Every time I walked into Western State Hospital I felt another layer of duality falling over my life. Outside, summer burst with color and vitality. But this place was darker than the deepest cave. The gothic architecture divided sunshine into tiny rays, a light too fractured to penetrate the diamond-shaped window panes and too cold to warm the pervasive atmosphere of trouble. Making my way down the second-floor hallway toward an arched doorway, I could hear laughter on the floor above. But it had no humor. Cheerless and remote, it sounded like mirth raised like a weapon, trying to deflect a wicked opponent.
I looked at my watch. Three seconds before 8:00 p.m. I knocked on his door.
Dr. Nathan Norbert might have seemed at home at the track, standing among the jockeys. He was about two inches over five feet, wearing creased blue jeans and a monogrammed button-down shirt, tucked in. We’d already had two visits during my first weekend at the track, and I’d never seen him without a colorful tie that looked like some conversation starter. Or Rorschach test. Today a bunch of pandas were cavorting on the blue silk—dancing? fighting? copulating? His brown hair sprouted from a tightly lined forehead, and rimless glasses almost concealed the expression in his eyes. His clipped beard tried to disguise a lantern jaw. And failed.
“Ah, Raleigh,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder.”
If only, I thought, walking into his office. If only you were the type who wondered. But Dr. Nathan Norbert was a clinical critic. He diagnosed, contained, cataloged. When I had told him how much my parents loved each other, he gave me a new word for it: “codependent.”
I sat on the long brown couch that reminded me of a coffin while Freud lowered himself to his big chair that was placed to the side. He positioned the notepad on his knee and wrote something across the top of the page. Maybe noting that I showed up. Or that there was a scowl on my face. But I couldn’t see the words because Freud kept his leg elevated, just so, tipping the pad away from my prying eyes.
“How are you?” he asked.
My palms were sweating. And I couldn’t wipe them off because this was enemy territory. One vulnerable gesture, the predator would pounce.
“I’m fine.” I smiled. “You?”
“You missed our last appointment.”
“Short visit to the hospital.”
He stroked the beard. For Freud, the gesture was the equivalent of yelling, What?
He said, “You didn’t call to tell me.”
“I couldn’t.”
He adjusted his position. The chair was one of those back-saving numbers, with heavily padded leather. The chair for people who sat around all day sticking their fingers in other people’s business.
He said, “I did receive a message from your case agent. Something about an injury.”
“Just a few bruised ribs.”
He waited.
“Sort of painful.”
Waiting, waiting.
“I’m a little sore,” I added, hoping to score points for vulnerability. “And I would rather be resting, but I didn’t want to miss another visit.”
He wrote something on the pad and I slid my palms over my jeans, pretending to adjust the sleeves of my jean jacket. When he turned his head, watching my movement, I smiled and glanced around his office, pretending to admire the place. The old wooden moldings were almost black with age, and the bookshelves swallowed most of the wall space. One window faced Steilacoom Boulevard. The diamond-paned glass was embedded with chicken wire. Iron bars over that, soldered together. No jumping allowed.
“Aside from the minor injury, how are things going?”
“Fine.”
“No problems?”
I searched for the right words. Silence only encouraged him. “My mom’s dog is coming to live with me.”
His eyes showed almost genuine interest. I congratulated myself and kept talking. He wrote another note. Wrote and wrote. Then I stopped.
He looked up. “You say your fiancé will be bringing the dog. How do you feel about that?”
“Fine.”
He waited.
“I mean, excited. I’m excited to see DeMott. I miss him.”
“You miss DeMott,” he repeated as the pen scratched across the paper. “In what way do you miss him?”
“He’s my fiancé.”
He looked up. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Uh-oh.
I glanced at the doctor’s hands. The left hand. No ring. And here we were at eight o’clock on a Thursday night. At a mental asylum.
I said, “Are you married?”
He hesitated. “No, I am not married.”
“Have you ever been engaged?”
There was another pleasurable moment of silence. He scooted back into his chair. “No, I have not been engaged.”
“Well, let me tell you, it’s the greatest thing. Just knowing that somebody wants to spend the rest of their life with you. Nothing compares to that.”
“Nothing compares?”
“No.”
“And you’re not concerned that your fiancé’s appearance might compromise your identity?”
“You mean my undercover status?”
“Do you feel that you have another identity, Raleigh?”
Oh boy. Jack’s words echoed in my mind. “No ammo.”
“DeMott won’t blow my cover.” I lifted my hand, flashing the engagement ring. “Raleigh David is engaged. And her fiancé is a wealthy guy who lives in Virginia. That pretty much describes DeMott. And he’s a horse guy. So everything fits.”
“Everything fits?”
“Yes.”
“How long will he be here?”
“We haven’t discussed that.”
“I see.”
The pen scratched the paper. The sound made my teeth itch.
He said, “You invited him, or he decided to come?”
“He’s bringing my mom’s dog.”
Freud looked up. “The animal, the one named Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother talks about that dog. Frequently. It seems she misses it a great deal.”
This was the most intimate information he’d ever divulged to me about her. But it put me on the defensive somehow. Was he taunting me with how much he knew and wouldn’t divulge? Was he retaliating for my marriage comment? I could see a mild expression on his face and decided Freud was just petty enough for this. As he might diagnose it—the guy had some serious passive-aggressive tendencies because the heavy inference hung in the dimmed light. My mother talked about her dog; she missed her dog. But she didn’t miss her daughter. Because I lied to her. Because I called the men in white who took her away.
No ammo.
I straightened in my chair. “I’m glad she talks about Madame.”
“You’re glad?”
“Yes. She loves her dog.”
“Animals are not allowed in the building.”
“That’s pretty stupid.”
“Stupid?” His eyebrows rose.
“I mean silly.”
“Silly?”
“Unnecessary.” I smiled, tightly. “It seems like a visit with her own pet would be helpful.”
He was writing again. I considered telling him that Madame was depressed. Maybe the dog could come in for an appointment.
He said, “I concede the dog might improve her mood. Perhaps something can be arranged. A therapeutic visit. To elevate your mother’s mental outlook.”
“What is her mental outlook right now?”
“Raleigh.” He laid the pen on the pad, the fountain tip like a miniature sword. “We’ve been over this.”
“These drugs you’re giving her, what are they supposed to do?”
“We have privacy laws. Even with involuntary commitments. You know that, which means you’re asking because—”
“Because I have a right to know what you’re doing to my mother.”
He picked up the pen. “You sound angry.”
I bit my tongue. And prayed. Seal my mouth. Tight.
It took several moments of silence, but finally he said, “She shows signs of improvement.”
“Is that the clinical way of telling me she’s not trying to kill herself?”
“She’s interacting with the other patients. And she seems very fond of one orderly. When this particular orderly makes a request, your mother complies. That’s a significant step. It’s a sign of attachment. And the orderly is a young female, no less.”
I felt an irrational stab of envy. “Can I see her?”
He didn’t write anything.
“Please?”
“Raleigh—”
“Okay, I get it.” It wasn’t something I wanted to hear, but the words hurt less when I said them myself. “She’s improving but she still doesn’t want to see me.”
He moved the pen, adjusting it on the page without picking it up. This wasn’t even worth writing about: she didn’t want to see me. I could feel my lungs holding back a long scream.
“Raleigh, do you ever feel that your life is all or nothing?”
Right now, nothing. “Pardon?”
“I’m curious about your perspective on life. Oftentimes, when a parent ‘checks out,’ the abandonment produces in the child an all-or-nothing mentality. They can develop into a person who is unable to handle gray areas. Nuances. That poses significant challenges later in life.”
“Is that so?” Thanks, you just called me a simpleton.
But I was smart enough to see what he was doing. He wanted to provoke a heated response. And maybe OPR asked him to do it. No, not maybe.
Definitely.
I counted to seventy-five and listened to my breathing, steady and strong.
Finally, he said, “Was there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
I shook my head.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”