Chapter 25 Peggy
What is Sammy busy doing right now? What is he wearing? Is he warm enough? Is he hungry?
My days are punctuated by mealtimes. They prefer us in a set routine. Breakfast. Rec room. Lunchtime. Group therapy. Dinner. TV room. Supper. Bathroom. Bed.
Myrtle, the friendly nurse with the yellow nails, tells me it is best to stay calm.
To breathe deeply when I become upset. To do coloring or go off for a short walk around the rec room.
And I know she is right but if she was locked in day and night she would be angry too.
I understand that the way to be released is to stay quiet and normal and timid but sometimes the steam builds and builds and I cannot stop thinking about Sam and how he is coping, and what Drew did or did not do all those years ago, and if he has moved the boat, and how I have not had a single visitor when most of the others have, and then I scream and run again for the door.
I can’t help it. I must see my boy, to touch his skin, to check on him.
Each day the same as the one before.
Institutional food.
The smell of decay. Slow, steady decay: the warm building and its contents.
The echo of our nightmares lingering well into the mornings.
I was fine before they locked me in here.
I signed a book deal for goodness’ sake.
In my own name. I have told them about it over and over and they look at me like I am insane.
I take care of my son; I have never neglected him, never.
Not once. We are a family. A triangle. We are holding together for Sammy’s sake.
He is a fragile boy but that will change, we just need to provide a stable environment for him.
Love and support. I scratch my fingernails down my face. Where is his love and support now?
Sometimes I stand alone by the big window looking out at the grass and the trees. One tree in particular. A mature Scotch pine complete with russet bark and long, slender cones. It is the most reliable, consistent thing in my life at the moment.
Three of the women sit with me during the day.
We watch television together. Rachel says she does not know exactly who she is.
She says, “Where is this? Where? Who?” in a low voice over and over.
“Who am I, really, truly?” Rachel does not really talk to us, but she likes to sit with us while she questions her own existence.
Grace is charming, a teacher by profession.
Her father was a Black Panther in New York and her sister is a trial lawyer.
Grace looks like any respectable woman in the line at the bank or walking down the sidewalk.
Except she will not eat. They weigh Grace every day.
They monitor her closely and she is barely hanging on but somehow she finds the energy to make us laugh.
I would like to know her again when we leave this place.
She lives up to her name. Finally, the last of our group, Fatima, receives no visitors either.
We talk about it. How some of the others have so many visits and we have none.
Fatima has light scars on her arms and her neck.
She works at the mayor’s office. She says she has seen me in the library before.
Fatima has accrued more time in hospitals than the others. She has spent years locked inside.
Is Sammy at school today? Is Drew making him a packed lunch? Of course he is. Drew will make sure Sammy is fed. I cannot countenance any alternative.
He must be.
I will meet the doctor in a few days. I can only speak with her once a week and I plan to stay very well-behaved until that moment.
I will make my case for leaving. It is ridiculous that I have been here so long.
How long has it been? I will not demand it or scream like before; I will explain, gently, reasonably, that I would like to be home for Christmas with my family.
My lip starts twitching at the thought of her politely declining my request. Her looking at me with pity and saying, It’s too soon.
Lunch.
Medication at the hatch.
They check my mouth to see that I swallow.
I sit at a table with Fatima, coloring. I have tried to write, to start a new story.
Myrtle, the nurse with the nails, brought me in some lined paper and a blunt felt-tip pen but I cannot write a word.
The others make it through each day coloring and now I do as well.
I have become one of them. It helps me not to think about the evening of the bath and the cut on my leg.
I was told there was enough medication in my system to kill me, and there were two loose razor blades in the tub.
He did it. I know full well he did it. One of his blades cut me.
I was told mine was a failed attempt. They want me to open up about it, describe my feelings in detail, but I tell them that it wasn’t me.
I would never leave my boy.
Never.
They don’t believe a word I say.
I color in a tropical bird in a tree, some approximation of a toucan, and aside from these soft clothes my skin is unadorned.
I am not allowed jewelry in here and I miss my necklace.
It is hollow and only 9 karats or 14 karats gold, it is not monetarily valuable, but it holds the teething marks of my only child.
And it connects him directly to his Nanna Ruth.
I do not know if I will be able to buy it back from Kerrigan’s Pawnshop in time.
Will I still be paid by my publisher? Are they sending letters to the library, and will Mrs. Appleby forward them to me here?
Is that even possible? I am overwhelmed and I have no answers.
Most people in here look normal.
That is the most shocking thing.
They are the people you walk past in Walgreens or in line at the DMV.
Maybe that is what happened to me. I looked normal and then they locked me up inside here with no way to convince the guards or doctors to release me.
I need the ability to make my own decisions again.
I might flee. I will run as fast as I can to the boat, thundering along the towpath, breathing in woodsmoke from the other houseboats, and I will locate my boy and I will hold him so tight, squeeze him, smell him, bury my nose into his hair, and I will never again let go.