My Lost Daughter (31 page)

Alex steadied Shana with one hand. “Did Peggy really hit you? Is that why you're limping?”

“They fucked me up big time,” she told him, placing her hand on her forehead. “I don't know what they gave me but it was serious shit.” Her eyelids felt so heavy, they had narrowed to slits.

“Look at me, Shana. Did Peggy really hit you?”

“This is what I remember, okay? Peggy and George came to get me and took me to a room in the isolation section. George held me down while Peggy jabbed me with a needle. Then Peggy just walloped me. She said something to George about me being a troublemaker. No, I remember now. She said I was a pain in the ass. George told her he shouldn't be in the room.”

“Why? Peggy gave you a shot in the arm, right?”

“No, she stuck me in the butt like she always does.” Shana's eyes closed and her body began swaying as if she were about to collapse.

Alex grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Don't go to sleep, Shana. Finish telling me what happened.”

“I already told you. Peggy pulled my pants down . . . exposed me in front of George.” Her eyes blinked as she fought against the drug. “After she hit me, she left me where everyone could see me.”
Shana could tell that Alex was furious, but he was controlling himself until she filled in all the details.

“How did your leg get hurt?”

“I fell on the floor after Peggy hit me. I must have landed on my knee or something. All I know is it hurts to walk.”

“That's it,” Alex said, tossing his hands in the air. “Call an attorney. I'll look one up in the yellow pages. Come on, we'll get in touch with someone right now.”

Shana limped behind Alex as he headed to the pay phone, waiting as he flipped through the San Francisco area phone book. The thick book was attached to the phone with a heavy cord so the patients couldn't throw it at each other. He tossed a quarter into the slot and dialed a number. “Here,” he said, handing her the phone. “They'll need to hear the facts from you.”

“Hello, my name is Shana Forrester,” she said, the medication finally leveling off. “I'm being held against my will at Whitehall Psychiatric Hospital. They're abusing me, hitting me and forcing me to take mind-altering medication. I want to sue the hospital and everyone who works here.”

“You've never seen Mr. Atwood before?” a female voice asked.

“No, I haven't,” Shana told her. “Is he in now? May I speak to him?”

“He's with a client. He doesn't have any appointments available until the end of the month. Would you like to schedule one now?”

No one listened anymore. “If I'm being held against my will, how could I come to Mr. Atwood's office? Don't you have a fucking brain?”

“I don't have to listen to this,” the woman said, promptly disconnecting.

Shana turned to Alex. “I shouldn't have smarted off. Now what do I do?”

“Well, you can try calling another attorney or you can call the police. Frankly, I think you have a problem with the police. They get calls from people in mental hospitals all the time. I doubt if your complaints will carry much weight.”

Shana walked over and collapsed onto a sofa, exhausted from the effort of holding herself in an upright position.

Alex sat down beside her, a frustrated look on his face. Shana realized it was useless to call the police or more random attorneys from the yellow pages. She was in a nuthouse, for Christ's sake. No one was going to take her seriously. She had no alternative. “I'm going to call my mother,” she said, hoping Alex would get the hint and give her some privacy.

“How many times have I told you?” he said sharply. “You can't call long distance on that phone.”

Shana was annoyed at the tone of his voice. She felt so agitated and bewildered that she found herself walking in circles around the far corners of the room. After a few minutes, Milton, the “Walking Man,” joined her and together they shuffled around the room in their green pajamas.

“Hi, Milton,” she said. “How's the walking going?”

“See, the only reason I'm here is I have more brain waves than most people and that makes me excitable. It also causes insomnia and then when I can't sleep, I suffer from sleep deprivation and sometimes act bizarre. How about you?”

“I suffer from sleep deprivation, too. I guess I act bizarre just like you, Milton. Otherwise I wouldn't be here.”

“There's this lady in the room next to mine who sings all night. I can't sleep with someone singing all the time.”

“ ‘Amazing Grace,' right?”

“I used to go to church,” Milton continued, “but then I get caught up in the Bible. Like I try to analyze it all and decipher it all—the Bible, you know. And then I can't sleep and I suffer from sleep deprivation and exhibit aberrant behavior.”

“How aberrant?” Shana asked, seeing Alex out of the corner of her eye grinning at her. Maybe she could get Milton to take out George so she could escape.

“I kill cats, mostly cats.”

Shana stopped walking. “Only cats?”

“Once I killed a rabbit,” Milton said, “but mostly I kill cats. See,
I don't really like cats. They make too much noise at night and then I can't sleep and I suffer from sleep deprivation. And then . . .”

“You kill more cats, right?” Shana said. “How about people, Milton? Could you kill a person for me if I kept you up all night?”

Milton suddenly halted and looked Shana in the eye with a good deal of lucidity, particularly considering their conversation. “That's not funny, you know. I don't want to kill cats. And I would never kill a person.”

The guy was certainly odd, but Shana was beginning to relax. Walking seemed to calm her just as it did Milton. Exercising might counteract the effects of the drugs. “I'm sorry, Milton. Forgive me.” She turned and headed off in the opposite direction.

The only hope poor Milton could give her would be to drive George crazy. She wondered if he called the police station and told them he knew who'd killed J.F.K. After she circled the room again, she headed toward the smokers' table, where Norman, Karen, and May were seated. She realized she wasn't limping anymore. Funny thing about Whitehall, it was like living inside someone else's body. In that respect, it wasn't all that bad. But a person could also forget who they were, their loved ones, and even the life they'd had before Whitehall. If they were here long enough, a person could simply disappear.

“What room are you in?” Karen asked once Shana had taken a seat at the smokers' table.

“I don't know.” Since she'd been sleeping in the isolation ward, she hadn't given thought to where she would sleep tonight.

“I bet they put you in with Michaela. She says it's the name of an archangel or something. Anyway, she's a plain-looking lady . . . reads the Bible day and night. I think they've been giving her shock treatments. They give them to most of the schizophrenics.”

Great, Shana thought facetiously. Just then, Karen's head jerked to the left and she said “Shit, fuck, dick” and then glanced back at her as if nothing had happened.

“You know, Karen, my knowledge of Tourette's syndrome is limited but aren't there drugs you can take?”

Karen looked down at the table and Shana realized her timing had been inappropriate. She should have never questioned her about her illness after an outburst. The spontaneous profanity had to be more humiliating than the barking.

“I was on drugs when I was in school,” Karen told her, looking even more disturbed than before. “I have a degree in electrical engineering, but I can't get the medicine anymore. The pharmaceutical companies don't manufacture enough and it costs a fortune. It doesn't matter anyway, I lost my allocation.”

“Is that why you came here, because your condition got worse and you couldn't get the medication you needed?”

“Basically,” Karen replied, emitting another long string of profanities: “Shit, fuck, asshole, pussy . . .” Then she barked exactly like a fox terrier.

Shana reached over and stroked her hand. “You're a good person, Karen. My mother's a judge and when I get out, she can help me figure out how to lobby against the pharmaceutical companies. No one should be denied the proper medication.”

“Thanks,” Karen said, a tear running down one side of her face. “You're a good person, too, Shana. We know you don't belong, but we're glad you're here. Maybe you really will be able to help. A lot of people say they want to help, then when they get out, they forget about me. No one could help Jimmy. Now he's dead.”

“What happened? Did he die here at Whitehall?”

“No,” Karen said, more tears falling. “Someone shot him. I guess they were trying to rob him. It was on the news or we would have never known.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“Paranoid schizophrenia,” she said, brushing a finger underneath her nose. “He developed it when he was in high school. You know the profile, smart guy, perfect grades, everyone liked him. Then all of a sudden the floor dropped out from under him. Jimmy hated the side effects of the medicine so he refused to take it. That's how he ended up here at Whitehall.”

“What a terrible illness. Isn't there a cure of any kind?”

“The only good thing I know about schizophrenia is the symptoms sometimes go away or lessen when the person gets older.”

“That's not so bad then. How old was Jimmy?”

“Thirty-seven,” Karen said, massaging her neck. “The symptoms don't diminish until a person is in their seventies or eighties. By then, they could be dead so it wouldn't matter. I don't know why the hospital released Jimmy unless his insurance was tapped out. He was psychotic the day he walked out of here. He had a wife and kids and I was afraid he might hurt them. He'd hurt them before. That's why the court committed him. It was either Whitehall or jail.”

“Heavy,” Shana said.

“He talked about killing himself a lot, so I guess he got what he wanted. Jimmy had a tough life. I'm happy he's in a better place now.”

Shana didn't see how being dead was a better place, even when stacked up against a lifetime inside a mental institution. She occasionally got depressed and overwhelmed, but she would never kill herself. Although she'd stopped going to mass, she was still a Catholic and knew she would rot in Hell if she took her own life.

The church had changed its position on suicide in recent years, finally taking into account people with special circumstances such as a lifetime of excruciating pain, acute mental illness, or those facing a prolonged and agonizing death.

That didn't mean God had changed his mind, however. The church liked to think they had a direct link to God, but Shana wasn't sure that was the case. The Vatican reminded her of a private club for stuffy old men who'd lost touch with reality. And what was the deal with the costumes? Didn't they know what century it was? Maybe if they dressed like normal men, people might take them more seriously.

The big dogs at the Vatican liked to boast that God lived there. My ass, she thought. The church had sheltered sex offenders, which left her believing that God had moved out of the Vatican a long time ago. Criminals were criminals. A priest's collar wasn't a get-out-of-jail-free pass.

But she still believed enough that she wasn't willing to go against the church's teachings. Hell was supposed to be repetition and she couldn't stand repetition.

She turned to Karen and clasped her hand tightly. “I promise I won't forget you when I get out. I'm only a few months shy of graduating from law school. I'm certain I can find a way to help you. It may take time, though, so don't give up hope.”

“Don't worry,” Karen said. “I have another person who's going to help me.”

MONDAY, JANUARY 18
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

Visiting hours at Whitehall were from seven to nine every evening. Shortly after seven, people started appearing at the doors. Patients were allowed to leave and follow their visitors to the outside courtyard, the area they passed on the way to the cafeteria. Various chairs were placed in small groups throughout the area.

Shana watched, wondering if her mother would show up. Damn it, Lily had put her in this place. The least she could do was come to visit her, see how she was doing. Of course, it was Monday and her mother was in trial, which was obviously more important than seeing her supposedly drug-addicted daughter. Had Lily committed her to Whitehall to punish her for wanting to drop out of law school, or was it so Morrow could knock some sense into her? The hatred she felt for her mother intensified. While she was locked up in this awful place, Lily was back in Ventura with her new fuck buddy, waiting for Dr. Morrow to call and tell her when she could pick up her pathetic offspring.

What her mother didn't know, and Shana wouldn't stoop to tell her, was Morrow was not going to release her until her insurance ran dry. Even then, he could always persuade Lily to pay out of her
own pocket. Shana had already established that her mother was vulnerable and would try to buy her way out of just about anything. How many parents would dish out the kind of money Shana had been getting without asking so much as a single question? Besides, Morrow was a doctor and Lily would never question a doctor.

She recalled breaking her leg while on a ski trip when she was seventeen. The doctor at the tiny hospital in Mammoth, where the ski resort was located, hadn't felt the need to call in an orthopedic surgeon, even though Shana was certain her leg needed more than the average cast. Her mother believed the doctor and Shana was sent home in a cast. After three months of agony, Lily finally gave in and took her to a specialist who ended up inserting a metal plate and five screws. Lily had told the surgeon, “The man was a doctor. I didn't know anything about broken bones. Why wouldn't I trust him to give my daughter the right treatment?”