Part 2 / Chapter Three ⥈ The Power of the Gods
Dr. Ian Ballinger sat in the corner of his beige office in his unbuttoned white coat. His hands were frozen in mid-air as my mother, standing, shouted at my father.
"YOU don't have a clue. Do you know how she feels about this?"
Then she turned on one foot, stabbing her finger at the doctor. "YOU are not telling us the whole story. She's given you her answer."
"Calm down." my father said. "She's not improving; we're just trying to come up with a plan." The tension set an unusual high pitch to his voice.
This incited my mother even more. "We don’t need a PLAN. Karen has told us what she wants."
"LISTEN for once and SIT DOWN," my father ordered. "Let's give the doctor a chance."
Sitting on the edge of the chair, my mother glared at both of them as the doctor cleared his throat and began, "Her delusions have abated, but are still present in the background, giving her trouble especially at night when she's trying to sleep. Moreover, at least several times a day she erupts into a rage, becoming vocally unrestrained and combative. This is not good for her brain and is potentially causing more damage." He paused, giving them a chance to digest this much.
I shifted in my chair. It squeaked and their heads turned toward the sound, as if they'd forgotten I was there. I felt like a fly on the wall. I had never witnessed such intense animosity between my parents before.
Preparing to continue, the doctor took a big breath, but I didn't see him exhale. "Yes, she is opposed to the treatment."
"Vehemently opposed," my mother interrupted. My father shot her a pained look.
"She is technically an adult now and has the right to make decisions about her treatment. "However", the doctor swallowed, "under current law we have deemed she is not in her right mind and her next of kin can also have input." His shoulders relaxed, now that he'd got that out.
Tears poured down my mother's face. "My daughter has been shut in there for six months...six months."
My father' mouth moved, but nothing came out.
A realization dawned on me. My sister had spent her 21st birthday locked in a mental hospital. For my 21st birthday friends had taken me to porn movie in Blaine, Washington. Attempting to seem somewhat on par, I blurted "So Dr. Ballinger, you are suggesting my parents agree to the treatment?" I could feel a red flush rising up my neck as all three stared at me.
My father's eyebrows arched. The doctor blinked and smoothed his white coat. My mother searched for a Kleenex in her purse to wipe her dripping nose.
◊◊◊
Holding my son's hand, we climbed the stairs past the white colonnades to the doors of the red brick building, built in 1904. The next set of doors was locked, and I pressed the intercom button. With a wavering voice I stated my business to the staticky voice inquiring on my purpose. Inside I signed my name in a registry and an authoritative middle-aged woman asked us to follow her up another set of stairs and through another set of locked doors. Once inside, the commotion stopped as everyone turned to see who was entering. They stared quizzically at my now five-year old son. I was unsure about whether to bring him with me. Would it scare him? I'd tried to prepare him.
A tall, very thin man with wispy long hair and a bushy moustache approached. "Welcome, young man," he said in a booming voice. He bowed and swished the white sheet he was wearing to his back, revealing gold-coloured spandex shorts underneath. His feet were in leather sandals. I stared back. Should I say something? Not say something?
My son replied, "I like your costume."
Delighted that this little creature would speak to him, the man beamed. "I'm Jesus Christ."
Before things went too much further, I broke in. "I'm, umm, looking for my sister."
An orderly who'd been standing to the side, approached. "She's this way."
We entered a little room at the back, painted mint green. My sister was sitting on a weathered green corduroy couch. My heart leapt and I had to hard-swallow my tears. I forced a huge grin. She did not stand but looked up at me with glassy eyes, blinking rapidly. Neither her head nor her shoulders had moved. I sat down beside her. I could see her hands trembling in her lap. She reached out and took my son's hands. "Haven't seen you forever. You're a little man now." Her voice was thick, as if she was wrestling with a tongue too large for her mouth.
Jesus started shrieking from the other room, "My crown! My crown of thorns! Where is it!"
My sister looked at the floor, "I'm allowed outside for a walk with you." We got up, signed out and started down the stairs.
This time my son took Karen's hand, "Did you know we moved back from England?" he asked. Precious boy. I think I brought him exactly for this reason. Children do not judge and carry on being children, even in the most difficult circumstances. Once outside he ran on ahead pointing to the path. "This way?"
I looked at my sister, who nodded. Without talking we strolled leisurely, breathing in the fresh, crisp sunshine. It must be so nice for her to get outside. After some minutes Karen said, "I have one more treatment. If I cooperate, I'll be allowed out for a weekend visit over Thanksgiving."
"You could come to our place...if it's not too much, with the kids."
She let out a long, slow weary breath and said in a whisper, "I'm actually going to Dad's and Marsha's. I'll probably sleep a lot. Electroshock is exhausting."
We walked some more until she said, "I think I need to go back now."
I called out to my son, "O.k. We're going back now." He came running out from behind a tree, jumping over the grass edge onto the blacktop pathway.
As we arrived back at her building, Karen stopped and turned stiffly to face me. "I have something to tell you. But don't tell anyone, o.k.?"
I hesitated, not knowing where she was taking this, but I agreed, "Sure."
"Well, I have an invisible umbilical cord that goes all the way up to the moon. We're attached."
"Are you certain?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah, the moon controls me. The doctor keeps trying to get us apart, but he has no idea how powerful it is."
"Hmm," I said, buying some time to think what to say. In my psychology classes I'd learned it was ok to respect a person's delusion but to tell them you don't have the same view. "Do you want to be controlled by the moon? Can't you reel your cord in, or something, like a fishing line?" She had been the star fisherwoman in our family when we were kids.
"I still need the moon's help," she said. "But the moon decides when we can detach."
"Hmm," I mused again. "Well I've never been under control of the moon, but if I was, I'd use the moon's help but not let it hold on to me with a cord. That's too much to ask."
"Yeah, I'm trying to find the right power. But it's hard to think in there." With that, she turned and started up the steps. Once inside, we said our good-byes, but she never reached out to hug me, so I didn't either.
Back at the car, while I buckled him in, I thanked my son, "You did a great job today, buddy. Thank you for helping mama. Want some music on?" With a huge lump in my throat and on the verge of tears, I plugged a Raffi cassette in, turned up the volume and we sang all the way home.
You write beautifully and with such honesty.
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