But Inside I'm Screaming (10 page)

She was caught between hope and dread. Between the allure of escape and the danger of deeper trouble.

She decided to wait until her mother came out of her bathroom.

Kristen shuffled back to her room to listen for her mother’s bathroom door opening. She would put an end to all the pain swirling around inside her. The decision made her feel calmer than she had in days.

When Kristen finally heard her mother emerge from her bathroom, she steadied her queasy stomach and opened her bedroom door. Silence. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Mom?”

Kristen timidly walked downstairs to the kitchen, to find her mother who was busying herself by peeling
back the tiny square of tin foil that covered the dessert section of the Swanson frozen dinner.

“Mom?” Kristen whispered.

Her mother carried on with the frozen-dinner preparation as if she hadn’t heard a sound.

“Mom?” Kristen’s whisper was slightly louder this time.

Again, no reaction from Nora.

Kristen left the kitchen and went back upstairs, this time to her parents’ bathroom.

She reached for a prescription bottle that had her father’s name on it. He had blinding headaches from time to time so Kristen reached for what she was sure was a painkiller. The bottle felt huge in her hand. She was mesmerized by the orange-tinted plastic.

She let the faucet run for a minute to get the water really cold.

“W
e need to discuss your medication.”

“What about it?”

“For one thing—” Dr. Seidler looks concerned “—it doesn’t seem to be working. You are trying to battle severe depression.”

Oh, God.

Isabel has been switching from pill to pill for most of her adult life and knows that changing medication is a traumatic event. “But,” she stammers, “I don’t think about killing myself as much as I did when I first got here. We talked about that, didn’t we? I don’t think I need to change.”

Side effects. Jesus, shaky hands. Upset stomach. Plus they won’t let me out while I’m still “adjusting to new medication.”

“I hear that this is scary for you but it doesn’t need to be. Recently we’ve discovered ways to work with older methods in order to reduce side effects. I want to talk with you about something that I think could be extremely effective for you.”

Isabel knew what was coming. Her therapist in Manhattan had told her about it. Three Breezes is known for
successfully treating suicidal depression with a mix of antidepressants. Patients call it the “cocktail.” Individualized to meet different needs and bodies, it consists of combining the two or three most powerful antidepressants on the market in order to boost their effectiveness.

“I know all about the cocktail.” Isabel wants to beat her therapist to the punch.

“Ah, the cocktail.” The doctor laughs awkwardly and then clears her throat. “Well, no, actually. That’s not what we’ve discussed in reference to your case. We are considering what’s nicknamed ECT…electroshock therapy. It sounds like the Dark Ages, I know.” The doctor moves quickly to explain since Isabel’s face has fallen into a long look of horror. “But it’s not at all like you would imagine. In many cases it can be the single most effective way to combat severe depression. It has little to no side effects and we happen to specialize in it here.

“I can see from the look on your face that you are thinking about something. Why don’t you share what’s on your mind, Isabel.”

“Frances Farmer.” That is all she can say. All she sees is Jessica Lange portraying the old film star.

“Heh, heh.” Another throat clearing. “That movie did more damage to ECT than anything before or after. I get your point, though. The image of electroshock therapy is quite scary if you’re not familiar with it. Is that what you mean?”

I think she ended up having a lobotomy, a frontal lobotomy. Frances Farmer. That’s what did her in in the end. Wasn’t it a lobotomy?

“Oh, my God.” The implications of the doctor’s suggestion are starting to sink in. “Oh, my God, you think I need shock therapy?” Isabel starts taking in deep breaths.

“I think I’m going to pass out,” she says while she slips down farther into the club chair she always chooses for her private sessions.

“All right. Okay. We don’t have to talk about this anymore today.” The doctor is looking alarmed. “Take it easy. I’m sorry I upset you, Isabel. I didn’t mean to—”

“Do you ever get any takers for that? For E-C-T?” she asks in angry disgust. “I mean, does anyone actually say ‘Hey, yeah! Let’s stick some electrodes to my temples and then crank some electricity into them! Cool!’?”

“I hear that you’re upset.”

Isabel starts to cry.

Hold on. Just hold on until you get out of this office. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Isabel? You can cry in here, you know. You don’t need to hide your tears.”

“I’m going now,” Isabel says sharply. “I want to take a shower and forget this conversation ever happened.”

Dr. Seidler looks at her watch, notes that they still have fifteen minutes to go in the session, pauses, and thinks better of urging her patient to stay. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you want to talk before then you can ask the nurse to page me.”

“Fine.”

Before Isabel walks out of her doctor’s office she takes a deep breath and pulls her shoulders back, a posture meant to show determination. On her exhale, though, her shoulders fall forward and her body collapses into itself, deflating her defiance completely.

She retreats to her room, gathers up her shampoo and soap and heads to the nurses’ station.

“Yes, Isabel. What can we do for you?”

“I need to get into the sharps closet for a second.”

“Sure,” the nurse says while reaching for the big ring of keys attached to her white belt. Isabel follows her over to the closet. “What do you need?”

“Ah, well…I’m needing to shave, actually. I’ll bring the razor right back when I’m done.”

The nurse had started shaking her head halfway
through Isabel’s tentative request. “Has anyone talked to you about shaving?”

“No.”

“If you want to shave you need to be supervised. It’s not as bad as it sounds. One of us has to be there when you do it. Did you want to do it now?”

Isabel had known that there was probably a rule about shaving, but she hadn’t imagined a nurse would have to watch her do it. She tries to seem unfazed. “Um, sure. Okay. If that’s good for you?”

“Yep. Let’s get your razor first.”

The bathrooms at Three Breezes are large enough to accommodate a toilet, a sink and a long, narrow plastic shower stall. Inside the shower Isabel lets the water get hot before balancing her leg parallel to the floor to begin shaving.

“Okay, Isabel. Here’s your razor.” Before Isabel can reach around the mildewed vinyl shower curtain, the nurse pulls it back altogether and cheerfully hands the Lady Bic to a horrified Isabel. She tries to pull the curtain closed to maintain a semblance of dignity but the nurse catches her wet arm. “Nope. It’s got to stay open while you shave. I need to watch you.”

“Never mind! Just take the razor and go!” Isabel yells, her face already burning in shame and embarrassment, tears about to flow. The nurse looks bewildered for a moment, but then takes the razor gently from Isabel and leaves.

M
aybe sleep will make this day go faster.

Several hours after falling into a restless sleep Isabel wakes with a jolt of the kind of nausea that signals something tremendously important has been forgotten.

“What time is it?” she asks the first person she runs into outside her bedroom door.

“Eleven o’clock,” the orderly answers.

“A.m. or p.m.?”

“P.m.” His tone is sympathetic, as if she has just come out of a coma.

“Oh, my God, Keisha!” Isabel rushes over to the nurses’ station.

“Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty.” Connie the night nurse is on.

“Connie! Where’s Keisha? Did she leave already?”

“Nope. She’s still here. Ready to go. Her parents haven’t gotten here yet.” Connie exchanges a look with the other night nurse.

“Where is she? In her room?”

“Um, honey, no.” Connie sounds apologetic. “Keisha was supposed to leave earlier tonight before bedtime and
so they gave away her room. We had a new arrival tonight and we needed Keisha’s bed.”

“So where is she?” Isabel is still waking up but is alert enough to know that something is amiss.

“The kitchen.”

Isabel turns the corner into the tiny kitchen. There, with her nappy head resting on her crossed arms sits Keisha.

“Keisha? I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. I fell asleep….” Isabel realizes that Keisha, too, has been sleeping. “Oh, sorry.”

Keisha sits up and Isabel sees that she is back in her street wear: the Nike swoosh emblazoned on her hooded sweatshirt, the baggy Adidas sweatpants in a matching navy blue. Keisha’s packed suitcase sits alongside her, as if she is at a Greyhound bus terminal. “Izzy—” Keisha smiles groggily “—what time is it?”

“It’s eleven. Your parents call? They running late or something?”

Keisha looks upset and defensive and Isabel wonders if Keisha’s parents are going to turn up at all. She looks down.

“Want to watch TV with me? We could just hang out for a while until they get here.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

She stumbles as she stands up from the table, rights herself and follows Isabel into the living room. Sukanya is, of course, planted in the armchair that faces the television so Keisha and Isabel take the couch. Keisha curls up and resumes sleeping.

Isabel watches her and suppresses the urge to pet her, to pat her back, to reassure her that everything is going to be okay.

Keisha’s mother looks just like her but fat. She is hunched over a clipboard at the nurses’ station when Keisha and Isabel walk into the unit from breakfast.

“Mom? Mama?” Keisha runs up to her obese mother and gratefully throws her arms around her.

“Hi, baby.” Her mother seems weary and wary of her daughter. Isabel thinks she does not seem as happy to see Keisha as Keisha is to see her. “You ‘bout ready to go?”

Keisha is so elated her whole body looks like it is shaking. “Ready? I was
born
ready to leave
this
place. Lemme get my bag.” On her way past her sad mother, Keisha eyes the two men who appear to be accompanying her mom but she does not ask who they are. She runs back to Isabel’s room, where she had stowed her suitcase before leaving for breakfast.

Isabel is standing off to the side of the nurses’ station and is taking in the scene. As soon as Keisha bounds off, Isabel approaches Keisha’s mother.

“Mrs. Jackson? Hi, I’m Isabel Murphy. I’m a friend of Keisha’s.” She smiles, extending her hand.

“Hi there, sugar, how’re you?”

Why is she looking to these guys for permission to talk to me?

“Fine. Keisha’s so excited to be going home. She’s been talking about it nonstop.”

Who the hell are these guys and why are they looking me up and down…? Take a goddamn picture, it lasts longer.

Isabel pretends she has not seen Keisha brush past the two men without a greeting. “Are you guys friends of Keisha’s or something?”

No response.

Mrs. Jackson looks miserable.

The reporter in Isabel worries.

Finally, Keisha returns, dragging her bag and heading straight for the nurse on duty. “I almost forgot the sharps closet! I need to get my stuff from in there.” Because
Keisha had been brought to Three Breezes involuntarily she does not have much in the way of belongings.

The two burly men move in to either side of Keisha. The nurse, on her way to check the sharps closet for Keisha, tries to whisper, “Can’t you wait until she’s in the parking lot?” but Isabel picks it up.

“Keisha? What’s going on? Who are these guys?” Isabel asks Keisha, who is still smiling.

“Them? Oh, I dunno. All I know is I’m goin’ home with my mama!”

“Oh, baby.” Her mother looks like she is about to cry. “Oh, my baby.”

“Why you cryin’, Mama? I’m comin’ home!”

“Keisha Jackson?” One of the two men steps forward; his patience has run out. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

As he is reading Keisha her rights in front of the nurses’ station, Mrs. Jackson begins to wail loudly and wave her hands in the air around Keisha’s head. Keisha is frantic.

“Mom? Mama, what’s happenin’?” she cries. “What’s goin’ on here? Why they arrestin’ me?”

Chaos erupts on the unit. The nurse who had, moments earlier, urged the police to wait to arrest Keisha, rushes over to comfort her. The police are loudly, as if on a dare, reading Keisha her Miranda rights while handcuffing her wrists behind her back. Mrs. Jackson is wailing and chanting “my baby” over and over again and a bewildered Keisha is asking everyone who catches her eye why this is happening. Ben has joined the fray and is peppering the police with excited questions about their guns.

“Is that a .45 or a .22? I always get them mixed up….45s and .22s. How much ammo you carry with you? You have some stored in your cruiser, right? Am I right?”

Melanie, returning from breakfast, skips up to Keisha and tries to hug her goodbye.

Doesn’t she see Keisha’s a little tied up for the moment?

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye at breakfast!” she squeaks.
I guess it’s just another day, Melanie, huh? Just another person arrested right in front of you?

This place is unbelievable.

“You guys always wear bulletproof vests, don’t you? Huh? You always have to wear ’em, right? Am I right?”

When the police lead Keisha out of the unit toward the awaiting squad car Isabel falls into step alongside Mrs. Jackson.

“Mrs. Jackson? Mrs. Jackson, please…please tell me what’s going on here. Maybe this is a misunderstanding.”

“Ain’t no misunderstanding, child.” She stops crying long enough to look over her shoulder at Isabel, who stands at the edge of the parking lot. “My Keisha killed her nephew. Killed him dead.”