I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (12 page)

“So you took it upon yourself to be his executioner,” says Mrs. Youngblood.

Luke shrugs. “What the hell, somebody had to do it. It was what he wanted. He couldn't pull his own plug, and the nurses sure as hell weren't going to do it for him.”

“This person is a simple psychopath,” says Professor Sarbanes to Mrs. Youngblood. “If Dr. Rowe made the decision to put him in our group, I think it was poor judgment.”

“We can talk about that later,” says Mrs. Youngblood.

Professor Sarbanes is red in the face and beginning to twitch. He says, “She has put our safety in jeopardy, to put it bluntly. I'm going to make a formal complaint.”

“That's your right,” says Mrs. Youngblood. She turns back to Luke. “What if your friend had gotten better? What if his condition had improved?”

“He wasn't going to get any better.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The nurses told me. He was in the hospital a month when I first went to see him. He was a vegetable then, and that's all he was ever gonna be.”

“It seems to me that you need to take a long, hard look at the way you make decisions,” says Mrs. Youngblood.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” says Luke.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You must have me confused with someone who gives a shit what you think or don't think. You're just a flat-out bullshitter, baby, and I don't pay no attention at all to bullshitters.”

“What is a bullshitter, Luke? And don't you ever call me baby.”

“A bullshitter is a person like you who runs the lives of people like me.”

“You are a psychopath, young man,” says Professor Sarbanes. He is scarlet in the face and trembling so, but he continues. “If you happen to come across patients in this hospital who say they want to die, and I can assure you that you will, are you going to kill them too?”

Luke grins at Professor Sarbanes and says, “Hey, that's a thought. Maybe I'll start with you.” Then he throws back his head and laughs.

Professor Sarbanes wants to say something more, but he can't. He is trembling so furiously that he is practically vibrating. There is even a line of drool running down his chin. I feel so bad for him, I know the loss of control he feels.

All by himself, Luke has sabotaged the group. What is the source of this power for chaos?

On Tuesday morning, Mother visits me in my room. I hug her and cling to her. When I was little, she pulled me to her in the kitchen and her apron was dusted with flour and little scraps of bread dough were stuck to her fingers.

She has brought me some gazpacho in the mason jar. “I'll get Mrs. Higgins to okay this,” I say. “When food comes from the outside, it has to be okayed. Last night the menu was chicken, and Mrs. Higgins made me some rice pilaf. I think she brought it from home.”

“That was nice of her,” my mother says. “Did you eat it?”

“A little bit. My appetite is somewhat better.”

She has also brought me the Looney Tunes tee shirt and Uncle Larry's fatigue jacket. They are both freshly laundered with the clean smell.

“It seems much too warm to wear a fatigue jacket,” she says.

“I need to have it though. I get so chilled sometimes.”

Then my mother asks me for the names of the people who molested me.

“Please don't ask me that, Mother. Let's just have a nice talk.”

“I have to ask you. Mr. MacFarlane needs to know and so do the police.”

“You mustn't ask me this question. I've told you.”

“You know their names, Grace. Please tell me. If they're allowed to get away with this, they'll just continue to trample on the rights of other people.”

“Please let's talk about something else.”

“They have to understand that their actions have consequences. People like that don't learn any other way.”

My eyes are suddenly blurred by tears. “They told me if I ever told, I would regret it. There's no telling what horrid thing they might do to me.”

The tears are streaming down my face and my mother holds me. I say, “They told me they would teach me a lesson. God, who do these people think they are? What useful lesson could they ever teach anybody?”

“I know it won't be easy for you,” she says. “I know that, believe me. But I think I've worked out protection for you. You can ride to school with me in the mornings. Mr. MacFarlane will let you enter the building early. After school, you can stay in Miss Braverman's room until I pick you up. I've okayed it with her.”

I pull myself loose and sit on my bed. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. “I still have my cookie,” I say.

“What cookie?”

“We got them on Miss Ivey's birthday. Mine is safe under my pillow. When my appetite is back, I'll probably eat it.”

“Please, Grace, don't do this.”

“I wonder how long a cookie could last before it underwent total disintegration. A year? Five years? A thousand years? How long would it take until it was broken down into its tiniest molecular parts and atoms?”

“We're not talking about cookies.”

“I don't want to stay in Miss Braverman's room. I have lots of respect for her, but it seems so desperate because it's artificial.”

“I see your point, but it wouldn't have to be forever, just till you feel comfortable.”

“I'd rather walk home with DeeDee and feed the fish and fertilize her ornamental trees.”

“That might be nice, but you'd have to talk to DeeDee about it.”

“Do you think she'll still want to be my friend, even after all of this? How long can you be crazy wild and still keep a friend?”

“I'm sure she'll still be your friend. She called two or three times to ask how you're doing.”

“She hasn't called me, though.”

“Only because I told her not to; I was afraid it might be embarrassing for you.”

Mother is probably right; it
would
be embarrassing. “You know what, Mother? The truth is, according to Dr. Rowe, I need to be more like you. I need to do what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“After Dad died, you went out and finished your education and started a career. You stopped living in his shadow and became independent. You became your own person.”

“Is that how Dr. Rowe sees it? I didn't know the two of you talked so much about me.”

“That's how she sees it. She says the two things that paralyze me are over now. My dad is gone, and my mother has stopped withdrawing.”

“Withdrawing?”

“Please don't feel bad, this is just the way Dr. Rowe and I talk about things. Dad was so intense and such an activist, and deep down inside I thought you were withdrawing, like sort of withdrawing from a battle. I didn't know these things in my conscious mind, though, they were happening in my unconscious.”

My mother's eyes are bright with tears. She says, “Maybe I
was
withdrawing; I never thought of it like that. I only thought I was doing the things I knew how to do. I never had much confidence, you know.”

“You mustn't feel bad, Mother, and you mustn't feel guilty. Dr. Rowe says it's mostly my own doing. I was withdrawn to begin with, and then I looked at my parents and I withdrew even from myself. I am split off from myself.”

“These are such deep thoughts,” she says. “They go right over my head.”

“No offense, Mother, but that's what I'm talking about. You're doing it right now. Would you like to have my cookie? I'll be happy to give it to you.”

“I don't think so. Thank you anyway.”

“It might as well go to someone who can use it. Do you know what, Mother? I think I'd like to go home.”

“Grace, I'd love to have you home, but you can't leave the hospital until Dr. Rowe says so.”

“You can talk to her. You see how much I've learned, you can tell her that.”

“But Grace, I don't understand. The last time I was here you wanted to stay in the hospital.”

“That was then, and this is now. Please don't speak with all that static. Dr. Rowe has taught me much, and I've learned it. I am even ignoring the sky voice, at least most of the time.”

“Grace, I'm confused. I don't know what's best.” A tear is sliding down her cheek. I sit beside her and hold her hand and my eyes are blurry again.

“Mother, one of the Surly People is here in the hospital. He sits next to me in group.”

“You mean one of the people who molested you is
here?
”

“No, but don't forget the link that connects all Surly People. Except for the fact that he has so much hygiene, he is essentially one of them.”

“I'm confused about a lot of things, Grace, but I'm sure that's not a good way for you to think. Dr. Rowe has probably told you the same thing.”

“I've learned the basic truth from Dr. Rowe; that's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't know why Mrs. Youngblood forces me to sit next to him; there are plenty of other chairs he could sit in. As a matter of fact, I'm not absolutely sure Mrs. Youngblood can be trusted. I know how bizarre that must sound, but I really and truly mean it.”

“Who is Mrs. Youngblood?”

“She's the therapist in our group. She lost her temper. The one called Luke caused her anger.”

“Why is it so important that a woman loses her temper? We have to trust Dr. Rowe's judgment. She'll let us know when it's time for you to come home.”

“Mother, I asked you politely about the static. I'm trying to tell you I need to come home. It frightens me to spend all this time with people who are this crazy. Professor Sarbanes believes his thought rays are heating the earth's core, and because of the overheating, the earth is going to explode.”

“Grace, please. I'll talk to Dr. Rowe but that's all I can do.”

She thinks she will hide behind her static. I am turning to stone and my voice is lifeless: “Mother, why don't you go home and bake bread?”

Mrs. Youngblood has put me next to the one called Luke Wolfe again. When I ask her to move me to a different seat, she says something about facing up to problems. I think the group will not go well today; already I sense the anger rising.

Mrs. Youngblood says, “I think Luke has something to report to the group this morning.”

Luke lights a cigarette but doesn't speak.

“Luke has lost his TV privileges. Don't you think you ought to tell us how that happened, Luke?”

“It's a real boring story. I don't think anybody would be interested.”

Mrs. Youngblood has the folder open. “I have to disagree with you, Luke. I think the group would find it very interesting. But what's even more important, I think it might do you some good to talk about it.”

“You're just a flat-out bullshitter. What you're really into is your power trip.”

Mrs. Youngblood is looking in the folder and smiling. “You've always had a problem with authority, haven't you?”

He blows out some smoke and says, “Some people seem to think so.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“I think I'd like to have bullshitters like you off of my back and out of my life.”

Professor Sarbanes interrupts and says irritably to Mrs. Youngblood, “Can you please get to the point? What is the point here?”

“We are waiting for Luke's report,” she answers.

“That's all well and good, but maybe you could do something to speed things up a little bit.”

“It would probably do you some good to take a few deep breaths and slow down a little,” she says to Professor Sarbanes.

“You have no idea what is good for me,” he answers. “My time on this earth is limited.”

I can feel the knot constricting in my stomach; my breath is coming short. “Mrs. Youngblood, please,” I say.

“What is it, Grace?”

“My sky voice is diminishing and Dr. Rowe has given me keen insight. But there is anger coming.”

“Anger upsets you, doesn't it, Grace?”

“Please, it causes me to get scrambled. Try and ignore the static. In the air, hostility and confrontation are rigid.”

“We'll try and keep everything on an even keel, Grace.” She turns again to Luke. “It seems there is some impatience in the group, Luke. Why don't you fill everybody in?”

He puts out his cigarette and says, “Yesterday, I dressed my roommate up before he went to crafts.”

“What does that mean, you dressed him up?”

“I put a dust mask on his face. I put a motorcycle helmet on his head. I taped his fingers together with adhesive tape.”

“Did you think it was cute to dress your roommate up in that fashion?”

“I thought it might keep the bullshitters off his back. He's always givin' the finger and stickin' things in his mouth and ears. The nurses are always on his case, but I don't think he can help what he does.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“How I see it is, my roommate doesn't even belong here. He's a dodo. He belongs in some other kind of facility.”

“A dodo?” says Mrs. Youngblood.

“Yeah, a dodo. A retard.”

“Is that how you refer to mentally retarded people?”

“Yeah, dodos. It's not a put-down, I like dodos. I used to live with them, in one of the group homes I was in. I was even workin' in the dodo house cafeteria before I came here.”

Mrs. Youngblood still has the folder open. “It says here, Luke, that your cafeteria job was another place where you had difficulty with authority.”

“I've got a good idea,” he says. “Why don't you take your folder and shove it up your ass?”

I feel I can't stand any more. I press my hands over my ears. I say suddenly, “Mrs. Youngblood, please. There's too much anger.”

She turns to me with eyes that glitter. “Grace, do you have something to add to this conversation? Do you have a question for Luke?”