Chapter 33 Peggy
Last day of the year.
I watch out of the window as three men use chain saws to slice up a pine tree that fell in the storm.
It had become my favorite feature here. A polestar, of sorts.
When it fell it came to rest at a dangerous angle.
The saws scream and the teeth of the chains bite and spew out wood chips and the tree is made smaller and, piece by piece, it is taken away from this place.
Fatima was moved to the other hospital. I miss her. She developed an infection.
The men wear helmets and gloves and special boots.
The branches are shrinking.
On Christmas Day, after most people had gone to bed early, a nurse brought me a gift.
We had all received presents: coloring books or packs of crayons or crossword compendiums. But this was not from the staff.
It came through to me on a red paper plate.
The nurse is from Mexico City, but she has lived here most of her life.
She had removed the Milky Way from its packaging and cut it up.
She said it was a gift from my son. A precious gift from my Sammy.
They took the stationary bicycle away today. Someone tried to hurt themselves with it.
More slicing. A tractor removing rounds. More sawdust on the lawn.
This, today, is the last day of the year we sold Mom’s bungalow and moved to the boat. The year I finished my book and found a publisher. The year I was committed.
It starts to rain outside. One of the chain-saw guys walks away.
I have seen the doctor. She is back. We had a constructive conversation.
I asked her about her Christmas and she looked embarrassed.
She asked how I was getting on with my medication.
I told her I was dizzy in the mornings. Numb.
I told her I had obscene dreams that would make her blush.
I told her sometimes it feels like I am being controlled from the outside.
There is a new patient here and her name is Katherine with a “K.” She has dyed blond hair, almost white, and she walks with a limp.
Katherine is adamant she is a qualified nurse.
She tries to help the rest of us, check on us, talk to us about therapy options and the active ingredients in our meds.
On her first day she tried to accompany me to the bathroom.
She genuinely believes she is on the payroll here.
I have had more nightmares about the balloon wallpaper.
I know I am not insane but the short story I read as a girl planted an image so vivid, so haunting, I cannot rid it from my consciousness.
Me, small, hunched down inside one of the wicker baskets.
Peering out over the rim at the doctor, screaming at the top of my voice for help, the balloon moving higher up the yellow wallpaper at a pace so slow it is almost impossible for them to notice.
Me, trapped in the basket. Stuck inside the wall. Screaming.
The doctor says I feel strange because the medication is working. She claims it can take weeks for it to build up inside my system. She says I should feel better soon.
Better.
Soon.
Will I ever make this up to Samson? One missed Christmas. I will make it up to him somehow. I will come out of here far stronger than before, and I will repair the damage. I pledge that to him.
Mary-Elizabeth is not working here at the moment, but I think often of what she told me.
I talked it over with the doctor, but she did not seem to want to discuss the subject.
She said we could cover it more in our next session but that it was vitally important that I take personal responsibility for my own actions and my well-being going forward.
She said I need to look after myself better.
The third man comes back and they tackle the broad trunk of the fallen tree.
I miss balling his socks. Such a small, forgettable thing.
I have balled Sam’s socks ever since they were tiny, the same size as the mittens I knitted him so he wouldn’t scratch his face as a newborn.
I miss cooking french fries. Who knew anyone could ever miss that?
Slicing potatoes and sautéing them in oil on the stove.
Drying them on paper and sprinkling them with salt.
I miss eating them with Sammy. Our treat.
I miss the look on his face as he enjoys hot food I have cooked for him.
Growing up with one parent I never felt I missed out but looking back I fear for my younger self, and for Mom.
She had me and nobody else. There were no other family members stateside.
Everyone else was back in England. I remember watching programs as a girl—The Waltons, Happy Days, Bewitched—and thinking how invulnerable those families seemed.
That is why I watched them. So many layers of protection and backup.
Relations, friends, colleagues, and neighbors.
And I knew then, as a young girl, that I would be part of a family one day, and that I would protect it at all costs, hold it together, make it safe.
But having some time away in this place I have come to doubt my childhood wisdom.
I think maybe holding a family together, protecting the triangle despite my better judgment, could actually hurt those who make it up.
I do not possess the energy or clarity of thought to see what comes next, but my rigid dream, keeping the family whole come what may, is not quite so rigid anymore.
Perhaps, rather than trudging home along the towpath with Sammy to locate our ever-moving boat, our life, our home, perhaps we can see it moored in the distance and then walk right on past it toward some unknowable future.
I do not know how I will keep Sammy safe, and myself, but I will figure it out. I will never give up.
The base of the tree falls.
I will be free from this hospital. I will walk where I like and eat what I like and breathe cool, fresh air. Nobody will accompany me to the showers or the bathroom. I will cook real food and have laces in my shoes again.
There are voluntary patients here. They are not all like me.
I was shocked to hear that some people have chosen this place, but now that I see them each day I know they made sound choices.
One man, Leo, hears voices. I have not talked to him much, but he says he listens to the voices in his head.
He knows the name of his condition and he says he can handle it much better than when he was younger.
Leo spends long periods in silence, listening to them.
I asked him if he must listen to the voices or if he can choose to ignore them.
He told me solemnly, calmly, that they are the only people left in his life.
The sawdust on the lawn is turning to sludge, rain intensifying, boot prints running through wet pulp. The saws scream and the old pine tree is almost completely gone.
I wrote to Sammy again this morning. I told him I miss tucking him in at night. I will tuck him in again soon.
It is possible that a place like this might have helped my mother.
She was an emotional person when I was growing up.
She cried easily, more easily than I have ever cried, and she laughed with her eyes.
I smile to myself thinking about it. Her lovely face.
The way her features would squeeze tight as she chuckled.
Mom liked Drew from the first moment they met.
He was nice to her. Really sweet. He took us out to the barbecue place near the town hall and he brought her flowers one time when he came to the bungalow for Sunday lunch.
Drew cut her grass for her. I never suspected she was so troubled.
She hid her feelings so well from me that I never suspected it.
She seemed relatively content with her life, her job, her circle of friends, the man her daughter had fallen in love with.
I am not sure I will ever understand why she ended her life.