I Can Hear the Mourning Dove Read online

  “You can come back to it. Come on now, Grace, let’s go.”

  She leads the way down the hall while I follow. The knot forms in my stomach. “Mrs. Higgins, I’ve never had visitors before. Is it someone besides my mother?”

  She smiles. “Why not wait and find out? Be surprised.”

  Be surprised? Is that what she said? “But who are the visitors? I hope they’re not from the criminal justice system. The one called Luke Wolfe told me some things about his crime the other day. But I didn’t seek the information, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Grace, please calm down. It’s no one from the legal system; I think they’re from your school.”

  When we get to the first-floor lounge, I stop and stare. It’s DeeDee and Miss Braverman. They are sitting on the couch in the corner, beneath the shelves of library books.

  A small corner of my mind is happy to see them, but the knot in my stomach constricts in shame and humiliation. For several moments I stand as stiff as a statue.

  I finally walk over to them. “I’ve never had visitors before,” I say. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Neither are we,” says Miss Braverman. “We wanted to visit, but we didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “I can see right away that it’s nice to have visitors,” I say. “But it’s also humiliating. I’m not sure I want people to see me here. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Mrs. Higgins?”

  “Yes, I do understand. But just relax and have a nice visit. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  After she leaves, I sit straight on the couch. DeeDee is wearing a yellow sundress; her arms and shoulders are golden brown. Miss Braverman’s dress is aqua with stripes. I am keenly conscious of my own clumpy, unkempt appearance.

  “We miss you at school,” says Miss Braverman.

  I think immediately of the hallways, so long and confusing, and some of them where danger lurks. There is only a trace of static in Miss Braverman’s voice. “I’m sure I’m not going to cry, Miss Braverman, and I’m also sure I won’t get scrambled. Please, you must forgive my appearance. I didn’t know anyone was coming. I have my Looney Tunes tee shirt, but it’s not clean at the moment.”

  “You look just fine, Grace.”

  “It would be nice to have a visit, but we must try to avoid long, awkward silences.”

  Miss Braverman smiles. “That’s not likely to happen with DeeDee and me in the same room.”

  “How are you doing?” DeeDee wants to know.

  “I come and go,” I say quickly. “I have good days and bad. I always take my medicine, but I don’t know if it helps me. Dr. Rowe helps me understand things; she has so much insight into the pathological psyche.”

  Miss Braverman asks, “Dr. Rowe is your doctor?”

  “Not only mine, but everybody’s. I wish I could talk to her more often, but there are so many crazy people.”

  “Is there anything you need from school?” DeeDee asks.

  “No, thank you. My mother brings my homework. I have my dad’s Beauty and the Beast sculpture, and I have a cookie which has gone far beyond its life expectancy.”

  DeeDee stands up. She says to Miss Braverman, “Should I get it now?”

  “You might as well,” Miss Braverman answers.

  Their exchange confuses me. DeeDee leaves and Miss Braverman says to me, “We brought you something. We decided to leave it in the car until we were sure we’d get to see you.”

  “You brought me a surprise?”

  “It’s just a little something we thought you ought to have.”

  Suddenly, I feel a lump in my chest. “It’s so thoughtful of you to bring me a surprise.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high, Grace. It’s not a new Corvette or anything like that.” Then she wants to know about the books on the shelves behind us.

  “This is the library,” I tell her. “These are all psych books and medical books about mental disorders.”

  “I’ll bet you spend a lot of your time reading.”

  “Sometimes in the evening I sit here and read. Sometimes it’s too scary. If you’re sick, it’s good to know about your illness. Dr. Rowe says knowing is good, but acting is better.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve been a book reader most of your life.”

  “It’s true I’ve always been a bookworm. It’s my father’s influence. When I was small, we read together just about every folk and fairy tale there ever was. But there’s probably a bad side to it. Instead of relating to other people, I’ve always been alone with a book. I like reading, but it’s also a way for me to withdraw. Things scare me, so I withdraw. I don’t mean to talk so much, but isn’t it amazing how everything seems to have its good side and its bad side.” I can’t imagine I’m making any sense, I’m not calm, but Miss Braverman says, “That’s a good point.”

  “Miss Braverman, at least I could have done something with my hair. Nice hair is a nice thing. Do you use a conditioner on your hair? I think it would be really good for me to take more care with my appearance.”

  She laughs. “Stop worrying about your appearance. You look just fine. Yes, I use a conditioner. When you shampoo your hair every day, it’s supposed to be healthy to use a conditioner.”

  “Shampooing one’s hair every day is such a lofty thought. But that’s probably what I should do. That’s probably the way life is meant to be lived; there would be so much control that way.”

  Then DeeDee returns. She has a very large rectangle under her arm, wrapped in brown paper.

  “Surprise, Grace,” she says. She stands the rectangle up on the couch and begins to tear away the wrapping.

  It is my science project. DeeDee separates all four panels so that they are standing side by side.

  “It’s my science project,” I say dumbly. “But it’s not defaced.”

  “Take a closer look,” says Miss Braverman. “Go ahead.”

  I get up to stand right in front of the panels. I can see that the posters have traces of white markings. Some of the white is a slightly different color. But the lettering and the pictures are clear, with no swastikas.

  I say, “I don’t understand.”

  “DeeDee repaired your project,” explains Miss Braverman. “She fixed it. It got a rating of excellent, which means you can enter it in the regional science fair at Northwestern.”

  Immediately, my eyes are blurred with tears. “DeeDee, how did you do this? How did you fix it?”

  “If there was enough room, I used poster paint. For the tight spots, mostly around the lettering, I used typewriter whiteout.” Her eyes are sparkling.

  “It must have been so much work for you.”

  “It didn’t seem like a lot of work. I felt so bad about what happened to you.”

  “I can’t tell you how kind and thoughtful it is,” I say. I have tears sliding down my face. “DeeDee, please, I’d like to give you a hug now.”

  We hold each other. Her slick, cool shoulders. Her hair smells fresh and sweet. “It’s so kind and thoughtful of you,” I say again. “My mother said you would still be my friend, but I just can’t imagine that anyone would really care for me or want me around.”

  DeeDee has tears of her own. “Of course we’re still friends. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “Dr. Rowe says it’s very important that I learn to see myself as worthwhile. It’s easy for her to say. When you’re crazy wild all the time, you don’t feel you can do the things that other people do; you feel like you’ve given up your rights. Please, I’m sorry for this babbling, but I can’t seem to stop.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” she says.

  “These are not tears of despair, DeeDee, these are tears of joy, caused by so much goodness.”

  “I know what you mean, Grace.”

  After we separate, Miss Braverman gives us a tissue packet; we begin wiping our eyes.

  “I’m glad you came. At first I was embarrassed and tense, but now I’m glad.”

  Mi
ss Braverman says, “It looks like we made the right decision, DeeDee.”

  “She means about deciding to come and visit,” says DeeDee. “We talked it over for quite a while and asked your mother. I wanted you to see the science project, you worked so hard on it.”

  “Why don’t we all sit down now?” says Miss Braverman. “Let’s have some tea.” She has taken a beige Thermos and three small cups and saucers from her large woven handbag. She sets everything on the coffee table in front of the couch. “We don’t have cream or sugar, but the tea should still be warm.”

  I look at DeeDee and I start to giggle. “You told her.”

  DeeDee is also giggling. “You said it was a fantasy, but you never said it was a secret; you never said I couldn’t tell anybody.”

  Miss Braverman is pouring.

  I say, “Actually, it’s against the rules to bring any food or drink from the outside.”

  “If you promise not to tell, I promise not to tell,” says Miss Braverman. She smiles, and screws the cap back on the Thermos.

  “It’s too bad we don’t have any munchies,” says DeeDee.

  But the words are scarcely out of her mouth, when I remember the cookie. I sit up straight as a post. “We do, though, we do! Please wait just a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  I run up the stairs as fast as I can, and down the hall to my room. I rescue the cookie from beneath the pillow and run all the way back. “Let’s use the cookie,” I say, fighting for breath. “It’s so big, we can break it. It isn’t perfect, but it’s better than nothing. My appetite is improving anyway, and why should the cookie just sit there and disintegrate into crumbs?”

  “I think this cookie will be just the thing,” says Miss Braverman. She breaks it into half a dozen small chunks and spreads the chunks on a Kleenex.

  We start nibbling the chunks and sipping our tea. “Would you like to hear about the science fair?” asks Miss Braverman.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I’m still out of breath and I would like to hear about it.”

  “It’s held on the last Saturday of October, at the University. We’ll be taking one of the school vans. Besides you and DeeDee, there are three other students going. There’s a ten-dollar entrance fee for each project, and we’ll have to buy a couple of meals.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” I say. “We will spend the day together and eat our meals together. It will be so much togetherness.”

  “I think you’ll enjoy it,” Miss Braverman says. “There are always so many fascinating exhibits.”

  “Up in my room I have thirty dollars, and Dr. Rowe says I’ll be getting out of the hospital before too much longer.”

  “It sounds like we have a date, then.”

  DeeDee says she hopes the van is air-conditioned because the weather has been so hot.

  “According to the paper, we’ve broken four heat records already this month,” says Miss Braverman.

  “It’s more like July than October,” says DeeDee. “And it’s so dry. I wish we’d get a little rain. I have to water my little trees every night.”

  “It’s unseasonably warm and dry,” I say. “The earth is parched and cracking, and the grass is brown and brittle.”

  Miss Braverman is laughing. “Isn’t this a fine thing; we come to visit Grace and the best we can do is talk about the weather.”

  “Oh no, Miss Braverman,” I say. “It’s perfect, really. The weather is a very appropriate topic. We are three women having tea together. Everything is so nice, I wish I could think of a better word, but it’s just so nice. We have even eaten the cookie.”

  She smiles and says, “You do understand that we miss you.”

  “I believe it to be true. I’d like to tell you how nice everything is, but I’m afraid I’ll start to cry again.”

  Seven

  10/14

  Dear Diary:

  Schizoaffective disorder (manic or depressive or mixed) is applied to individuals who show features of both schizophrenia and affective disorder. In the DSM-III classification, this disorder is not listed as a formal category of schizophrenic disorder, but rather under “Psychotic disorders not elsewhere classified.” This no doubt reflects the fact that schizoaffective disorder presents something of a taxonomic problem, and current controversy prevails over whether these persons should be considered basically schizophrenic or basically affectively disordered, or a group unto themselves. Probably most clinicians lean in the direction of the first choice, although the course of the disorder (rapid onset and rapid resolution) more nearly approximates that usually seen in the affective psychoses.

  I don’t know why I have written these sentences in my diary. They aren’t my own sentences, they come from a textbook; but Dr. Rowe said I could write whatever I wanted.

  The cover design for Marx and Ginsberg’s book is a whirling blue and white sky. It is a detail of a painting by Van Gogh called Ravine in the Peyroulets. Is it possible that Van Gogh lived with the sky voice? Did his spinning sky send him warnings?

  My eyes scan the subheadings listed in the chapter called The Schizophrenias: Undifferentiated. Catatonic. Disorganized. Hebephrenic. Reactive. Progressive. Residual. Schizoaffective. Schizotypal. Process. Schizophreniform.

  Too much data loses its meaning. It is very appropriate to have a Van Gogh cover on a textbook about madness, but I close the book and put it back on the shelves. I’m quite sure Marx and Ginsberg have studied lots and lots of cases in some hospital somewhere, but my brain can’t absorb any more data about crazy people.

  I am calm but bored. Sometimes the evenings are so boring. I don’t like watching television or shooting pool or playing PingPong. Maybe I should take up woodworking. I would like to go home now; Dr. Rowe says I can probably go home in a few days, if everything goes well. If I do go home, the Surly People will be there and I’m afraid I will get scrambled again. It’s discouraging to be suspended always in the same limbo.

  I walk slowly down the north hall. All the doors on both sides are closed, but the green line leads me. At the shop door, the light is shining through the frosted glass. It’s odd, at this time of night, for someone to be there. I stop and listen. There are creaking and cracking sounds, as if someone is prying boards apart.

  I wonder if it is Mr. Sneed behind the door. My hand reaches out to touch the doorknob, but I quickly pull it back. Mr. Sneed is kind, but it could be someone else.

  I have talked to Mr. Sneed about woodworking; I have told him of the times my father used to take me to the shop at the high school. Mr. Sneed teaches woodworking groups and spends a lot of time in the shop. He would enjoy talking to me, and I to him.

  I reach out again and touch the doorknob. A knot is forming in my stomach; what if it’s not Mr. Sneed? My hand turns the knob slowly until I hear it click. I push the door gently so that it eases open, about two feet.

  It is Luke. I am standing and staring, and he is looking straight at me.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry; I thought it was Mr. Sneed.”

  “Yeah, well, what do you want?”

  The knot is hard and my pulse is racing. “I meant no harm, really. I just thought you were Mr. Sneed.” I stop talking as the words catch in my throat, and I hurry to moisten my mouth.

  “Hey look, Red,” he says. “If you wanta come in and shoot the shit, that’s cool, but don’t stand there holdin’ the door open, huh?”

  “Do you mean we should talk with each other?”

  In the moment before he can answer, I relive the terror of the hallway at school, the Surly People with their painted swastikas and their hot breath and their groping fingers, and the cruel shadow of Mr. Stereo. The one called Luke is probably one of them; I should leave now.

  “All I’m sayin’ is, either come in or get out, but don’t stand there holdin’ the door open. I want it shut.”

  I don’t know what it is that makes me hesitate. I should leave now. If I went inside the room I would be all alone with him, and that would p
ut me at risk. I looked at the Surly People through the slits on my balcony and it terrified me, but I had to go on looking.

  Something I don’t understand is leading me. With the panic still locked inside me, I step across the threshold and inside the room. I close the door behind me.

  Immediately, I sit down on a shop stool near the door and begin to take deep breaths. My father used to take me to the shop at the high school and sometimes I helped him build things. Luke is prying apart some dirty skids, the kind used by forklifts. He is using a small crowbar and his well-defined muscles are bulging. The rusty spiral nails are ripped out screeching.

  I sit and watch. I feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, but for some reason my panic is subsiding.

  After a few minutes, he takes a break and lights a Marlboro. He slouches against a workbench.

  “What are you working on?” I ask timidly.

  “I’m tearin’ some of these skids apart to get the lumber. These two-bys are solid oak.”

  “Are you going to build something?”

  “I was thinkin’ of makin’ a couple coffee tables. It would beat the hell out of makin’ more of those horseshit ashtrays and candy dishes.”

  It reminds me of what my father would do; make something useful or beautiful out of something discarded. But it seems absurd, comparing Luke to my father.

  “It sounds like a nice idea,” I say. “But the skids. Where do they come from?”

  “I got them from the parking lot.”

  “You mean you left the building?”

  He takes a long drag and exhales some irregular smoke rings. “Well, they sure as hell weren’t gonna walk in here all by themselves.”

  He is frightening and yet I chose to be alone with him. A sign on the door says, NO ADMITTANCE. STAFF ONLY. I ask, “Are you supposed to be here?”

  “In a way,” he says. He smiles, and his teeth are straight and regular. He has such a nice smile, and so much hygiene, but I have seen his anger and I suspect his brutality.

  “Please,” I say, “I don’t understand.”

  “I was watchin’ TV up in the lounge. I was bad-mouthin’ The Cosby Show, and it got Sarbanes and a few others all unglued. Mrs. Higgins told me to go find somethin’ to do. So here I am, with somethin’ to do.”