhaled and waited.

The Tugger’s base runners moved to and fro in confusion. Slick tripped the guy trying to get back to second base and he threw a punch. Lucky rolled over and held up the ball. Everyone surged onto the field, shoving and clapping.

Lizette cawed and clapped from the hillside. Little Dickie picked up his gear, got into his Mustang, gunned the engine, and was gone in a powder-blue cloud before the Dogs carried Lucky on their shoulders from the outfield to the dugout. Laughing and slapping, they crowded in and didn’t notice the Tuggers trickling away, their tails tucked beneath their legs. In the heat of celebration, the Dogs forgot they’d lost the game, didn’t take their last at-bat.

The cops stood at the top of the bleachers, surveying the hubbub in the dugout, chuckling at what had just happened, at the beauty of the moment, the improbable catch. Like everyone else, they didn’t notice Cadillac Carl and Sandy Shore ease out of the parking lot and make for the entrance to Interstate 5, turning up the radio, picking up speed, not looking back, heading south.

TWENTY–TWO

THE WESTSIDE HOSPITAL ENTRANCE DOOR
inched closed behind Lizette as she climbed the speckled marble steps two at a time and stopped to catch her breath in front of Dr. Finch’s office. She knocked softly on the door’s wavy glass and ignored the faint, anguished sounds coming from the ward on the floor above. She tried the door handle but it was locked—like always, she thought. The hospital’s false securities annoyed her, anyone could kick in the glass, but she didn’t want to waste time obsessing about it, just settled herself and waited.

A weary voice from inside said, “Coming.” The light shifted as Dr. Finch crossed behind the glass and opened the door. The room exhaled air thick with the smell of old carpets, dusty books and anxiety. “Elizabeth! You’re on time for a change.”

Dr. Finch stepped back, gestured for Lizette to come in, overlooked her smirk and guided her to the chair beside her desk. “So, how’ve you been?” Dr. Finch sat down on the opposite side of the desk and steepled her fingertips, brought them to her lips and looked over her glasses.

“Good.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Painting. Hanging out with friends.”

Dr. Finch got up, adjusted her Navy blue blazer, and went to the window bench. She bent over the potted plants and poked the dirt, nudged pieces of bark around an orchid plant. She stood and studied her nails for soil. Lizette noticed the leaves of the orchid were leathery and green, she wondered about replicating the effect with oils, how to capture the sense of dimension. The leaves looked healthy, she admitted to herself, but in all the times she’d met with her psychiatrist she had never seen anything bloom.

A promise
, Lizette thought as she watched the doctor fuss,
but nothing to show for it.
When Dr. Finch sat down and looked directly at her, Lizette saw the problem, saw into Finch’s twisted heart, saw it laboring to survive, felt the kinks in her vessels and the pooled blood eking through the constricted arteries of her core.
Nothing beautiful can flourish in such a twisted place
, she thought.

“Have you been taking your medication?” The practical question caught Lizette off guard, halted her silent musing.

“My friend Marian keeps track of it. She says you should adjust my dosage, that I’m getting too much.”

“You’re friend’s a doctor?” She twitched her eyebrows, shifted as she waited for the answer.

“A nurse.”

“With psychiatric training?”

“She’s a midwife.” The doctor sniffed and Lizette crossed her arms and scratched the back of her upper arms under her sweater sleeves. “I have … I mean we have a baby. Her name is Violet. I need my meds adjusted so I can take better care of her. I itch and tweak. My skin crawls. I sleep too much.”

Dr. Finch pursed her lips and studied Lizette. Silence mounted, piling up between them like cottony clouds. She opened the file folder on her desk and scanned the pages, holding a line with her finger, glancing up, she said, “That’s impossible.”

“What?”

“That you could have given birth. You had a pregnancy test when you were admitted as an inpatient last December. You were beaten and raped. We tested more than once, all negative. How old is this child?”

Lizette shrugged. She saw that she had made a mistake in letting the birth of Violet slip. She hunched her shoulders, swatted her wispy blonde hair going haywire in the humid office. Folding her long fingers into a fist in her lap, she waited, listened to the doctor breathe, looked squarely at her and would not glance away.

“Have you been having any other delusions? Are you experiencing breaks with reality? Disorientation? Hearing voices?”

“Well.” Lizette paused and gathered herself, calculated her response. “Sometimes I see things before they happen, like when people get sick or hurt. Sometimes people turn into animals and fish or orca right before my eyes then turn back into themselves. It’s freaky.”

“Have you been using drugs?”

“Only what you’ve given me and that’s probably too much, like I said.”

Dr. Finch twirled around in her leather chair and looked out the window, at the dull light glinting like tin against the glass. “What about food? Are you eating? You’re very thin.”

“I forget sometimes. I get light-headed and have to lie down.”

“Where are you sleeping? Your father says you haven’t been staying with him, that he hasn’t seen you in months. I checked with him, let me see.” She turned to her desk and peered at a page in the file folder. “Oh, here it is … I spoke to your father two weeks ago. He said he didn’t know where you were.”

“That’s a lie. He knows I’ve been staying with Marian out at the ranch. On Orcas Island.”

“When you were released in February, I made it clear to you that you are coming close to involuntary commitment. Your behavior is becoming dangerous. You aren’t giving us much choice.”

“That’s not true. Who told you that?”

“Your father.”

“My father is a liar and you know it. He wants me to be crazy. He wants to cage me like a bird, like he did to my mother, feeding her seeds and watching her beat her wings against the bars. She killed herself. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

Getting up and coming to perch on the edge of the desk above Lizette, Dr. Finch cocked her head and listened.

“He acts like he knows everything, but he’s a snake.” Lizette reached in her canvas bag and pulled out a bandana, wiped her eyes and nose. “He’s old and feeds on dead carcasses, squeezes the life out of everything.”

She stopped and caught her breath, started again. “He wants to watch me die too so he can gnaw my bones. That’s what he did to my mother. I don’t care how famous and well respected he is. He’s sick.”

“The agreement for release is that you stay with your father.” Dr. Finch spoke with practiced calm, as if admonishing a naughty child while trying to avoid a tantrum.

Lizette got up and began to pace, noticing the small oriental carpet beneath her feet, the swirls and garnishes. She imagined looking past the colorful pile to the webbing that held the weave together, the sandy colored grid that fastened the yarns, the cross-hatch pattern as old as humanity. She thought about Violet in her crib, about the sweet smell of her neck, and pulled herself together.

“Look.” Lizette placed her hands on the back of the chair and leaned toward Dr. Finch. “I’m living with a registered nurse. I’m painting again. I get good food and exercise. I work for friends at the farmer’s market in East Sound. It’s a regular gig. I’m surrounded by friends. My father is old and bitter. He wants to confine me and live in the past. He wants to pick over bones and steal the best things. He’s a grave robber, for God’s sake! I’m doing the right things to get better, to take care of myself.”

“I agree that you’re more aware of your feelings, and certainly this is the most open you’ve ever been about them. But you’re still exhibiting some confusion.”

The room suddenly seemed stuffy and Lizette felt herself sweating. “I’m better. OK? A lot better. I just want to check in with you and get my meds adjusted. That’s all. I want to stay out of here and get back to work.”

“A job?”

“I’m a painter for chrissake!” Lizette looked at the doctor and saw a plop, an inert wad, not a living breathing woman. She shook her head to dislodge the image. “That’s my job. You know that.”

“But you need to find steady employment, become self-sufficient, build a life. I know you don’t exhibit or sell your work. It’s nothing more than a hobby.”

She flashed on her father, looking up from some thick book he was reading, puncturing her mother’s plans to exhibit at a gallery downtown, or go to New York, or study in Paris, saying her painting was only a hobby, decorative he’d called it. Her mother would look crestfallen, deflated. She’d go into the kitchen and slam dishes while Lizette withdrew into the corner of the living room behind the couch.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life on disability, pretending to be an artist, hanging around, never having anything permanent in your life?” Dr. Finch said. “Don’t you want a family and a home?”

“I have to be honest here, Dr. Finch. I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s like you’re the crazy one.” What she’d said fell like a thud, startling her in its weighty truth.

“Do you think I’ll be normal if I get a job as a bank teller or an insurance company clerk?” Lizette went on. “Will I meet your approval if I marry some mechanic and live in an apartment in Ballard, lugging greasy clothes to the laundromat?

“Lizette, please sit down.” Dr. Finch got up and returned to her side of the desk.

Lizette realized she had raised her voice and felt like grabbing things off the desk and throwing them, bolting for the door. She looked at the scrawny plants on the window bench and felt an urge to dump them on the carpet. She sat down, took a cleansing yoga breath, clasped her hands, refocused.

“I want my meds adjusted. I want … “

Rapid knocking rattled the glass in the office door. “Doctor are you in there? We’ve got an emergency on the ward. You’re needed on the floor!”

Dr. Finch moved across the office and yanked the door open. “What’s wrong?”

“Melinda! She cut her wrists. It’s bad. The other women are going off, too.”

“Where?”

“Third floor bathroom. It happened during break. Most of the nurses were off, we just looked away for a minute. You need to come right now!”

Dr. Finch shoved a key ring into her pocket and told Lizette to stay put and not open the door. Lizette heard her running down the hall, up the stairs. Sharp wailing, far away, came to Lizette’s ears. She moved around the desk and sat in Dr. Finch’s chair, leafed through her own file and found the page listing the blood draws and the pregnancy test results. She tore the page out, pulled away the scraps of paper that still clung to the file fasteners and balled them up in her hand. She went to her bag and stuffed the papers into the bottom.

She was studying books on the shelves when Dr. Finch came back looking disheveled, her blouse untucked on one side, a run in her stocking, hands quivering.

“Sit down Elisabeth. Where were we?”

“We were talking about a new prescription. A lower dose.”

“Oh. Yes. What dose are you on now?” Dr. Finch flipped through Lizette’s file, paused and shook her hands as if to release tension. “Let’s see … Seventy-five milligrams. That’s already low. How about we try fifty and see how you do?”

“I just want to feel more alert,” Lizette said. “I hate feeling groggy all the time.”

“That’s a usual complaint, but the alternative to not taking any medication carries grave consequences.” Dr. Finch pulled a prescription tablet in front of her, wrote quickly. “I’ll see you in a month? Is this time good for you?” The doctor wrote the appointment down in her book.

Lizette nodded, gathered the straps of her bag, stood. Dr. Finch came around the desk, took her hand, squeezed it.

“You are getting better, making progress. You don’t want to continue being a prisoner of your illness, do you?”

Lizette shook her head and pulled her hand back. “No. I want to be OK.”

“You need to be in a stable environment.” Dr. Finch handed her the prescription. “You can’t wander aimlessly for the rest of your life. It appears you’re suffering from a psychosis of your own choosing. You’ll make more progress, if you cooperate with us. Go home to your father.”

Lizette bolted, doubled-timed it down the stairs, blew the front door open and jogged across the lawn toward the bus shelter. She looked up at Dr. Finch’s office window over her shoulder and fumbled in the bottom of her bag. She settled on the bench in the narrow shelter, checked to see if a bus was coming. With no bus in sight, she pulled out the sheet of paper from her file and scrounged around in her bag again, feeling for a book of matches. They were damp, but she finally got one to flare and put the fire to the edge of the paper, turned her back to the street and watched the lazy yellow flames eat around the edges of the page. She held it with her fingertips and let it burn to and fro shifting when it came close to burning her. Bits of ash floated away from the shelter into the soft breeze, sticking on the nearby bushes. Long before the bus got there the paper was gone.

Marian’s bags were by the front door when she got back to Sandy’s. Lizette had been expecting her to leave, hearing the phone calls to Poland about problems at the ranch and the rescheduling she was doing with the clinic and the pregnant women she’d referred to other mid-wives. She could tell from hearing half the conversations that not all the women were happy about the shift. Marian seemed to love Violet and she’d been teaching Lizette a lot about infant care, but Lizette knew she was unhappy, heard her walk the floors at night, saw her tear up, snap at the Dogs. After six weeks, it was time for her to go. Lizette trembled at the thought of taking care of Violet alone until Sandy got back from wherever she’d disappeared to with Carl, how she’d react if Sandy got in the way with her and Violet. She also saw Marian’s anguish, a sadness so deep she couldn’t reach it.