Therapist’s office, I generally wanted to be anywhere else. When I wasn’t in her office, I often found myself thinking about her coiled rug and her jar of stones.
“There are a lot of therapists out there to choose from,” my mother said. “You want someone you can talk to.”
I told her I might as well stick with the person I had.
32
“You’re much more alert this time, Rabbit,” my father said. More black licorice tied into knots, and more fairy tales. “You had us worried last Thursday.” We were in the conference room again, with the door propped open. Now and then one of the other kids would pause to stare at us until the nurses came to shoo them away.
“They changed my dosage,” Dora said. “I think they screwed it up for a while.” Her hair was still oily and uncombed, and her collarbones jutted out under her skin above the neck of her hospital gown; still, she looked brighter, more like herself. “They’re going to discharge me this week,” she added.
“They said they’d discharge you?” my father asked.
“Yeah. They said something about it.” Dora bit into a knotted hunk of licorice.
“That’s great,” my father said. “Great news.” I could tell he was trying not to look surprised.
“Completely wonderful.” My mother smiled.
Dora picked at a scab on her lip. Because we didn’t seem to have enough to talk about, my mother started reading from
Classic Fairy Tales for Children.
I wrote Dora a note in code with an orange crayon while my mother read from “Cinderella”:
Can’t wait till you’re back. Am bored by myself. Mom has at least 3 personalities.
Dora glanced over my shoulder, chewing on licorice. She read and wrote code much faster than I could.
What else is new?
she quickly scrawled.
The prince was knocking on doors, looking for eligible feet and for the moment when he would live happily ever after.
My father was leafing through a copy of
Hospital Weekly.
Dora picked up her crayon.
Mom and Dad won’t trust me anymore,
she wrote.
They will,
I scribbled back.
Are you excited to leave?
“What are the two of you writing?” my father asked. He looked at our messages. “It’s not fair to keep secrets.”
“Is anyone listening to this story?” my mother asked.
“Yeah. We can’t wait to find out what happens,” Dora said. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Very funny.” My mother put her finger in the book and closed it, but Dora asked her to keep reading. One of the stepsisters cut off her little toe.
My father closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Dora waggled the crayon and wrote
nervous.
Cdqwv ufyr?
I asked.
About what?
Not sure,
she wrote.
My mother finished with “Cinderella.”
“I love happy endings,” Dora said. One of the nurses came to say that our time was up.
Now everything will go back to the way it was,
I wrote, as fast as I could. But Dora stood up and left the note on the table, so I wasn’t sure whether she ended up reading it or not.
33
She came home in the middle of October, on a Saturday, after twenty-two days on the psychiatric ward at Lorning. The leaves had turned while she was gone. From the living room window, I watched her unfold her skinny long-legged self from the car and look up at the house. She scanned each window, left to right, as if she were trying to read it and memorize it. In her arms she carried a paper bag full of clothes and her favorite pillow. I opened the door and watched her walk toward me. “Hey there,” I said.
“Hey yourself. I’m back from the hellhole.” She gave me a one-armed hug.
My mother asked her not to swear.
Dora took a long shower while my parents and I all pretended not to wait for her, and then the four of us ate lunch together. It felt awkward and formal (we didn’t normally eat lunch as a family), and none of us seemed to know what to say. Dora tucked her long damp hair into the back of her T-shirt, slid her collection of silver bracelets (she had gotten them
“There are a lot of therapists out there to choose from,” my mother said. “You want someone you can talk to.”
I told her I might as well stick with the person I had.
32
“You’re much more alert this time, Rabbit,” my father said. More black licorice tied into knots, and more fairy tales. “You had us worried last Thursday.” We were in the conference room again, with the door propped open. Now and then one of the other kids would pause to stare at us until the nurses came to shoo them away.
“They changed my dosage,” Dora said. “I think they screwed it up for a while.” Her hair was still oily and uncombed, and her collarbones jutted out under her skin above the neck of her hospital gown; still, she looked brighter, more like herself. “They’re going to discharge me this week,” she added.
“They said they’d discharge you?” my father asked.
“Yeah. They said something about it.” Dora bit into a knotted hunk of licorice.
“That’s great,” my father said. “Great news.” I could tell he was trying not to look surprised.
“Completely wonderful.” My mother smiled.
Dora picked at a scab on her lip. Because we didn’t seem to have enough to talk about, my mother started reading from
Classic Fairy Tales for Children.
I wrote Dora a note in code with an orange crayon while my mother read from “Cinderella”:
Can’t wait till you’re back. Am bored by myself. Mom has at least 3 personalities.
Dora glanced over my shoulder, chewing on licorice. She read and wrote code much faster than I could.
What else is new?
she quickly scrawled.
The prince was knocking on doors, looking for eligible feet and for the moment when he would live happily ever after.
My father was leafing through a copy of
Hospital Weekly.
Dora picked up her crayon.
Mom and Dad won’t trust me anymore,
she wrote.
They will,
I scribbled back.
Are you excited to leave?
“What are the two of you writing?” my father asked. He looked at our messages. “It’s not fair to keep secrets.”
“Is anyone listening to this story?” my mother asked.
“Yeah. We can’t wait to find out what happens,” Dora said. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Very funny.” My mother put her finger in the book and closed it, but Dora asked her to keep reading. One of the stepsisters cut off her little toe.
My father closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Dora waggled the crayon and wrote
nervous.
Cdqwv ufyr?
I asked.
About what?
Not sure,
she wrote.
My mother finished with “Cinderella.”
“I love happy endings,” Dora said. One of the nurses came to say that our time was up.
Now everything will go back to the way it was,
I wrote, as fast as I could. But Dora stood up and left the note on the table, so I wasn’t sure whether she ended up reading it or not.
33
She came home in the middle of October, on a Saturday, after twenty-two days on the psychiatric ward at Lorning. The leaves had turned while she was gone. From the living room window, I watched her unfold her skinny long-legged self from the car and look up at the house. She scanned each window, left to right, as if she were trying to read it and memorize it. In her arms she carried a paper bag full of clothes and her favorite pillow. I opened the door and watched her walk toward me. “Hey there,” I said.
“Hey yourself. I’m back from the hellhole.” She gave me a one-armed hug.
My mother asked her not to swear.
Dora took a long shower while my parents and I all pretended not to wait for her, and then the four of us ate lunch together. It felt awkward and formal (we didn’t normally eat lunch as a family), and none of us seemed to know what to say. Dora tucked her long damp hair into the back of her T-shirt, slid her collection of silver bracelets (she had gotten them
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