They told I had been here for two months now. Or had it been two years? Even with the alarm clock standing motionless on my newly painted shiny white desk and an old calendar on the wall behind me, it would be impossible to tell. Breathing in deeply, I could smell the nauseating scent of drying paint and lacquer emanating from the desk which made my stomach do vigorous twirls and somersaults. I turned away in disgust and utter revulsion while feeling tempted to peel away the paint that was just a mask to cover up the grotesque decay that lay beneath it. I found myself scrutinizing every inch of this bare room I continually found myself in every time I would awake from such troubling nights. My head revolved at an agonizingly slow pace as I attempted to see my room in all its glory. Just saying the words my room made my entire body shiver as if I were outside on the porch of my parent’s house. The wind and rain blowing ever so viciously in my face would instruct my hair to harshly whip around me in hopes that I would break like the undisciplined wild horse that I was so frequently called. The sudden awakening of this memory, long since buried in my subconscious, instantly made me question its presence in my tormented mind. Could it have been a fantasy that I somehow conjured in my head to make me believe that my life before all of this was a truly joyous one? Or was it a memory that I, without knowing, discarded like old clothing in order to forfeit the sanity I desperately tried to cling to? These questions and so many more plagued my mind as my eyes wandered to the naked light-bulb hanging from a long wire that had ceased to function properly since the day I moved in. The light-bulb looked so alone and so vulnerable hanging over my bed that it seemed to me that at any moment it would start crying tears of pain that would, in actuality, be sparks of electricity, heralding a not so glorious end to a pitiful life-span. At this point, I licked my lips to rid myself of their dryness. It wasn’t so much that I did it because I was hungry because, let’s be honest: hospital food tastes very grim. No, I did it to see if it would stop me from feeling old and unwanted. Being in a place like this can have that kind of effect on you, you know? Nevertheless, it is a relief to know that I didn’t always feel this feeling of isolation. Once upon a time, my life was glamorous. That is, before I ended up here. It had meaning, it had purpose… Or so I thought. To say the least, girls who read glossy magazines would be envious of the life I used to lead. The people I encountered were charming as well as fascinating, the drinks I drank were as exotic as the men that I spend the night with and one can’t forget those evening parties. I would wear the little black dresses from Hubert de Givenchy and even Audrey Hepburn would feel a twinge of jealousy when I would make my grand entrance. Frank Sinatra would be in the back singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ while Ava Gardener talked incessantly about how she was going to win the Golden Globe for best motion picture actress in ‘The Night of the Iguana’. I would listen politely while I sipped my Martini and waited for my Prince to whisk me off my feet and escort me to his magnificent castle for a ‘happy ending’ to a glamorous night. Life does not get better than that… Well, unless you’re God. But even then you’ve got so much responsibility and you can’t catch a break. Do I have to mention all the money I had at my fingertips? No, I didn’t think so. The question that now pushed its way to the fore-front of my mind was quite simple really: Was all the money and fame worth the effort it took to achieve them? Well, in the words of Judy Garland, the answer was plain to see: I can live without money, but I cannot live without love. The only problem with that reasoning was that I lacked any and all forms of love.
My ears suddenly caught the sounds of some kind of commotion coming from outside. I shook from my day-dreams, slid off my bed to investigate its origins and made my way to the only window in my room that overlooked a wet garden (thanks to the heavy rainfall that we had experienced for the past few hours). Before I could reach the barred window, however, I heard my name being called from the hallway. It felt like one of those times when you were young and got into trouble? You knew you would get caught but you still tried to cover up your tracks and escape without anyone knowing you had been at the ‘scene of the crime’. And that’s when you hear the one word you loathe to hear at that moment: your own name. Funny how that is, isn’t it? So, I retraced my steps back to my bed just in time to hear the door-knob turn ever so quickly and then the door being swung open. I drew another deep breath; just like the one I had drew only moments before and caught the same scent of drying paint which threatened to linger in my nose for as long as it took for me to eventually give in and throw up the empty contents of my stomach.
“What’s it going to be this time, Princess?” the African-American orderly who had sauntered in through the door asked inhospitably. “A bowl of oatmeal, two pieces of toast with butter and a glass of apple juice to chase down your daily medication or will it be another situation where you end up sedated and on a stretcher?”
I refused to reply. Flashes from my last experience on a stretcher pierced my mind seeking only to tease me into reliving it which was something I dared not give in to. I could see my arms thrashing violently, clawing at the women in those unfashionable gauze caps who loomed over me with menacing expressions that reminded me of the foreboding Angel of Death who comes to drag the wicked, kicking and screaming, into yet another fiery hell. That’s when the searing headaches from the meds they have pumped you with kicks in and your body becomes an empty shell. It’s that paralyzing feeling of hopelessness that robs you of your will to live. Why else would a person with so much potential for greatness commit suicide?
“You know I need an answer from you before I can hand over this delightfully delicious meal, right?” she said sarcastically with a fake smile, jolting me from my torrid thoughts.
I felt the urge to spit in her delightfully delicious face but I supressed that urge and instead nodded at the tray of food she was holding in her left hand. Even though it killed me, I knew that nothing good could come of disobeying Queen Kong. Jennae came up with that endearing nick-name for this nurse and decided to call her that to her face one fateful day. Shortly after, Jennae underwent an operation because she apparently overdosed on drugs that she had smuggled in and she unfortunately didn’t make it. She’s probably lying on some garbage dump in the middle of nowhere right now; those crystal blue eyes, once full of life and promise of a better tomorrow, now staring blankly into space while the vibrant colour slowly drains from around her pupils leaving nothing but tiny remnants of what once was.
That’s where girls like us went, that’s where we would all end up one day. Or so I believed.
“Well, I don’t have all day. I have to visit another twenty of your kind before I can go home so make up your God-damn mind!”
Her way of putting things into perspective was always so enlightening.
“I’ll take the food,’’ I whispered stubbornly. “Oh and taking the Lord’s name in vain, Ernestine? Really?”
Ernestine (that was her real name) had already given me the tray at this point and was about leave my room when I had finished my provoking enquiry. She turned to look me up and down and used another one of her delightful phrases to tell me her feelings on my mockery of her faith in God. My reply should have been “Hey, Queen Kong! Why don’t you terrorize another helpless blonde girl?!” but instead I smiled. Oh, things you can cover up with a simple smile.
An hour had passed since I had been handed the food and my eyes had been set transfixed upon it for the entire time. Every last waft of the smell of warm freshly cooked food had gone and was now replaced with the every-present smell of drying paint, and the emptiness it brought with it remained in my room like the pungent smell of two exhausted sweaty bodies lying next to each other after making passionate love. I longed for some form of physical contact that didn’t involve someone trying to save me from this world by drugging me which just ushered me into an even more terrifying one. It had been quite some time since I had been with a man; felt his strong arms wrapped around me and his heavy yet reassuring breath on the nape of my neck. I blinked for what seemed like an eternity, hoping that when I opened my eyes again the tray of food that I was being forced to eat would be replaced by a knight in shining armour. But it would not be so. The food was still there; its dry crusty face looking up at me and making me feel guilty that I hadn’t eaten it yet. A part of me wanted to just bite back my disgust and succumb to the wishes of my doctor who had urged me just yesterday to eat as much as I could. Apparently, I was ‘slowly starting to become anorexic’ and he always sad if I ‘continued down the dark slippery slope that is anorexia, I would no sooner become a victim of starvation’. The other part of me wanted to continue the stand-off I had rightly started and refuse to give in to the wiles of this unholy place. Unholy? I muttered to myself. When had I ever used the word unholy before? I wasn’t a believer in God. Or was I? Maybe it was my parents that had instilled in me a belief in an all-knowing, all-seeing God that resided somewhere in the heavens? Even if they were right, and he did exist, why would he spare a thought for someone like me? What was his reason for putting me on this Earth anyhow? I guess I was here to make all the sane people look good. At this, I laughed out loud, the sound of my brief moment of happiness floated temporarily in my room before being consumed by the four grey walls that had now become my prison. My mind wandered back to the food in front of me and I started to count the shades of grey that I could make out on their surfaces. The tall glass of apple juice was the only item that looked somewhat inviting but then again it was more diluted than cough syrup mixed with a mug of milk to make it go down easier. At this point, I began to systematically swallow my medication and gulp down the apple juice while humming ‘Just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down’ and finished off by singing aloud the last phrase in the song: ‘In the most delightful way’.
The faces that line the corridors of The Institute are filled with melancholic expressions and regrets that span over many long tedious years. If one were to walk down one of these many corridors, I think one would find that no one is truly happy or in the process of being cured. Sure, they might be an occasional laugh from one of the girls as she runs down the hall, but I know she is breaking inside. They continue to feed us the medication even when they know it’s only keeping us one step away from being driven completely mad. They are all riddled with insecurities coupled with acute signs of depression. And their body language will tell you that. But what is the best way to determine if they are truly unhappy and far from being restored to their healthier state of mind, one might ask? Well, all one would have to do is take a good look at their faces and it will reveal these secrets in a flash. It’s their facial expressions that will be imprinted on one’s memory long after one leaves this place.
As I exit my room and stride down one of the many corridors that led away from my room, an older woman from behind me slowly reached out her hand to grasp my shoulder. I was moving too quick for her to succeed in her endeavour, though, and her hand fell to her side limply. That was yet another failed attempt to feel the touch of another person’s skin under her coarse wrinkled fingers. Each line in her hands tells a different story of woe but they all seem to eventually connect in some way leading to the source of her problems; the root of her despair. Her face remains unchanged and even as she allows a tear to wind its way down the grooves on her cheek, no one takes any notice of her. Just before I turn around the corner, I looked over my shoulder at the sound of screams piercing the deathly silence in the corridor to see a nurse dragging away the old woman. I watched, unable to help, as the old woman looked at me with tears streaming down her weathered face. Pity she’ll be experiencing the Electroconvulsive therapy again. Her depression has clearly reached critical levels this time. Expecting myself to cry, I surprisingly managed to turn back and ignore her cries while I pressed on toward my goal: getting to the ‘promise land’. Unlike the one in the old book, the promise land here was just as life-draining as my room. It was lined with sofas, television sets and chess tables and interspersed around these ancient artefacts were clusters of girls. Some of them sit on their own, frightfully looking about their surroundings like quivering Gazelles. Others mingle with each other; anxious to socialize as much as they can so as to block out that little voice inside their heads that tell them to live within their subconscious. When I walked in, one girl is beginning to walk toward me in a confident manner with a look of mystery dancing in her big curious eyes. Just before she reaches me, she calls out in a husky drawl (that I can only associate with a lone wolf on a cliff howling at the moon): “Sugar, where have you been all my life? I’ve been pacing up and down this dreadful place desiring to bask in your company. What took you so long this time?”
I was about to answer, but I halted momentarily. Salomé was in one of those moods.
“I was in my head, Sal; where else would I be?”
“Sounds ideal,” she teased, playing with the coarse brown stands of hair that adorned the left side of her face. “I should join you there sometime. You know, when I’m not being strapped down to a metal stretcher and repeatedly being injected with all kinds of curious drugs. Anyway, enough about my problematic and positively droll life, what memories were you stirring up about your glitzy life, eh?”
I decided not to answer her last question and instead forced myself to smile. I really wasn’t in the mood today. Moving past Salomé, I trotted over to a brown leather armchair that had chunks of its flesh torn out of it, leaving behind craters of Styrofoam in its place. When I sat down, I pulled out a weathered notebook from the pocket of my pyjama bottoms and began to read the inscriptions within it. They were mainly quotes from various philosophers, scientists, psychologists and writers although there were a few from people I knew: celebrities, musicians and the like. One read:
‘A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.’
Without realizing, I read it aloud and that’s when Linda timidly said: “Fredrick Nietzsche said that, you know?”
“Shut-up, Linda,” that familiar husky voice retorted, making Linda recoil back into her corner. “No one cares what you know. And by that logic, no one cares who wrote it either. Those philosophers you read about in the paper and in those dusty old books at the library are all the same: they come out with some cryptic saying that’s supposed to magically piece the broken parts of your life back together… Only they don’t believe in magic, they are just a couple of squares.”
Linda’s bottom lip trembled and she bit her tongue in a petrified fear of Sal. I noticed the drops of blood seeping from her mouth and down her lips just before she cried out in anguish. One of the nurses standing by the entrance to the common room rushed to her side and carried her off to the medic while Sal hovered over where I was sitting, amused with what had just taken place.
“You should really try to play nice, Sal. There’s nothing less attractive than a woman who can make another woman quake in her boots. Maybe that’s why you’re in here,” another girl murmured from where the television was rambling on about how James J. Reeb, a white Unitarian Universalist, had died in a hospital in Birmingham, Alabama after being beaten by white supremacists. One of the girls that sat in rapt attention at the television turned her sad eyes skyward upon hearing the news and in that brief moment I somehow felt safe within this prison for the first time.
“Play nice, Daffy? Are you really trying to tell me that I don’t play nice, Daffy?” Sal taunted menacingly.
Daphne rose from the musty carpet she was curled up on, turned around to face Salomé and shook her head.
“First of all, my name isn’t Daffy, its Daphne. And second, no one here likes you,” Daphne challenged, her hands twitching for a moment and then clenched into fists of rage.
Salomé raised her eyebrows at Daphne as if to say ‘really?’ and proceeded to light a cigarette.
“Yeah, and another thing: what gives you the right to tell us how to act?”
By this time Daphne had walked over to Salomé and her face was now inches away from Salomé’s.
“Why don’t you all calm down and...” I interjected, but was brutally cut off by Daphne who turned to me sharply and hissed “Stay out of it, you tramp!”
“Is something the matter?” A nurse called out from across the room, anxious to quench the fires of a feud that might start up.
Sal took a long deep drag on her cigarette before replying, “nothing’s wrong, Mama. Daffy was just blowing off some steam. Don’t sweat.”
Upon uttering the word sweat, Sal expelled the smoke from her mouth which caused Daphne to cough profusely.
“I’ve got asthma you bitch! Ugh, I hate you!” She screamed and stormed back to her place in front of the television where Psycho was playing and produced an asthma inhaler upon which she sucked from for dear life. The screams from the woman being stabbed repeatedly in the shower sounded identical to Daphne’s scream. This made my lips form into a slight smile of satisfaction while Sal perched herself on the armrest of the armchair I was in and continued to smoke her cigarette in silence.
At this point I began to examine more closely the tall girl with the slim-waist that was seductively sat on the arm-rest. Her murky green eyes that focused disinterested on the television as Norm removed the evidence from the motel room that Janet’s character Marion had once resided in starkly contrasted her pale red lips that were formed into a permanent sneer. My watchful gaze continued down the sensuous contours of her body that were clearly visible beneath the plain white dress that clung to frail form.
“Looks like you have walked right into a battle-field, missy. First there’s Lily-Livered Linda whose extreme paranoia makes her inflict psychical harm to herself and then there’s the stand-off with Daffy Duck over there who can’t keep her mouth shut.”
Salomé stopped talking and looked down at me, clearly wondering why I had decided to remain quiet and not agree with the point she was making.
“I’m sorry, Sal, I’m not quite myself today. Edgar and Thelma are visiting again.” I really didn’t want her to wait in the dark while I stood in the spot-light of knowing.
“And who are they?”
“Oh, they keep telling me that I am their child but I know better.... or at least I think I do. Anyway, they don’t look a thing like me but they insist on seeing me. They are really such a bore, I’ll tell you that.”
Upon finishing this sentence, a nurse from across the room beckoned for me to come over. I instinctively stood up, nodded politely at Salomé who had resumed her previous position on the arm-rest and continued to smoke and briskly walked over to where the nurse was standing.
“Yes, Bernadette? How can I help you?” I asked when I reached her.
“Your parents are here waiting for you in Mr Wilson’s office. You better hurry ‘cause I heard from Gertrude that Thelma is having a tiff.”
Bewildered, I walked alongside Bernadette as we made our way to Mr Wilson’s office. I wondered if her face would resemble a shiny ruby like the one Marilyn was wearing about her neck the night before she died. I remembered holding her close while she sobbed about how her life was worthless and that fame was only a passing comfort in her world of woes, all the while my eyes transfixed on that beautiful ruby. To this day, I always wanted to know who acquired that necklace. I could think of a million outfits of mine that it would go splendidly with.
“Beverly,” a stern sonorous voice said, cutting through my reverie like a pair of scissors cutting into a lace curtain, making me sit up and clasp the sides of the unforgiving wooden chair I sat on.
I looked around me to discover that I was sitting in Mr John Wilson’s office along with Edgar and Thelma. I could help but wonder how long we had been here and once again the clock that hung from the wall behind the desk of Mr Wilson was of no use to my dilemma whatsoever.
“We are so worried about you, sweet-pea. You’ve been in here for a long time now and you have shown no improvement at all. What’s wrong with you? What’s…” Thelma’s hysteria was stifled by Mr Wilson who promptly informed her that ‘raising your voice will not help the situation or Beverly’s condition’.
My ‘condition’, I scoffed, averting my eyes away from Thelma to look up at Mr Wilson’s trophy case. To the outside world, he was a world-renowned ‘Doctor of the Mind’. In here, he was nothing more than another man in white lab coat that went around tinkering with the brains of us girls with no real success.
“There, there, Thelma dear. Listen to the doctor. Bev isn’t right but we can’t change that,” Edgar interjected, soothing Thelma by rubbing her back vigorously.
I clenched my fists. I wanted my fingernails to burst through my calloused flesh and set free the red juice that desperately wanted to run down my hands and onto the pristinely cleaned Persian rug on the floor beneath me. But my fingernails were blunt stubs. What a calamity.
“Mr and Mrs McKinley, your daughter is experiencing yet again the symptoms of the Kaleidoscope Syndrome for which we have treated endlessly and with excellent results. Her charts have been showing an inclination that she might soon recover.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, but… Kaleidoscope Syndrome?” Edgar enquired; a look of bewilderment on his face.
“Yes, it is what some of us here at the Taft Institution have started to call it. Basically, it means that your daughter has no recollection of her past and while it is still in her brain, she can't seem to access that information.”
“Forgive me, but I thought that was called Alzheimer’s?”
“Well, you could call it that but it is a little more advanced than that. She has tried extremely hard to remember what she has lost and instead of trying to remember what really happened in her past, she has created false memories; memories that fill in the holes in her past... But only temporarily. You see, she doesn't just recreate a linear or chronological past. No, she is constantly recreating new memories that have never really happened to her; that's why it's called the Kaleidoscope Syndrome. Every now and again she will remember something that really happened but she won’t be able to differentiate from the two. It’s complicated, really.”
“I can see that. So is it also sort of like short term memory loss then?”
“To a certain extent, yes, it is short term memory loss your daughter is experiencing. However, she remembers everything that has happened to her here, in Taft. The people she encounters remain in her head as well as the surroundings.”
“I can’t take this anymore, Ed, we need to go. I don’t care what the therapist said; I want to forget about her.” At this statement, uttered by a frenzied Thelma, I shot her a glance. Her unkempt frizzy red hair glistened slightly in the sunlight that was peeking through the blinds in the office and her lipstick was smudged across her face like streak of blood. She had never gone this far before, I wondered, did she mean it? I didn’t have to wait long for my answer as she stood up and reached from the door-knob behind her.
“Wait! I’ve called you in to tell you that her progress has been substantial. She could recover if you took her to your home or a place she was familiar with before she came here. It might jump-start her true memories and everything would be fine and dandy.” Mr Wilson looked insincere but he meant well.
“I don’t care, doctor, that would never do. Her kind waltzing into my house with that blank expression on her face making me and my dear Eddy all embarrassed. This is her home now, for all I care.”
Edgar looked at me longingly, as if he hoped I would suddenly snap out of my thought patterns and be all ‘fine and dandy’, as Mr Wilson here so professionally put it. There was something about that look he gave me that reminded me of someone but I couldn’t quite remember who. Was it Alfred? Cary? Frank?
Thelma ignored the doctor and began walking out into the hallway that led to the exit of Taft. She turned around abruptly to enquire whether or not Eddy was coming or not. He sighed deeply and stood up to shake Mr Wilson’s hand solemnly.
Hold on… It was…
And then it was like a light-bulb suddenly switched on in my mind and chased all the ugly shadows away; all the cobwebs that dangled from the banisters of my subconscious.
Could it be…?
By this time both Thelma and Edgar had left.
“Wait,” I whispered hoarsely, “There’s something I have to tell you, Eddy.”
Mr Wilson shook his head and signalled for Bernadette to escort me back to my room. When she touched my arm I jumped up and scrambled to the door.
“Wait! Please, you can’t go!” I cried out to the empty hallway.
With that, a surge of nurses took hold of me as I thrashed and beat at the air around me, hoping to catch the flesh on one of the nurses. I had to break away from their death grips.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Salomé was leaning against the door of her room, smiling at me. She looked like she was about to say ‘what do you think you’re doing? You’re never going to remember’.
I was going to prove her wrong; I would prove the whole world wrong!
“Inject her and fetch me a stretcher,” cried Bernadette, making one of the nurses let go of my waist. She proceeded to pull from her pocket a large needle and flicked it twice before inserting it into my flesh. I chocked on my pain and desperately grasped the hand of Bernadette as if she could transmit air back through my throat.
As if by magic, in that moment, the crying subsided as did the pain in my arm and I was able to relax once again.
“Ask them to let go of me,” I asked the doctor to my right who I noticed had been observing me for quite some time now.
“Let go,” he gruffly commanded.
The doctor proceeded to stand closer to me and then offered me his hand which I accepted graciously.
“Whoever you are,” I said, staring up into his face, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
And then the light switched off.
