slice of pie

From a short distance, with cylinder ringlets, round saucer eyes, and peachy complexion, she appeared as a historical fairytale dream, a Miss Colonial pageant queen. Her rosebud lips formed rhotic consonant-r’s, all her words moving to the sounds of a Tidewater settler. An accent I was familiar with but couldn’t name until now. In her hand, a scarlet red crayon; the letters, CRO, were written onto a Muslim white wall in the Noix House main room. Turning to look over her shoulder, she caught me watching; wispy curls framed her apple-cheek face, lash-lined eyes narrowing, not at me, but at the dayshift nurse approaching from behind. Miss Colonial turned back around, facing the wall, starting on a fourth letter; the titled straight line telling me it was to be a capital A.  The nurse brushed past me, her voice level, “Ok, how about if you give me the crayon now; you know you can’t draw-” Spinning around fast, Miss Colonial’s angelic aura, a crossbody 1592 satin sash instantly evaporated, celestial feminine fanning out into the pink neck frill of a hissing lizard, sharp teeth ready to rip through the fast approaching medically trained meat. Stopping in her tracks, hands on hips, the nurse let Miss Colonial hiss, and a proper stand-off between pilgrim and healer began. The room quickly cleared, orderlys shuttling patients back to our rooms. I wanted to watch but could only hear the loud trills and clicks as the scarlet red crayon was forcibly removed from Miss Colonial’s clenched fist. 

Ear against my door, a muffled scuffle ensued, and then silence. The count of my heartbeats told me it was two minutes between the silence and the crackling voice over the loudspeaker announcing we could return to the main room. 

Settled back into our usual seats, beige barrel accent chairs not designed for the kind of lounging the room teased, Victor turned to me, “That’s what happens when you don’t take your meds. The little belle should know by now this isn’t her ball.” 

Victor, in his faded crimson velvet jacket, waving an invented cigarette, tucked me under his sinewy wing the day after I arrived, explaining the behaviors of other patients to me, a newbie.  Institutionalized many times since 1975, Victor readily confessed, “I’ve seen it all, so many versions of the same porcelain doll. In and out of the medicated box, I like to call the mindlock.” 

“Mindlock? That’s good! Like under lock and key!”

Victor scowled with a low growl, “You can’t use that line; it’s mine.”

A paranoid schizophrenia who cut all the wires in his house and then placed a tin foil hat on his taxidermied mouse; Victor didn’t trust other people using anything of his, especially words. Nervous, perspiration popping, I shifted in my seat and course-corrected, 

“Yes, yes, of course. I won’t use it. Mindlock is totally yours, I promise...”

Grinning thin tobacco-stained teeth, Victor seemed satisfied with my back-peddle, softening his stance, adding, “It’s for your own protection, dearie. You know, not repeating what I say. They’re always listening to me.”

Nodding along to show Victor, I agreed; to exactly what I left it for Victor to determine. The risk of Victor’s verbal claw scratches and my proverbial flying fur was enough to send me to a compliant place, cramped but safe. 

A woman in scuffed black ballet flats glided up, stopped in front of me and did a little toe-heel-toe-heel dance, exclaiming with a wide grin and dramatic arm sweep,

“My grandmother taught me this! Her name was Alice, and she lived in Wonderland!” 

On my third day, this was the same woman who told me I looked like her sister, Jackie Kennedy. Chest puffed with pride; she also told me she was related to the British Royal family and Pope Francis, who, in turn, was related to her second cousin, once removed, France. 

“You mean, as in the country?” 

“Yes. yes, of course! There’s only one France, silly!”

A man named Joe shouted for an orderly to change the television channel.

“Nobody wants to watch this shit! Cooking shows are disgusting; these so-called chefs with their loose hair and unwashed hands! Look at that!”  Joe pointed to the TV, where a woman was preparing a garlic-stuffed chicken. “She wiped her hands on that towel after touching raw poultry. Where’s the fucking soap and water?!” 

Joe’s former wife ran a diner; his grandmother made the famous peanut butter pies sold by the slice in the window case. 

Another man, closer to a boy because of his age, paced nearby, pulling at his dreadlocks, trapped with the rest of us in what Victor referred to as the “giant waiting room.” The room where we waited for all things, lined up single file for breakfast, snacks, lunch, dinner, and bedtime snacks. The room where we waited for our vitals to be taken, medications dispensed, and art therapy to start, only to be interrupted by a social worker or psychiatrist. Called out of art class, walked across the hall to a small library stuffed with worn paperbacks and board games, missing all the critical pieces. Every one-on-one check-in starts with the same three questions; do you have thoughts of self-harm? Harming others? Are you seeing things others don’t? 

“You mean as in hallucinations?”

“Yes, hallucinations.”

I wish I were hallucinating, like when I was tripping on shrooms, and a big pink fluffy bunny hopped across the road. But even if I saw something others didn’t, I knew better than to say. Not even Miss Colonial would share her hallucinations; no one wanted the shot. The enormous needle full of medicine made the visions disappear. 

The giant waiting room where Joe waited impatiently for the channel to change from Food Network to FX and Jackie Kennedy’s sister waited for it to turn back again. “Cooking shows remind me of my brother, Emeril. He used to be famous too.” The waiting room that would clear for little Miss Colonial’s dragon lady tantrums, forcing everyone to their assigned solo spaces, eventually returning to the waiting room, where the countdowns began again. 

The glare of natural light could be blinding bright; the free world is just on the other side of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Patients weren’t allowed outside except as a special treat, the reward of fresh air for those who cared. My stay didn’t last long enough to compare inside to outside time. The nights I was there totaled eight, and when I finally left on day nine, it felt like walking out of purgatory and through the trumpeting gates of Heaven. 

There’s something to be said for a peanut butter pie slice of your life spent behind the window glass of a psychiatric center.  It only takes a few days, letting go of all you know, to have things make more sense on the other side of the fence—the side of your life where grass doesn’t grow greener. When you have the time and ability to explore your human fragility, it changes you in seemingly impossible ways. One of many things I’ve learned by being unwillingly sent away is that none of us stay in one place for long. Unless you’re a frog in a small pond, stagnant and stale, change seeks you out; a little or a lot depends on your life plot. The grass beneath your feet, the company you keep, whether you cry fake tears or naturally weep, it all comes and goes, little bits or in droves.

In a state-of-the-art facility like Noix House, there’s no need to save face; the entire point is to be yourself, not sit on a shelf. How else does one get better except to storm all the weather? Flash floods of fear, earthquake-shaking tears, the hot sun of a scorched betrayal, cool rain of shame, and the breeze of settling into your flaws with ease. Tornados, hurricanes, lightning, and thunder, all force you to wonder, is this it? Or can I be the mother who controls my nature?

Even something as simple as a name change can up or down your game. Colonial Miss called herself Rainbow Army. Jackie Kennedy’s sister settled on Lily, then Milly, and then Tilly, in honor of her best friend, Meg. One of the three Heathers changed her name to Kim after her Kardashian girlfriend. “She likes it when I copy her. It’s all part of our connection. The more I’m like her, the more I become her. Two as one is so much more fun, don’t you agree?”

Nodding yes, just like I did with Victor, I added, “You’re right. It really heightens the intimacy.” 

I’m not a trained medical professional; I only know what I experience, and in my experience, surrounded by roses, prickly pears, and daisies, all labeled crazy, letting a person talk helps them walk. Which direction isn’t part of my reflection, I can’t control where others go, only what I know. And I know that when you move through life, staying fluid, not stopping to peer into other’s minds, guessing what makes them tick or keeps them thick, life can be spent in the present. A much better place, even in the space behind the case. Because just like peanut butter pie, it’s not a forever stay, only temporary, right down to the last plate-licking crumb. Yum.