Finding Alice (32 page)

Now I feel silly and force myself to pick up my fork, and she does the same. But then I hesitate. Why is this so hard?

“Here, Alice.” She reaches over and picks up my plate and exchanges it with hers. “Does that make you feel better?”

I nod and take a tentative bite. To my surprise the salad tastes pretty good. Much better than hospital food. I really don’t think it’s tainted, but only time will tell. I look up at Julie and think she looks like a person you can trust. But how do you know? I almost consider telling her about my pregnancy fear but cannot force these words to my mouth. Instead I ask whether she and Dr. Golden have children.

“No, I always wanted to have children, but some of the procedures during my hospitalization made me sterile.” She shakes her head. “It’s sad the way some mental institutions used to treat their patients. Actually some still do. There should be laws to protect patients.”

“You mean there aren’t?”

“Not very good ones. That’s something that Jack and I are always
lobbying for too.” She laughs now. “We’re considered pretty radical in some circles.”

That should probably console me some, but it doesn’t. My mind seems stuck on four specific things. One, there are dangerous procedures in mental institutions; two, there are no laws to protect mental patients; three, the Goldens are considered radical in some circles; and, four, they are childless, and Julie wishes she had children. I tell myself not to dwell on all these things, but no matter how you look at it, this all seems to add up to trouble for me. I glance toward the closest exit and tell myself to make a fast break.

“That’s right,” says Amelia, although I don’t see her. The other voices chime in, telling me to run and that I deserve to die and that I’m worthless. I keep myself from putting my hands over my ears, but I’m not sure whether I speak or not.

“Are you okay?” I see Julie’s lips moving to form these words, but I’m not sure whether I heard her or not. I do all I can to focus my attention back on her, but my head is pounding, and my ribs hurt, and I am suddenly very tired. I think the pain pill is making me sleepy, or maybe there really was something in my salad after all. Maybe she had planned the whole switching thing with the waiter.

“That’s right,” says Amelia as we’re leaving the restaurant. “She’s got you now, you stupid idiot. I don’t even know why I waste my time with you.”

I offer no resistance to either Amelia or Julie as I get back into the pretty car. It makes no difference. Whether it’s Julie who destroys me or Amelia—what does it matter? I lean my head back and focus my attention on counting trees as Julie drives up the hill.
I try not to remember the last time I was on that hill. That icy night when Simon’s car went spinning out of control. Control. I have no control.

God, help me! I’m not sure if it’s a prayer or a curse or whether I have spoken it aloud or screamed it inside my head. But I think I hear that voice again.

I am with you always
.

Julie slowly passes through the security gates, but instead of parking in the front as Simon did both times before, she continues around to the back. This worries me a bit. She parks and gets out, and finally I decide I might as well too.

“I came back here so I could show you the greenhouse first.” She points to a large glass building ahead of us. “For some reason I think you might like it.”

I’m glad I still have on my rubber boots as we trudge through the wet grass. I notice that her smooth leather boots are getting soaked, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I guess when you’re rich, these things don’t trouble you so much.

“Here it is,” she announces as she opens a door.

I walk in and am surprised at the warmth and humidity inside. I wonder if this is what a tropical island might be like. And the colors and the smells are unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I am stunned to see all sorts of blooming flowers—pink, yellow, purple, red, white. It’s as if we’ve stepped out of gray January right into spring. The smell is almost intoxicating—a mixture of floral sweetness and earth and water, I think. I just walk around and stare at everything in wonder. There are lilies and tulips and orchids as well as all sorts of flowers that I don’t even recognize. I feel as if I am in
paradise. But I carefully keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. I still have a faint concern that this is all just a beautiful trap.

Julie walks me around and introduces me to several people who are working in here. Some look familiar, but their names go right through me. At the moment, I am more interested in plants than people. She shows me the water garden area where there is a large pond with flowering plants and colorful fish and a fountain that pours over a large sculpture of rocks.

Finally she shows me a section where they grow food for the kitchen. There are familiar things like tomatoes, lettuce, herbs, peppers, cucumbers, onions, and eggplants, as well as some tropical plants I’ve never seen before. My mother used to have a garden, but it wasn’t nearly as amazing as this. She grew standard things like carrots and green beans, and then she would can them. My job was to weed the garden, but I was never allowed to choose what we grew or even to plant the seeds. Still, I’ve always had a secret fascination for gardens and dreamed of having one of my very own someday.

“Do you like it?” I can tell by Julie’s bright smile that she’s hoping for a positive response. And so far I’ve barely mumbled a few words.

“It’s nice,” I mutter.

“It was my own special project,” she explains. “Growing things has been so therapeutic for me. It still is. I can’t wait for spring when we can move a lot of these things outside. You should see the gardens then. Really beautiful.”

I nod. “I’ll bet.”

“Ready for the rest of the tour?”

I shrug. I am not eager to go inside.

She takes my arm. “Don’t worry, Alice. We have no intention of locking you up. I promise you are only here to look around.”

And so we begin the tour. I must admit that this place is pretty impressive, if not convincing. Julie tells me that it took two years to complete the construction. “And the whole time I was so impatient,” she says as she pets a dog that’s just run up to greet us. “Now I realize that it’s remarkable we finished it so quickly.”

“Simon said that you inherited money to build it.” I lean down and pat the head of the friendly dog. I think it’s a yellow Lab, and he seems happy to meet me.

“Yes, it’s no secret. Although it wasn’t exactly an inheritance. No one has died yet. My family has always had lots of money, and I think my parents felt so bad about the years I was locked away that they wanted to make it up to me.” She laughs, and I wonder why she thinks it is funny. “When they learned about Jack’s dream to create a place like this, they offered to help.”

“You allow pets here?” I ask.

“This is Simon’s dog. His name is Peter. We’re watching him while Simon’s in the hospital. But you’re right, we do have pets. Animals help people get better. We have three other dogs: Herman, Pinky, and Joyce. Then we have a couple of cockatiels that can actually talk. Several fish aquariums. Five cats. And various hamsters, mice, and gerbils. And I’m probably forgetting someone.”

The first room we visit is an enormous kitchen and dining area. We are greeted by several people who seem to be working in here, but somehow it seems more like they’re playing than working. I notice there’s a lot of laughter, teasing, and tasting going on.

“Everyone helps out with the meals,” says Julie, pausing to
sample a bite of cookie dough. “We have a roster, so everyone gets a turn.”

Then we go down a hallway and peek into a music room where two men and a woman are playing piano, flute, and cello to a small audience. It’s classical and sounds pretty good to me. I think I recognize a couple of the faces from the Christmas party but can’t be sure. Then we go through an art room, where about a dozen people are working on all sorts of projects. I notice the heavyset dancer who cut in on me at the party—was his name Brad? He’s working with a large lump of brown clay, creating something that looks like a grizzly bear.

Julie shows me the library with its walls and walls of books, a computer room where I recognize Maddie, the woman from the party, and a crafts room with sewing machines and big tables. The people in there are working on some sort of quilt. I think it’s interesting that there are more men than women in that group.

Now we go up a flight of stairs, and Julie points out a couple of counseling rooms. They have windows, and I notice that Dr. Golden is talking to a young man in one room. And in the room next to this, I see a woman talking to a middle-aged man.

“These are the group session rooms,” says Julie as she points to a couple of conference rooms. “We really believe in group therapy. It’s one of our most effective tools toward healing.”

Then she shows me where the “residents” live. There is a woman’s floor and a men’s floor. “We have full-time medical personnel on hand,” she explains. “But if anyone has a real emergency, we have them transported to OHS. Fortunately, that’s only happened a couple of times.” She lets me peek into a room on the women’s floor. It looks fairly typical, like a nice hotel room. “We have single and
double rooms. We leave it up to the residents to decide. Some people enjoy the company of another, some don’t.”

I notice there is a phone, TV, and computer, and I wonder if these are for real or, like in furniture stores, just mock-ups. I ask about this.

“We want people to be completely comfortable here. These are optional. Some people want a phone or TV; some don’t. The whole idea is to make this place as much like the outside world as possible. Well, perhaps with a little less stress.” She laughs. “Not that there isn’t any stress here. With this many people, you can’t avoid an occasional conflict. But we consider them opportunities—learning experiences.”

We then go down to the basement where I am shown an exercise room, weightroom, complete spa, sauna, indoor swimming pool, large home theater, and game room. And then we go up some stairs and down a hallway until we reach what appears to be a small chapel.

“This is one of my favorite places,” she whispers from the doorway since several people are in there with bowed heads. “I come here a lot.”

I peer in to see a large stained-glass window that portrays Jesus with some children. The people in the chapel seem to be sincere, and I’m thinking if this is all just a show, well, it’s pretty amazing. But I am beginning to think that it’s not. More and more I am beginning to suspect that this place is the real thing. Just as Simon said. A place of healing. And surprisingly, I haven’t heard a peep out of Amelia since we got here. I hope she’s so mad at me that she’s left me for good. But I doubt this. I seriously doubt this.

I am quite apprehensive now, like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, or maybe it’s the bridge, and I am getting ready to leap. My heart is fluttering and pounding, and I think I might implode or
explode or just totally lose it and make a complete fool of myself. But I am thinking, If this is the real thing and if they really will let me come here, is it possible for me to hold on to this moment of clarity long enough to get myself officially booked in, signed up, whatever it is they do to seal the deal? And suddenly I am terrified that something will go wrong—that just like the child pressing her nose up to the toyshop window as the shopkeeper pulls down the shade and turns off the lights, I, too, will not be allowed to enter. Dr. Golden will change his mind.

We’re in the big room now, the one I helped to decorate for the Christmas party. Naturally, the decorations are all removed and put away, and everything looks just as it did when I first arrived that day. Except a number of people are milling about, sitting, talking. I guess there may be a dozen or more. Many of them wave to Julie, calling out greetings or invitations to join them in a game or conversation.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think it’s fairly amazing,” I say honestly.

“Not a hoax then?”

I shrug. “I don’t really think so. But if it is a hoax, it’s a good one.”

She smiles. “Ready to go now?”

I look around once more. And that fear is clutching at my chest again. What if I mess up somehow? What if they decide I’m not good enough? Then I shake my head. “Not really. I’m not sure I want to go.”

This makes her laugh. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Jack.” She turns and grins at me. “And Simon!”

We go back through the kitchen now. The cookies are just coming out of the oven. Julie reaches over and snatches one, and the guy with the bright yellow oven mitts playfully slaps her hand.

“Don’t you want one?” she asks me as she takes a big bite.

I look longingly at the chocolate chip cookies.
Of course I want one
. The question is, can I force my hand to reach out and pick one up? And if I do, can I make myself eat it?

“Aw, come on,” says the guy in the oven mitts. He holds the plate of cookies in front of me, waving them back and forth temptingly. Finally, when I don’t respond, he frowns and sets the plate back down on the big butcher-block island.

“Wait!” I say, grabbing for a cookie. “I
want
that.”

This makes several of them chuckle. But not in a mean way. Almost like they know exactly how I feel, understand my inner struggles, my longing for some kind of normalcy. Then I wonder if I’m simply imagining this, wishing it to be true.

I glance around the spacious kitchen as I nibble my cookie, which is still warm and chewy. I study the varied faces as they go about their culinary chores. Most of them appear to be about my age. But I am confused to see how they appear to be so normal and healthy. And then I am suspicious. Perhaps they are just actors, pretending to be residents? It’s possible.

Then I notice a guy who’s peeling potatoes at the sink. Despite the fact that there are others around, he seems cut off or isolated somehow. He keeps glancing over his shoulder with this furtive expression. I can tell he’s uncomfortable, or he doesn’t trust the others, or maybe he’s just watching his back. But he is clearly troubled about something. He reminds me of someone, and I think it’s me. Somehow just seeing him like this gives me a faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps I would fit in here after all.