Finding Alice (33 page)

chapter
THIRTY-FOUR

Another Golden Key

I
know it sounds cliché, but I literally feel like a cat trapped on a hot tin roof as I stay with Faye in her cat house, waiting for my “appointment” with Dr. Golden. I pace and worry and can’t seem to relax. I’m sure I even make the cats nervous, and I know Cheshire doesn’t appreciate it. Naturally, Amelia has been coming around a lot, haunting and taunting and insulting me. I try to block her out with “self-talk,” a tool that Julie explained to me. She told me to talk to myself but only saying things that are encouraging and kind and good and true.

“How am I supposed to know the difference between what’s true and what isn’t?” I asked her the day that she dropped me back here after my visit to the Golden Home.

“It’s hard. Especially at first. But it helps to talk to others too. If you feel confused by the voices, just talk to Faye. I know she’ll understand.” Then she handed me a Walkman and a small case of CDs. “Try to avoid being alone too much, Alice. That’s not good. And don’t allow yourself to have long periods of silence.”

“Silence?” I rolled my eyes. “I wish.”

“Yeah, I know. But try listening to these CDs. That’ll help. Some are soothing music, and some are positive thinking exercises. Hang in there. It won’t be long now.”

Even so, I am still afraid that I will blow it when I go in to see Dr. Golden. Or that I’ll mess up before I even get the chance to go in. I’m afraid I’ll give in to the voices, the threats, the pressure, and hit the road before I can get help. But at least I am finally willing to admit I need help. When I spoke to Simon on the phone, he said that’s the first step. And I can admit that, at least for the moment. And I still believe that the Golden Home is legitimate. Or so I keep telling myself—more self-talk. But who knows what I’ll believe by tomorrow? It’s unsettling.

It’s been three days since I went to visit. Three very long days. My mother came to visit yesterday. She said it was to drop off some of my things, but I could tell by her eyes that she’s still very worried about me, and I’m sure she was just using this as an excuse to check on me. I don’t know if I reassured her or not, but I did my best to appear confident that everything was going to be okey-dokey. Perhaps I shall become an actress someday. It seems I get a lot of practice pretending to be what I am not.

My mother told me that her new church has a prayer chain, and they are praying for me. I thanked her for this, but quite honestly, I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. I am still trying to realign my thinking in regard to religion. Trying to separate God from the negative church experiences of my childhood. But it is so difficult to differentiate. And sometimes I think my poor little brain is going to explode. I usually put in one of Julie’s CDs about that time. I wish I were able to think about these things more clearly, but
everything gets so meshed together in my brain. I suffer from Vege-matic of the mind; my thoughts and beliefs get chopped and whirled and puréed until they’re a pile of mush that makes absolutely no sense.

But at least I’ve stayed on speaking terms with God. I even talk to him when I’m angry, which seems to be a lot lately. Faye says that’s okay. She says he likes us to be honest and open with him. I hope she’s right because sometimes I am pretty certain he’s going to shoot down a lightning bolt and zap me right off the face of the planet. This hasn’t happened yet, although we did have a pretty good thunderstorm last night, and I wondered if God was trying to tell me something. I’d feel terrible for Faye and the cats if he actually destroyed her house. I even considered leaving, but Faye enticed me to have cocoa, so I stayed.

Even though I’ve tried to be honest with God—and what is honesty anyway?—I still haven’t mentioned anything about my baby to him. For one thing, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, and besides that, it might be considered a lack of faith on my part. What if I am his chosen one but I wimp out on him? How would that make him feel? What would it do to his plans? Sure there are times when I am fairly certain that this whole pregnancy thing is just another trick of my imagination. But even then I’m not sure. Naturally, Amelia still tells me it’s not. But I’ve really been trying to ignore her.

Today is the day that I get my “interview” with Dr. Golden. I am so nervous I couldn’t even eat breakfast. I feel like I’m applying for a job, only it’s not just a job, it’s my whole life. I am so worried that I will say or do the wrong thing or offend Dr. Golden or freak out and run. I try not to remember all the stupid things I said to him the
night of the Christmas party or in the hospital. I wonder if he’s forgotten them yet.

Julie is trying to be helpful. She even offered to pick me up and take me there. Just the idea of this made me uneasy. Instead, I have hired a taxi with some of the money my mom gave Faye for me. (I’m sure Mom thinks I’m too irresponsible to have my own money right now.) Just the same, this gives me some control over my situation, but even that scares me. If I have control, I might tell the driver to stop in the middle of town and drop me off on a corner. Or on top of the bridge, where I will leap out of the taxi, scale the guardrail, and then jump. Or I could chicken out altogether. So I crank up my Walkman as Miguel Hernando drives through the city traffic. I was careful to read his ID on the dash when I got in, just in case he was a fraud. But I don’t think he is. The CD I’m listening to is about positive thinking, and I’m surprised I don’t have it memorized by now. For all I know, I’m probably answering the questions out loud, but Miguel doesn’t seem to mind. I’m guessing he’s used to driving kooks around in his taxi. He probably figures it’s safer that crazy people don’t drive their own cars anyway.

We’re passing through the security gates now, and I remove my headphones, coil up the wires, and tuck the Walkman into my new backpack. This is what Aaron got me for Christmas. I wonder if it was my mom’s suggestion since I am pretty certain she disposed of my old one. But what did she do with the journals and the secrets they contained? I still think about this from time to time, but I’ve been afraid to ask her. Afraid it will worry her that I still care about such things. But I do. I still think some of the words I wrote have
important messages—things I didn’t completely understand at the time but things I may still need to know about.

The taxi stops at the big front doors, and Miguel tells me how much I owe him. I take what I think is the right amount of money from my jacket pocket, although I’m afraid I’m confused. I hand the wad of bills to him, then immediately suspect I’ve given him too much. I wonder if I should wait for him to give me change or just let him keep it. Are you supposed to tip taxi drivers? This is all so foreign to me. Finally I decide to just get out and let it go. It’s only money.

I walk up to the big double doors, push one open, and step into the foyer. No uniforms, nurses, orderlies, or stained lab coats to meet me. Dr. Golden’s secretary told me just to go up the stairs and right to his office, but even so, I feel like an intruder. I think I need someone to sign me in and take me by the hand. I hear voices in the big front room, but no one comes to help me. So I walk up the stairs, counting each step as I go. I find that counting is a good way to keep my mind occupied sometimes. But I need to be careful about this. I don’t want to turn into one of those freaks who can’t stop counting lampposts, parking meters, whatever happens to come in multiples. I remember this homeless man downtown who everyone calls “the CPA” and how he counts everything he sees. Once I heard him on 7,435. He was counting sidewalk cracks. I felt sorry for him at first, but then I realized there are worse problems.

I see the door to Dr. Golden’s office. I wonder if I’m supposed to knock or just walk right in. I know that he has a secretary, since she’s the one who called me. But I’m not sure which door leads to her
office. Finally I knock on Dr. Golden’s door, peeking through the window as I do. He is on the phone, but he waves me in anyway. I slink in and sit down in the chair he points out to me. I glance around the paneled room with lots of full bookshelves and observe that there is no leather couch anywhere in sight. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“That sounds just great,” he’s saying into the receiver. “I’m looking forward to it, Hal. Thanks for everything.” Then he hangs up the phone and smiles at me. “How’s it going, Alice?”

“Okay.” Already I’m second-guessing my answer. Should I have said “not so good”? Or put on a positive front and said “great”? Or simply have been honest and told him I’m really scared? Which is the right answer? At least I didn’t say “fine.”

He starts going over what sound like fairly typical questions. Personal perhaps, but then he is a doctor. He asks me things about family history, relationships, general health, and then the hardest question, When did I first begin experiencing my symptoms?

“You mean the actual voices and things like that?” I ask, hoping for clarification. Or perhaps I’m just stalling.

“Yes, voices, feelings, smells, hallucinations … or just anything that you might consider out of the ordinary. The first events that began to lead you away from your normal life.”

I frown. “The truth is, I’ve never considered myself to be all that normal. I mean, how would I know what normal is? But even as a kid I thought something was weird about me. It’s like my imagination would take over sometimes. And then I was always uncomfortable around people—kind of anxious, you know?”

I see that he’s making notes, and this worries me a bit. I’m afraid
I am saying too much or all the wrong things. “It’s not that I was neurotic exactly,” I say quickly. “Just different. Sort of. I don’t think I fit in very well.”

He smiles now. “Don’t worry, Alice. There are no right or wrong answers here. I just want to get to know you better so I can help you through this.”

“Does this mean I’m getting in?”

He looks up and smiles. “Yes. Of course. Didn’t you know that?”

“Not for sure. I thought today was kind of like a test.”

He chuckles and sets down his pen. “No. It’s just some preliminary stuff. I’ve got most of your medical records already, and even some of your charts from Forest Hills, but I wanted to hear your own perceptions. That really means more to me than the observations of others.”

He’s going over some papers now. “Usually I require a physical for all new residents, but Dr. Spangler at OHS has provided me with everything I need for now.” He peers at a yellow paper in the pile.

Suddenly I am uneasy. I wonder if Dr. Spangler wrote down the part about me missing my period. Does Dr. Golden believe that I’m pregnant?

“Of course, you little imbecile!”

Surprised, I look to my left to see Amelia sitting on a side table, one blue-jean leg crossed over the other with her cowboy boot swinging back and forth. “Why do you think he’s so interested in you?”

Panic rises inside me, like a cold reptilian creature crawling from my stomach to my throat. I try to take a deep breath, one of the relaxing techniques I’ve been trying to use, but it’s not working, so I begin to fidget in my chair. Suddenly the room is hot and stuffy, and
I am desperate to get out of here. I imagine myself bursting from this office, running down the stairs, out the door, and down the driveway to the gates. Would they let me out? I wonder if this might be a good test. Find out if what they’ve been telling me is really true.

“Alice?”

I look up and suspect by his expression that he’s been talking and I’ve been lost in my own mind again. “Yes?” I sit up straighter, at attention.

“Are you feeling uncomfortable?”

“No.”

He smiles. “I don’t think you’re being honest.”

“Okay, I
am
feeling uncomfortable. I think I want to go now.”

“That’s a good girl, Alice,” urges Amelia. “Stand up and leave—before it’s too late!”

“No one is stopping you.” He leans back in his chair and waits.

“Are we done?”

“If you’re done, then I’m done. I don’t want to keep you here against your will, Alice. But I do need to know something.”

I am afraid he’s going to ask me about the pregnancy thing. I look down at my backpack and try to think of a good answer.

“I need to know if you really want to join us here, Alice. Do you really want to work on getting well?”

I look up.

“Because it takes real self-discipline to get better. Are you willing to give this your full effort?”

I swallow, then nod. “Yes. I really do want to get well.”

“Don’t be a fool, Alice!” screams Amelia. “Don’t fall for his lies!”

I close my eyes and try to block her words.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

With my eyes still closed, I press my lips together and firmly shake my head. Then I stop. I know I must tell the truth. I open my eyes and speak. “Just one thing, Dr. Golden.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I’m not sure. Sometimes I don’t even think I am. But then so many things are so confusing, how can I know for sure …” I look intently at him, then blurt, “Do you think I could be pregnant?”

He studies me for a moment. “What do you think?”

“Okay, I know this might sound crazy. But then what do you expect from a …” I try to laugh, but it probably sounds more like a weak cackle. “I mean I haven’t
done
anything, you know, that could make me get pregnant. But I keep thinking that perhaps God might’ve, well, somehow might’ve
made
me pregnant.” I shake my head. “That does sound crazy, doesn’t it?”

He leans forward. “Would it surprise you if I told you that you’re not the first woman who’s come in here and said something just like that?”

“Really?”

“I don’t want to make you feel insignificant, Alice, but imagining that you’ve been chosen by God for some sort of immaculate conception is not all that unusual with schizophrenia.”

“It’s not?” Although I’m relieved, I still find this hard to believe.

“I’d estimate I’ve worked with at least twenty women who believed that exact same thing. Maybe even more.”