Baggage Check (12 page)

Rebecca could not even process what she was hearing, but she nodded, hoping someone would repeat the list to her later. “When you bring her stuff back, just drop it at the front desk over there, and they'll deliver it. Now, let's go back and you can see her.”

Her mother was in a small room that reminded Rebecca of a college dorm, only less optimistic. There were two twin beds, each with a sickly mauve bedspread and grayish-white pillows. Each side of the room had a nightstand and a tall cabinet made of white pressboard. The cabinet had a bar across the top for clothes on hangers, and each nightstand had a large plastic cup resting on it with
ALABAMA BOARD OF MENTAL HEALTH
printed on the front. The lights were plastic, built in to the walls, with no cords. Rebecca noticed there were no drawers in the nightstands or doors on the cabinets. All open shelving. No place to hide.

Her mother's roommate must have been out in the common area with the other residents, because one of the beds was empty, with a navy sweater draped across it. On the other sat the woman Rebecca had known every minute of her life but now barely recognized. Lorena Williamson was gaunt and pasty. Never a large woman, Rebecca thought her mother must have lost about forty pounds since she had seen her last. Her eyes were sunken and red, her arms bony beneath sagging flesh. Rebecca wanted to cry.

Nurse Kathy spoke from the doorway. “Mrs. Williamson, your daughter Rebecca is here.”

“Your daughter Rebecca.” In case my mother doesn't know me,
Rebecca thought grimly.

Lorena looked up blearily. “Becky?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Did you finish your homework? I told Mrs. Pindergrass you had to do your homework before you could go outside. Where is Cory? Where is your brother?”

A painful lump collected in Rebecca's throat, but she did not want to cry. Not now. “Mama,” she said gently, sitting down next to her mother on the bed. “Cory's gone. He died, remember? Years and years ago.”

“No,” Lorena said lightly. “You're thinking of something different. Don't worry. I'll wait up for him. You go on to bed, now.” She patted Rebecca's hand.

Rebecca rose obediently, grateful for an excuse to leave the room, even if it was imaginary. She kissed her mother on the forehead. “I'll be back soon,” she muttered. She wished it didn't feel like a lie.

When they were back in the hall, Rebecca turned to Kathy with tears in her eyes. “What is going on? She's never been like this. Is this because of the mess at the house?”

Kathy put a gentle hand on Rebecca's arm. “She's actually better today than she was yesterday. She was nearly catatonic and wouldn't eat. I was afraid we were going to have to send her to the main hospital for dehydration. Dr. Sussman will be able to explain better, but from what I know, this seems like more than just the hoarding issue.”

Hoarding. Of course, that's what it was. Rebecca had always known it, that her mother's “collecting” and “saving” things was not normal. She had sensed it was getting worse as the years went on. Wasn't that why Daddy had moved out? But she had never put the word to it. There were TV shows about hoarders and even though Rebecca had never seen one of them, the commercials always made her uneasy. She wondered darkly if her mother would end up on TV, too.

Kathy led Rebecca to an office at the end of the hall. It was larger than many of the rooms they had passed, but not a luxurious office by any means. Three of the walls were swimming with books—on shelves and credenzas and piled high from the floor, with papers sticking out every which way. On the back wall were four imposing filing cabinets, one of which was topped with a wilting plant. On the others rested binders, boxes of office supplies, and a single dusty frame containing the Serenity Prayer against a background of fading watercolors.
Not exactly setting a great example,
Rebecca thought.

Dr. Sussman looked far, far too young to be a psychiatrist—more like a child playing doctor. He wore a checkered shirt unbuttoned at the collar under his white lab coat, no tie. He sat in what had once been a polished red leather executive chair, but it had seen better days and was worn in patches. He was signing forms in a stack of manila folders, and when Kathy introduced her, he smiled tersely at Rebecca and continued his work. He handed Kathy the stack of completed folders, holding the last one on his desk.

“I'll stop back by in a few minutes, Rebecca,” Kathy said behind her before departing.

“Hi, Ms. Williamson,” Dr. Sussman said formally, reviewing the file on his desk.

“Rebecca, please.”

“Sure. I'm Will Sussman. I've been your mother's primary treating psychiatrist since she was admitted. Though, obviously, we work as a team here.” He glanced at the door as though including the rest of the staff. Rebecca was not sure if this was for her benefit or in case someone was passing by, so they would not feel slighted.

Rebecca repeated the question she had just put to Kathy. “What is going on? My mother seems very confused. Does this have to do with the hoarding?”

Dr. Sussman shook his head, still looking at the chart. “Good question. Clinically, hoarding should not have anything to do with her orientation to the here and now. Um, the confusion. Anyway, there's some dispute in the research, but most professionals agree that hoarding is on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum.”

He fished around for a large binder under some papers on the desk and opened it, flipping pages while he talked. “While OCD and related disorders can sometimes feature delusions or magical thinking among their symptoms, they are not generally characterized by pervasive confusion about time and place, nor the catatonic state your mother was in when she was brought in.”

Rebecca wrinkled her brow, trying to wrap her mind around what he was saying. “What does this mean?” she asked meekly.

He seemed to notice her in the room, then. His voice softened and he took a less academic tone. “Sorry. Have you heard of OCD?”

“Yes.” She had, though she hoped he would not ask her to give a definition.

“Okay, well, hoarding behavior is pretty much a special form of OCD, which is a pathological response to anxiety. It's not ‘normal' behavior, especially when it gets to the point where your mom is, but usually a person who has OCD or who hoards, they are still mostly in touch with reality. They have a skewed view of things, of course, but usually just related to certain rituals, like in your mom's case, holding on to stuff.

“But Mrs. Williamson seems to have something else going on as well. As you pointed out, she's confused about when and where she is. And when she first came in, she was completely dissociative—that is to say, disconnected from reality. She was either unable or unwilling to even speak at first.”

“So what does it mean?” Rebecca repeated. “I mean, will she get better?”

“It depends,” he said. Then hurriedly he added, “Well, let me say this. I'm very encouraged that she is more lucid today than when she came in, and I'm hopeful that means she will continue to improve. But mental illness can be hard to predict, so I don't want to tell you she'll be fine in a certain number of days or weeks.”

Mental illness.
He had said the words offhand, but to Rebecca they were as stark and foreboding as though they'd been stamped on her forehead.

“Why—,” she stammered, choking back tears, “why is she this way?”

And will I be this way, too? Am I doomed?
Thoughts too shameful to voice.

He sighed. “So much about what we do is a mystery,” he said. “The human mind is extraordinary and powerful. It can hide itself, protect itself, and sometimes heal itself, and we don't always understand why or how.”

Great,
Rebecca thought.
I have no idea what's going on and this guy thinks he's Gandalf.
She caught herself twisting her ring, and then gripped the arms of the chair to still herself.

Dr. Sussman did not seem to notice her frustration. “My guess would be that your mom had sort of a predilection toward the hoarding, or at least to some form of OCD. Those things are often at least partly hereditary. But environment plays a role, too, and sometimes a traumatic event can not only trigger a worsening of the OCD, it can cause the kind of psychotic break your mom seemed to experience this week. You had a brother who died, is that right?”

“Yes,” she said. “In a car accident.”

He was flipping through the chart. “When was that?”

“In 1997. He was eighteen.”

Dr. Sussman made a note in the chart. “Thanks,” he said. “It's been hard putting everything together.”

Poor you,
Rebecca thought acidly. She tried to remind herself that this man was helping her, and her mother, no matter what a jackass he might seem.

“Had you noticed the hoarding before that?” he asked.

She tried to think. “I don't know. I was only sixteen then.” Her father used to tease her mother for being a pack rat but it never seemed crazy to Rebecca. She saved silly things like wrapping paper and old sour cream containers, but Rebecca had always thought she was just thrifty. They had never had money to waste, that much was certain.

Will Sussman made a tent with his fingers, sitting back in the chair and looking at her directly. “I can't know for sure, but if I had to guess, I would say that maybe your mom was always a little inclined toward hoarding, which basically means that keeping certain things made her feel less anxious sometimes, but that the trauma of losing your brother caused her to spiral out of control, so that the hoarding behaviors became harder and harder to keep in check.”

For a jackass, he was pretty good. This description fit almost exactly with how things had been after Cory died. First it was that her mother did not want to get rid of anything belonging to Cory, not even his old clothes and baseball gear, which were just collecting dust in the shrine she had made of his room. Then she began to collect little things, like magazines she was saving in case she needed a new recipe for something. But she wasn't cooking or even eating much; Rebecca and her dad survived on TV dinners and the Hardee's drive-through.

Then came the garage sale phase, which started late in Rebecca's junior year of high school. Her mother developed the ambitious idea that she would collect and refurbish “antiques” and knickknacks for resale. A well-meaning friend of hers, probably hoping to help Lorena develop a hobby after mourning for her son, had offered her a booth space at the big antique shop in Gadsden. For months, Lorena went garage saleing every weekend and came back with the most inexplicable loads of junk. Broken record players, children's toys, dry-rotted furniture. “I can do something with this,” she would say, adding each item to the pile that started in their living room and eventually took over most of the kitchen.

“I can do something with this,” Rebecca muttered.

“Pardon?”

“That's what she used to say, all the time. Mom. She would bring home junk and say ‘I can do something with this.' It was like her mantra or something.”

“Oh, yes.” Dr. Sussman sounded distracted. He was scribbling on a pad.

They were the words Rebecca and her dad came to dread most. At first, Lorena would look to them, bright eyed and expectant, for their approval of whatever she had found. She would tell them elaborate stories about where the item came from, or how it would look with a fresh coat of paint. After a while, though, she stopped showing them her treasures when she acquired them, which was often when no one else was home. They would simply appear on the pile or on the back porch, or sometimes even in the back of the closet or the trunk of a car. As the months passed, the quality of the items diminished and the quantity increased. Very few of the items she had painted or refurbished sold at her booth, so the logjam was at their house.

In the early years, Rebecca's dad would help control the chaos. He would insist that Lorena cut back on her garage sales. He would make sweeps of the house: reorganizing, putting the less desirable items in the backyard shed, even throwing things out from time to time. After Rebecca moved to Georgia for her senior year and then went on to college, however, it became harder and harder for him to keep her mother in check. Lorena became defensive and angry when challenged. She retrieved treasures from the trash. And when he put her on a strict budget to curb her garage sale habit, she began accumulating newspapers and food containers in place of knickknacks.

Rebecca had been in her midtwenties when her father got his own apartment. He'd come to Atlanta and taken her out for dinner when he told her. He wasn't divorcing Lorena, he insisted. He never would. He loved her mother always. “I just can't live in a home where there's no place for me,” he had said sadly.

In a way, she admired how long her dad had held to this idea. For nearly seven years, he had been faithful to Lorena, scarcely unpacking his suitcase at the new apartment. He'd gone home twice a week to bring food and to sit with Lorena for a meal. Rebecca gathered that he tried to clean up a bit while he was there, and that once in a while he even spent the night with his wife. But how long could a marriage go on that way?

Eventually Richard had rented his own house—the lonely bungalow off a two-lane highway he lived in now—but he was still paying the mortgage and the bills at Lorena's place, without question. Rebecca was not sure when he had started seeing Sonia. She'd been absorbed in her own life, and resisted understanding her father's relationship as long as she could. But Sonia had kept popping up in conversation, and as it became clear they were more than friends, Rebecca and her dad silently agreed not to delve any deeper.

Richard had not divorced Lorena, but he had left her all the same. His name was on the insurance card she was probably using during her stay here, but it was not Richard Williamson sitting in the chair across from this arrogant guy in the white coat. Daddy would have known what to say, or at least would have asked more intelligent questions than she was. But for now, Rebecca was it.