Every Other Sunday Pt. 03

"I'll be so glad when they finish this roadwork...this is all going to be houses in a few years...Close your window, Pat...the dairy farm is coming up...Next time you come home, Mike, it'll be daylight

savings time...won't it be nice to go swimming at Joyce and Woody's?...Do you want to spend the Fourth over there, or would you rather go to the block party at Mr. French's house...We'll have to go to Thrifty's and get you a new swimming ring..."

Mom chatters nonstop all the way to Fairview State Hospital. She talks and talks and every once in awhile, she'll ask Mike a question. It's always about something fun that we have planned for his next visit.

But Mike isn't talking. Not a bit. Not one word. He sits like a stone and Mom doesn't seem to notice. She just keeps talking and talking and talking...

* * * * * * * * * *

"Here we are," she says. We turn into the driveway and follow the fence that separates the hospital grounds from the golf course.

"There's your little friends, Mike. They've come out to welcome you back."

Mike doesn't look up, but I can't help but gaze out at the hundreds of cottontail rabbits gathered on the other side of the fence. They look so free, so happy, as if they don't have to worry about owls or coyotes or the poison that the people at the golf course put out to

get rid of them.

We park outside Mike's ward and I take Mike's wheelchair out of the trunk while Mom talks to him quietly. I don't know what she says to him and I really don't care.

Mom holds the glass door open for me as I push Mike inside. I can't help but retch at the smell, a combination of piss and Pine Sol. I breathe through my mouth and try not to think about it. We come to the end of the hall and turn into Mike's ward.

I don't know where to look, where to rest my eyes. There is no place to look and not see twisted limbs lying on the bare tile floor.

Four dozen mangled, twisted, drooling, grunting, diapered, howling, crying, laughing bodies. Bodies with heads too big or legs too small. Four dozen "ward mates" staring up at a television mounted in the top corner of the wall. This is the day room.

I turn my eyes to the left and see the ones they call "the profound cases." Three dozen beds full of twisted, contorted, sleeping mummies, just waiting for their Lord and Savior to finally come and take them to a much better place.

Terry taught me how to look out and see everyone and everything all at once without really seeing anything.

Cathy told me to look into each and every face. She told me to smile and say hello, even if they do nothing but grunt or drool. She said that God is in all of us. Cathy said that if we show ourselves to them, they will see God and we will see Him, too.

I try to look at them the way Cathy does, but sometimes it's just too hard and I do like Terry and look at everything and see nothing.

I feel so uncomfortable, so confused. All I can do is lean over the back of Mike's chair and make him promises of all the neat things we'll do together when he comes home again.

But Mike doesn't answer. Mike doesn't say a word. He just stares at his shoes until a nurse calls to us from the far end of the ward. Suddenly, Mike comes to life.

"Julie! I'm back!" He throws his arms in the air, like he always

does when he's glad to see someone.

"Hi Mike; it's good to see you! Did you have a good time?"

"Julie, the Fourth of July is coming!"

"Yes, I know. Would you like to help us decorate the day room?"

"Good-bye, Mike! I'll see you in two weeks," Mom says.

But Mike doesn't hear his mother. He's forgotten about his brother. The handles of his chair are wrenched from my hands as he pushes himself forward to meet Julie.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mom talked all the way home. I sit and stare out the window while she chats on and on about how much better he is now when he goes back to Fairview.

"Did you see how happy he was, once he got back to his ward? They told us he would be happier there, once he got used to his new environment. But he still likes to come home and have a nice dinner with everyone...and the Fourth is coming up...and then all the birthdays...Terry's and yours...and then his...and Jackie and then there's the grandkids' coming up, too...it'll be alright."

I'm not so sure.

* * * * * * * * * *

I'm not so sure about anything as I lay on my side of the bed. I'm not sure how I can leave him in that horrible place without at least saying how I feel. I'm not even sure how I feel. I can do a lot of things that I couldn't do before they took him there.

I wonder if my mom really believes that Mike is better off now. Maybe she'd rather have him home. Mom can also do things that she couldn't do before she had to spend so much time with Mike.

I wonder if maybe Mom and the rest of us enjoy not having to take care of Mike all of the time.

I wonder what it would be like if Dad wasn't around to make all of the big decisions, like whether or not Mike has to stay at a state hospital.

But most of all, I wonder if Mike forgets about me when his visit is over and we take him back to Fairview.

I wonder if he ever stares at the ceiling in the dark and cries.