Chapter 2 #8
“Tell me about where you lived before you moved into that house,” she says, continuing my metaphor. “Who were you before you became a mother?”
Dr. Gruner does not know all the layers that question unpeels.
Before I was Georgia Gilligan, I was Eloise Ambrose, an artist, a wife.
Before that, I was Eloise Mills—-RISD student, best friend of Evie D’Addario.
And before that, I was Eloise Owens—-an Evangelical reverend’s daughter—-inhabiting a world so small it fit between the palms of two hands in prayer.
Like the Devil, I contain multitudes.
On 9/11, a visceral shock to the system had delivered a moment of lucidity that lasted just long enough for me to make a decision to run away. Here is the stark, sad fact that I do not want to admit to myself or anyone else: I didn’t just run away to save Molly. I ran away to save myself.
At times since starting treatment, I’ve thought I was playing the long game, being a model patient so that I could get out and kill myself. But I have also learned that mental illness is not a death sentence.
When I left the city, I was not the wife Adam loved or the mother Molly deserved.
But . . . what if I could be?
On the day that I leave the hospital, I am given new clothes—-the ones I arrived in were covered with blood and disposed of.
This dress is loose--fitting, with a little penguin print and thin spaghetti straps.
The bra has no underwire; the shoes are jelly sandals.
I give Vera a hug and tell her that I hope she gets her NGRI soon.
Then I sit down with a social worker, who explains to me I’ll need to report to a community health center for a follow--up.
“Ella will be your case manager,” the social worker tells me.
“She’ll help you with housing, food stamps, and a job. ”
I nod, my mind already whirling.
I need a place to stay. I need money.
I’m given a Ziploc baggie containing my meds, plus everything that was on me when I was brought to the emergency room. Twenty--three dollars remain from the money I stole at the bus station. The ticket stub from the bus, which must have been in my pants pocket. My wedding ring and engagement ring.
That’s everything I own.
“Good luck, Georgia,” the social worker says, and suddenly, I am on the other side of that locked intake door.
The sun is brutal, bullying me the minute I step outside. Since I was unconscious when I arrived, I’m not even sure where in the city I am. I walk a few blocks, the heels of my new shoes slapping on the pavement, until I see a cab.
It physically hurts to think about parting with any of the money I have left, but I get into the backseat. The cab smells like sweat and pine. On the radio a pundit is talking about the terror attacks. “The world,” he opines, “will always be divided into before and after.”
The driver turns to me. “Where to?”
“The closest pawnshop,” I say. I fasten my seatbelt, as if mine is a life worth protecting.
I sell my engagement ring and wedding band for four hundred dollars. Then I take a cab back to the motel where I tried to kill myself.
I am given a different room, closer to where I saw the drug deal going down. I step under the portico that edges the room doors. In front of one is a housekeeping cart stacked high with linens and towels. A little radio nestled between the washcloths plays tinny Latin music.
The door to the room is open, and through it I see the maid lift the corners of a billowing sheet like a mainsail.
She is small and birdlike, her movements all darts and snaps.
She pulls the polyester comforter back over the bed, fluffs the pillows, and then comes back to the cart.
Her black hair glints like a crow’s wing. Her name tag says maria.
“Excuse me,” I say, and she startles.
“Ay, dios mío!” The maid presses a hand to her throat. “No te acerques sigilosamenta a la gente de esa manera!”
I look at her helplessly. “Do you speak English?”
She raises a brow. “Sí.”
“I, uh . . . I’m not sure if you remember me . . .”
Maria snorts. “I remember you.”
I twist my hands together. “I just wanted to thank you. For . . . helping me.”
The maid stares. I am nearly a foot taller than she is and yet I feel like she is looking down at me. After a moment of painful silent judgment, she nods. “You are welcome,” Maria says. She grabs a stack of towels and disappears back into the room.
I find my own room and open the door, experiencing a wave of déjà vu. With trepidation I creep toward the bathroom sink.
But this is a different room, with an intact mirror, and my inner voice is my own.
I take my medications out and line them up beside the sink, talismans. Then I lie down on the bed and fall into a deep sleep. The next morning, I dress in the same clothes and walk to the community center.
Ella, my case manager, is a curvy woman with braids piled into an intricate knot on her head. I wait three hours to see her, even though I am one of the first admitted into the building when it opens. “I don’t have a job,” I tell her, since money is my primary concern.
“Do you have any skills?” she asks. “Previous job experience?”
I can take shards of glass and make them into art, but somehow that doesn’t feel very marketable. I think back to the work--study placements I had at RISD. “I can type. Answer phones.”
She gives me a sheet of paper with the contact information for a temp agency. “In the meantime, you can apply for unemployment benefits,” Ella explains.
“How do I do that?”
“You’ll go here”—-another sheet of paper—-“with your driver’s license, your social security number, and your work history for the past eighteen months.”
“What if I don’t have a license?”
“You can go to the Georgia Department of Driver Services and get a state ID card. Just bring your birth certificate or passport, a social security card, and two documents that prove residency in Georgia—-like a bank statement or utility bill.”
My mind spirals.
A duplicate copy of my birth certificate (which Ms. Robichaud helped me get after I ran away) is in a folder in the desk in our New York bedroom. A driver’s license sits in a taxi somewhere near the wreckage of the Twin Towers. My social security card is likely still in my father’s safe.
Could I go to the police and say I’m Eloise Ambrose and that I’ve lost my purse and all my documents?
Probably. But the moment they run my name through their database, red flags will rise.
I’ve surely been reported missing by Adam, if he survived (please God), or by Evie, and I’m not yet ready to go back and have those conversations.
I need to be Georgia Gilligan until I can afford—-financially and emotionally—-to be Eloise Ambrose again. But it is a catch--22. I can’t be Georgia Gilligan without ID, and I can’t get an ID because there is no Georgia Gilligan.
The social worker must see the panic on my face. “I know this is overwhelming,” she says gently. “We can get you on food stamps while you’re sorting out the job and housing stuff.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “I need my ID and social security number for that.”
She nods. “And proof of citizenship.”
I take the useless sheaf of papers I have collected and paste a smile on my face. “Thank you,” I say.
As I’m letting myself into my room at the Shadyside, a man in a black hoodie walks past. He takes up a spot near the ice machine, where I’d seen the drug deal go down.
On impulse, I follow. He leans against the machine, lighting a cigarette, hood pulled low over his brow. His gaze flicks toward me when I approach. “You lookin’ for something?”
My mouth goes dry. I nod.
“Dust? Special K? Blue Mystic?”
I shake my head. “I need a fake ID.”
The man purses his lips. “Not my bag,” he says.
“Do you know someone?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“How can I contact him, then?”
“He don’t give out his number.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “He’ll find you.”
I go back to my room and watch the news on television, a story about how relatives of the presumed dead in New York City are coming to give DNA samples to help identify the remains.
When they interview a woman who hasn’t heard from her husband—-a trader at Cantor Fitzgerald—-and who has brought her two--year--old son to give a cheek swab, I start crying.
Like I’ve learned in group therapy, I focus on five things I can see, hear, feel, smell: a car alarm, this scratchy comforter, the stale aroma of cigarettes, the buckle of my jelly sandal, my heartbeat.
Then I switch to the Cartoon Network.
In the inky folds of the night, I’m awakened by a knock. I pad toward the door, knowing even as I unlock it that this is a stupid thing to do. The man on the threshold is young, beefy, tall. He has a shaved head, and his two front teeth are gold. “Heard you were looking for me.”
I blink at him. “I need a fake ID.”
He laughs, his eyes narrowing into slits. “We gonna conduct business in the hall?”
Faltering, I step back to let him inside. He sits on the one chair and says, “What are we talking about? Driver’s license? Birth certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Social security card?”
My eyes widen. “You can do that?”
He shrugs. “I can do anything, for a price.”
“How much?”
He rubs a hand over his chin, and finally says. “Fifteen hundred.”
My jaw drops open. “Fifteen hundred?” Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. I can feel the mirror behind me, reminding me that there is still another option. “I don’t have that kind of money,” I admit.
He gets up.
“Wait!” I block his exit. “Is there any other way? Some work I could do for you on the side?”
For a long moment, he stares at me. Then his eyes slide from my face to my body. “Maybe,” he replies.
Bile rises in my throat.
Do I nod? I don’t remember. He spins me around and shoves me down against the comforter. He pulls up my dress and yanks down my underwear. I hear the clink of a belt buckle.
No. No. No.
My eyes slam shut and I am in front of a congregation, my skirt flipped up.
I am in Adam’s bed for the first time, cowering, and hating myself for that.