Undertow (18 page)

After trying to entertain herself for a while by thinking up names for the merman, Marissa gave up and started reading the stupid book.

“Within your spirit every color in the rainbow vibrates, their energies available to you to fulfill your deepest dreams. All you need to do is search deep inside and seek to align your frequency with that of the hue which holds the power you need.
” Rainbow power!
She threw the book down in disgust.
People actually write this stuff? And they think
I’m
crazy
.

The knock on her door was a relief. “Come in,” she called, not bothering to get up from her bed.

Dr. Cummins stepped in. With that wild mustache of his, she could picture him doing the Hustle or the Bump underneath some gaudy disco ball. He was probably a real player back in the day. She stifled a laugh.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked. “The nurse said you haven’t been out today. Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel great, actually. I thought I’d sit and think in here where it’s quiet.”
Hopefully, Mr. Shrink-at-large won’t try to analyze that,
she thought
.
At this point, anything she said might be used against her to block her release.

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I see. What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, you know. School and stuff. I’ve pretty much blown this quarter. I don’t know how I’ll ever make up all the work when I get back.”

“Marissa, let’s talk about that.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Panic set in and she struggled to keep it in check.
One wrong move, and game’s up
, she thought.

Seeming not to register her anxiety, he said, “You know that your stay is short-term. People may only be hospitalized involuntarily for a few days on an emergency hold.”

She kept her voice flat. “That’s what they said when they moved me here. You don’t think I’ll volunteer to stay in longer do you?”

Ignoring her challenge, he said, “Well, Marissa, under the regulations you have to be discharged, unless we determine that you present an imminent threat to your own life or someone else’s. A judge would then decide whether you should be committed.” He looked at her intently.

“Committed?” Inside her brain, an alarm went off. “What are you saying?”

“The fact is this: although I believe you are experiencing some delusional thoughts and depression, it is unlikely that a judge would be convinced you are at high risk of suicide.”

“Because I’m not,” Marissa said, indignant. “I never tried to kill myself, and I don’t plan to, either.”

“Right. You said that your near-drowning was not precipitated by a suicide attempt.” He looked her straight in the eye. “However, you did walk into the ocean of your own volition, for a delusional reason, and almost died.”

“Since when are nudibranchs considered delusional?” She gave him a weak smile.

“Nudibranchs. Yes, I remember. No, nudibranchs are not considered a delusion, but mermaids probably fall into that category, being mythical creatures, like fairies, vampires, or werewolves.”

Marissa averted her eyes to avoid his laser-like stare.

He sighed. “The bottom line is that I plan to recommend your release.”

Marissa jumped off her bed and practically ran to the psychiatrist, wanting to hug him. She stopped short, horrified at her lack of restraint. “Doctor Dave, thank you!” she gushed and stuck her hand out.

He laughed and shook her hand. “You’re welcome, Miss Johansen.” His face turned serious and he added, “But I am not recommending discharge because I think you have recovered. I don’t. I believe that you need treatment, Marissa.” Standing to leave, he said, “It’s almost lunch time. Let’s talk again later today. I would like to invite your mother to join us.” He gauged her reaction. “Would that be okay with you? As an adult, we need your consent to involve your mother in your treatment.”

Anything,
she thought.
Anything at all to get out of here
. “Sure. Okay.”

“Very good. I’ll have them bring in the exchange of information forms for you to sign and we’ll call your mother to schedule a meeting for later today.”

After his departure, Marissa grabbed her pillow off the bed and clutched it tightly to her chest. She was so happy she could burst; soon, they’d set her free.

“Marissa has assured me she had no intention of harming herself and she has no desire or plans to attempt suicide.” From his chair, Dr. Cummins faced Marissa and her mother, squished together on the tiny loveseat in the closet of a conference room. “She also denies experiencing any hallucinations or uncontrollable obsessions that might lead her to inadvertently place herself in danger again.”

Her mother gave Marissa a dubious look and opened her mouth to protest. “But . . .”

The psychiatrist held his hand up to quiet her. “Mrs. Johansen . . .”

“Shannon.”

“Shannon, then.” Dr. Cummins sat bolt upright and cleared his throat. “As I was saying, your daughter shows no sign that she presents an imminent threat to anyone, herself included.” His eyes locked on hers. “And while I suspect Marissa may not have shared with me the real reasons for what she did, substantial evidence is necessary in order to extend the psychiatric hold.”

Marissa blinked hard, forcing herself not to flinch at his words.

Her mother stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean? She’s
sick
. You
know
she’s sick. How can you suggest she’s ready to leave?”

“Mom!” Marissa said. Was her mother campaigning to keep her locked up? “I’m not sick, Mom. And I’m not crazy!”

Dr. Cummins intervened. “Not everyone here is psychotic, Marissa. Lots of ordinary people come here, people with mental illnesses like depression or extreme anxiety.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t need to be here.”

“Well, I think you certainly
do
need help, Mari.” Her mother crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared defiantly at the doctor. “May we get a second opinion?”

Dr. Cummins hedged. “That’s Marissa’s decision. But actually, I agree with both of you.”

Mother and daughter glared at him with matched hostility.

“Shannon, your daughter is right. Her condition is not severe enough to require the twenty four hour care and monitoring of inpatient confinement. Marissa, your mother is also right. As I said earlier, I urge you to seek outpatient therapy.”

“So you think I’m crazy.”

His voice softened and his eyes filled with compassion. “No, I don’t think any such thing. What I think is that you were victimized a long time ago. You buried the trauma so you could survive, rather than working through it then. It seems that your feelings of helplessness and violation are surfacing in your life now and triggering your illness.” He paused to check if she was listening. “Marissa, I don’t just believe you need treatment. I believe you
deserve
it. You deserve to heal from what you endured.”

Her mother shuddered. “Gilbert,” she whispered.

“Marissa, you should not return to school just yet. Take a break; you need to reduce your stress as much as possible. I recommend weekly therapy, and some medication to stabilize your moods.” He looked at her mother, then back to Marissa. “Tomorrow morning, you may leave.”

“But there’s only a few weeks left this quarter. I’ll fail all my classes,” she protested. Not go back to Corvallis? Jim was the only good thing left in her life now.

Her mother nodded. “He’s right. You’re too far behind to catch up now anyway. You need a breather.” Standing up, she pressed her hands against her thighs. “You’ll come home with me and be good as new after Spring Break.”

Good as new. Oh, great, now I’m Mom’s new project,
she thought, cringing.
So much for getting set free.
But she was grateful that at least she’d be imprisoned at her mother’s place rather than locked up in the hospital.

Dr. Cummins rose to his feet and offered his hand. “Good luck, Marissa. Take care of yourself. I hope not to see you in here again soon.”

Twenty-Seven

T
hursday morning she was wedged between the door and her mother’s enormous handbag in the passenger seat of her mother’s PT Cruiser. Three years ago she almost died from embarrassment every time her mother drove her anywhere in this car, which Marissa dubbed the
PT Boozer
. She stared passively out the window like a prisoner transported from one correctional institution to another.

So much for freedom,
she thought
. Might as well be wearing shackles
.

In the driver’s seat, her mother chattered away, her stick-straight posture the only sign that all her casual banter was a carefully constructed act.
Just cut the crap, Mom
, Marissa wished she could say. She knew her mother didn’t want her living in her condo anymore than she wanted to be stuck there.

“Isn’t it nice to get a little break in the rain, sweetie? February is always so dreary.” Her mother smiled as though the fact she didn’t need to use her windshield wipers at the moment thrilled her as much as winning the lottery might.

Marissa shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t really noticed the weather so much lately.”

The corners of her mother’s lips tightened and Marissa regretted her sarcasm. Her hospitalization hadn’t been her mother’s fault. Nor was the fact that she was now going to be staying at her condo. They didn’t speak again until pulling into the carport ten minutes later.

“Let’s have some tea,” her mother stiffly suggested once the front door was closed.

Marissa shook her head. “I’d really just like to go lay down now.” Exhausted down to her cells, she ached to go bury herself in bed and suffocate under the weight of the blankets.

Later that afternoon, she resisted the tug of consciousness but failed. Her body rebelled against her will and dragged her to the surface, forcing her to face another dreaded moment in the waking world. She batted at the covers in frustration. Tears filled her eyes.
Why me
, she wailed inside, and winced.
Get a grip, girl. Or else you’ll be stuck here forever.

She pushed the comforter aside and assessed the floral caricature of southern décor which filled the room. Pink and green gingham curtains covered the windows, monstrous magnolia blossoms graced the bedspread, and a milk glass lamp adorned a wicker side table. The chair was the only piece of furniture remaining from the room’s previous life, and even it was camouflaged under a chintz slipcover. The total effect was nauseating. All traces of the bedroom where Marissa had slept the last six years of her childhood were swept away within weeks of her departure for college. At the time, she hadn’t cared.
Good riddance
, she’d thought,
I’m never coming back
. But here she was again, feeling like a repeat offender sentenced to another jail term.

Lacking motivation, energy, and especially any desire to hang out with her mother, she remained in bed and gazed at the spackle on the ceiling and watched it contort into figures like clouds in the sky.

Her mother knocked much later than Marissa expected; she must have fought down her compulsion for hours. The clock on the doily-covered nightstand showed two forty-five. No use pretending to be asleep; her mother would worry she’d fallen back in a coma to have slept so long. Resigned, she opened the door.