I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (6 page)

When I start back to the door, I find that the pup can now reach the very edge of our patio. I squat down and he puts his front paws up on my knee. The cardboard disc he wears whacks my chin. I scratch him along the chin while he licks my face. For a moment, I have a peaceful, lovely feeling.

Suddenly, Mr. Stereo is standing over us. I sense his presence before he speaks; maybe I have seen his shadow out of the corner of my eye.

“Don't be doin' that.”

His voice is charged with static and my heart starts to pound. I don't dare look up; the fear freezes me. The panic takes me, because if I get scrambled, I won't be able to move at all.

“I said, don't be doin' that. I'm trainin' him to be a watchdog.”

His voice is like the shorted radio; the words pop in and out. I'm paralyzed with panic. As soon as I let go of the dog I try to say, “I didn't mean any harm,” but my mouth is dry as cotton and the words catch in my throat. I am starting to shake. I am absurd squatting here, and if I freeze here any longer it will only get worse. I can't look in his face.

Somehow, I get to my feet and make it inside. I close the back door and lean back against it, trying to get my breath. My heart is pounding like a hammer; surely it will split my chest open. My life can't be like this, all I did was fix the chain. What he means by watchdog training is probably something cruel.

I am so faint I get on the floor on my hands and knees. Mother is doing laundry in the basement. I pray to die of a heart attack, here and now. Please don't come upstairs, Mother. I don't want you to find me like this, and I could never explain about the dog's chain. If only I could be an insect. The mist is coming and I can't stop it.

Three

My first time in evening group is disorienting. I've never been in the hospital annex before, and I don't know any of the people. All the group members are teenagers; I think some of them may go to my high school, but I don't see any faces I recognize.

We sit on folding chairs in a small circle in a large room. I can see the hospital across the courtyard; the light is on in Dr. Rowe's office. It might be so reassuring to be back in the hospital but I know I'm not supposed to think that way.

Most of the people in the group speak of drugs and alcohol, which I know nothing about. The group leader, Mr. Carlson, seems old and tired. A girl named Wanda is monopolizing the conversation. She is fat and overbearing, smoking one cigarette after another; she talks about her stepfather's abuse and her own drinking problem. At least her problems are real.

It would be a relief if they just ignored me, but I know they won't. Sooner or later, I'll have to talk. It would be too embarrassing to talk about my hospital history, and where would I begin? I got scrambled twice the first day of school. It would be so desperate to try and talk about Mr. Stereo's pup.

Just when it seems as if Wanda will monopolize the conversation right to the end, Mr. Carlson cuts her off and turns to me.

“Grace, is there something you'd like to share with the group?”

I can feel myself starting to shake. I keep my face down.

“Since this is your first night, maybe you'd like to tell us a little bit about yourself.”

He has static. If I clamp my hands between my knees, it may help. My brain is racing wildly, I have to say something. I swallow and say, “I hope we don't have to dissect frogs.”

God, what an insane remark! Nobody says anything and I can feel my face burning.

Mr. Carlson asks me what I mean.

“In biology. My lab partner says there's no dissection until second semester. But what if there is? I don't think I could stand it.”

Wanda speaks up immediately. She says students have rights. “I read about this girl in California,” she says loudly. “Her and her mother sued the high school because it was against their religion to dissect animals. They won their case, too.”

Stand up for your rights. It seems like such a thought, but Wanda would probably be capable of it.

Mr. Carlson smiles at me. “If you don't feel like going to court, maybe you could just speak to your counselor at school. There should be a way for you to transfer to another science class.”

I nod my head but don't speak. He seems kind.

“In any case, it sounds like you've got plenty of time to sort it out, maybe an entire semester.”

I nod again. My breathing is mostly restored. Mr. Carlson's life is so sound, is there a secret elixir? Since our time is up, I won't have to talk anymore.

In the TV lounge, I find my mother. She is working on lesson plans.

“How did it go?” she wants to know.

“Mr. Carlson is nice,” I say. “I didn't get scrambled.”

“You'll feel more comfortable when you get to know the other people.”

“It sounds logical, Mother.”

“Give it some time.”

“Can we go home now? I'm so tired.”

When Mother and I make gazpacho, I mince the vegetables while she seasons the broth. She is adding garlic, oregano, and basil to two quarts of tomato juice, while I am mincing onions, cucumbers, celery, and green peppers. Gazpacho is good to pack in a lunch because you can eat it cold.

I am listless with the knife. In the hospital, sharp objects are off-limits, even ballpoints. I have been flat out for almost a week. It is Mother's idea to make the soup; she hopes it will help me snap out of it.

“Gazpacho was one of Dad's favorites,” I say.

“I know, Grace.”

“You loved him, didn't you, Mother?”

“Of course I loved him.”

“I'd like to use the mason jar for my soup. You can use the Thermos.”

“That's fine with me; I like the Thermos better anyway.”

As soon as we put the gazpacho to simmer, I go up to my room. I look at my nails; some of them are long and some are short, but the long ones are dirty. I could clean them with the nail brush, but they still wouldn't be the same size. I could cut the long ones so that they would all be the same size, but where would I find the nail clippers? They're never where they're supposed to be, and I don't have the energy to hunt for them. When I'm flat out, my entire body is drained of every spark of energy. Nothing matters, nothing makes any difference, nothing is worth the effort.

I don't know which is worse, being flat out or getting scrambled. When I get scrambled, it is terrifying and disorienting; when I'm flat out, everything seems dull and hopeless. I was flat out when I tried to kill myself. The truth is, what's worse is what's current, but what's current never lasts.

The most pleasant thing is the aftermath of being scrambled, after the mist dissipates, when everything I see is spent and like a dream.

I hear the doorbell ring. It's only the second time I've heard it since we've lived here. I can hear my mother talking with someone at the front door, and then she calls up to me.

“Grace, you've got company.”

I don't understand; I can feel my pulse quicken.

“Grace, please come downstairs. Someone is here to see you.”

I go down slowly. It's DeeDee, my lab partner. In the store at the mall, she tried to get close.

“I wrote down your address from your check,” she says to my mother. Then she turns to me. “I thought I'd say hello. I hope you don't mind.”

I'm speechless, so my mother says, “It's very thoughtful of you.”

The knot is forming in my stomach. This will only make things worse, I tried to warn my mother. This will only prolong the agony. DeeDee will spend just enough time with me to find out how truly weird I am, and then she will realize I'm a good person to avoid. There must be some way to save us both the trouble. Maybe the three of us will just stand here by the door for a minute or two and be polite, and then DeeDee will go home.

But my mother says, “Grace, why don't you show DeeDee your room?”

My room is just a room. I can't imagine why anyone would want to see it, but we go up anyway. DeeDee sits on the edge of my bed, and I sit on the chair by the desk.

“We only live about three blocks from here,” she tells me. “Our house is on Roosevelt, about a block on the other side of MacArthur.”

“The other side of MacArthur is a different world,” I say.

She says something, but I don't hear what it is. Her beauty intimidates me. She is wearing olive green shorts with matching top. Her legs are golden brown like the rest of her clear skin; her blond hair is lovely. My own hair, when it's clean, has a deep red tone in the light, but mostly it's just mousy and clumpy.

DeeDee wants to know about my metal sculpture.

“My dad made it. He welded it.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He's dead.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“He died of fulminating leukemia. He was very well and then all of a sudden he was very sick. The whole thing only took six days. Now you see him, now you don't.” There has to be a better way of talking to someone; why am I saying these things?

“I'm real sorry,” she says. “Sometimes I put my foot in my mouth.”

“It's okay.” I am very uncomfortable. It's not fair to expect me to make conversation; I hope we're not going to have long, embarrassing silences.

I tell her that my mom is teaching at Stevenson School. It seems appropriate for polite conversation.

“I didn't go to Stevenson myself,” says DeeDee, “but I have a lot of friends who did.”

If you have someone in your home, you should get them something. I could offer her some gazpacho, but that's absurd; it isn't even cooked yet. I start to panic but then I remember about the Pepsi. “We have Pepsi in our refrigerator,” I say quickly. “I'll get you one.”

“You don't have to.”

“Oh yes, please, it's perfect. I couldn't offer you any gazpacho, it's not ready yet.” I go quickly. I get her a Pepsi and pour it into a glass of ice and bring it up. I think DeeDee's poise is astonishing. She walks directly through the midst of the Surly People and knocks on the door of a stranger. “You must have complete self-assurance,” I tell her.

“Not really,” she says. She sits up straighter and for the first time, she seems a little uncomfortable. There is some red in her face. She takes a small drink from her glass and says, “Can I be honest with you?”

I feel my knot forming again. What does she mean?

“Miss Shapiro asked me if I'd come visit you.”

Miss Shapiro? Miss Shapiro is the counselor at school.

DeeDee is holding her glass in both hands. She goes on, “I don't want to hurt your feelings, I'd like to get to know you and all that, but this was her idea.”

“Miss Shapiro wears too much lipstick and I think she doesn't have much experience. She probably means well. Are you close to her?”

“I'm in water ballet, and she's the sponsor. She thought you could use a friend, since you're new in school and everything. She asked me if I'd visit you and sort of show you the ropes at school. She was going to tell you later on, but it doesn't seem honest if I don't say anything. I'm sorry.”

I can feel myself flushing. This is so embarrassing, but it stands to reason. Why else would a girl like DeeDee try to make contact with someone like me?

“I'll leave if you want; I wouldn't blame you.”

“No, please.” It's so confusing, now I'm a project. This could be even worse. She said since I'm new
and everything;
Miss Shapiro knows my medical history, has she shared it with DeeDee?

“I'm sorry about the Pepsi,” I blurt out. “I should've gotten one for both of us, so you wouldn't have to drink yours alone. It puts you in an awkward situation. I don't like Pepsi, though, so it would be phony.”

“Don't worry about it, I'm fine.”

She drinks some more Pepsi and sets the glass down. She smiles and says, “It must be hard moving away from all your friends and everything.”

And everything? Why does she say it again? “I've never had many friends. It's hard for me to make friends. After my dad died, Mother took courses to get a current certificate. This is the first teaching job she's ever had. Please, can you tell me what Miss Shapiro said about me?”

“She just said you're new in school and you've been in the hospital. She said you're shy. That's the whole story. I know it seems kind of artificial, but maybe we can still be friends. If you want.”

I feel so confused all I can think to do is talk. “I have to repeat the tenth grade,” I blurt out. “I missed too much school last year because I was in the hospital.”

“Were you sick?” DeeDee asks.

“Yes, you might say sick. It was a mental hospital.”

She looks down at her glass. “I'm sorry.”

It's so much harder this way. Why did she have to come in the first place? “I was being treated for depression. Last fall, I tried to kill myself. It would have worked, but my mother found me too soon. The doctors said it was a delayed reaction to my father's death. I'm not sure if doctors really know a lot about mental illness, but they usually act like they do. My father and I were very close, maybe too close. It wasn't the first time I had depression, but it was the worst; it was the first time I ever tried to kill myself.”

“Are you better now?”

“I'm sicker now. I've got schizophrenia now, besides the depression.”

DeeDee's eyes are still down. I've made her uncomfortable. Maybe that's what I want, maybe that's why I'm carrying on like this. “I've heard of it,” she says. “We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“It's very terrifying. I wouldn't know how to explain it. Sometimes my doctor thinks I've got schizoaffective disorder. That's when you're depressed and schizo at the same time. It's quite confusing, especially from in here.” It's so perverse the way I'm blabbing these things she doesn't need to know. There are tears stinging my eyes. Maybe I just want to make certain she doesn't come back.