Call Me Crazy by Quinn Loftis
“She did arrive and has been all settled in her room. According to her schedule, right now she should be in the recreation hall. Just sign in here,” she points to a clip board. I sign my name and hand her back her pen. Mildred swivels in her seat and points down a hallway to the right. “If you will follow that hallway and then take the first right you will run straight into the rec hall.”
I give her my thanks and head off in the direction that she had indicated. I begin to hear the soft hum of murmuring as I draw closer to the end of the hallway. Just before I turn to go down the next corridor, I take a steadying breath and steel myself for what I might see.
The last time I had seen my mother had been two days ago. She had been so thin that her bones protruded from her face. Her eyes were sunken in their sockets and her hair was dull and limp. She was slowly wasting away as the disease that plagued her mind began to eat away at her body as well. She had been diagnosed with schizophrenia three years previously, after my grandmother and I had begun to realize that she was seeing things and talking to people that weren’t really there. At first she had refused to see a doctor. But after the first suicide attempt, she finally relented. Since then it had been an ongoing battle for her to keep her mind clear and rational. There were good days and bad. She had been on many different medications but the doctor she had been seeing couldn’t find a combination that seemed to work well for her.
I had asked him why the meds weren’t working and he had told me that the disease affected each person differently, just as any other disease might. Though there were similarities, each mind was as unique as the body that held it. So after three years of unsuccessful treatment, he had finally told us to put her in a psychiatric hospital where they could monitor her behavior and, hopefully, in the controlled environment, find a combination of drugs that would work. That is how I found myself driving across state lines from Arizona to Oklahoma, final destination―Broken Arrow.
The ultimate decision had come when I had found her in her bathroom floor cutting her legs. Blood had pooled around her on the white tile floor as she mumbled incoherently. I had asked her why she was doing it and she had told me that a kind man had told her she needed to get the bad blood out of her body. That had been a week ago. Now here I stand in the mental hospital that I hope can save her life.
I finally turn the corner and see just a few feet down, the open double doors that lead into the rec room. As I slowly push past the doors, I stop and scan the room, searching for my mother. The large room is just as white as the entryway that I had previously occupied only moments before. The harsh florescent lighting does nothing to alleviate the starkness. I see a unique mixture of people. Some are dressed in what appear to be common hospital gowns or pants, but others are wearing normal casual clothing. Several of the patients are pacing restlessly, muttering under their breaths and occasionally pointing at nothing in particular. A few are sitting around tables and coloring in children’s books. Still others are staring out the barred windows.
I blow out a breath as I finally locate my mother in the furthest left–hand corner of the room. She is sitting in a rocking chair, back against the wall, facing the room. Her unusually light brown eyes are glazed over. She stares down at her hands which twitch nervously. She isn’t a small woman, standing five foot six inches, though the disease that ensnares her mind seems to have withered her body as well. Her long dark hair, peppered with silver, is done in a braid and lies over her shoulder, the wisps that have escaped frame her troubled face. As I start in her direction, my attention is caught briefly by movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head, only to catch a glimpse of short pink–streaked blond hair dropping below the table as the owner of the hair kneels down. My mind gets the brief impression of a scared ground hog ducking for cover. I am intrigued by the behavior, not to mention the hair, but my attention is needed elsewhere so I turn back towards my mother.
When I reach her, I kneel down so that I can be eye level and wait for her to look at me. When she doesn’t acknowledge me I speak up. “Hey mom,” I say gently not wanting to startle her if she hasn’t realized that I am there. “How are you doing?”
At the sound of my voice she finally looks up. Her eyes meet mine and I internally shutter at the hopelessness that has taken root inside of her. She reaches up with a boney hand and pats my cheek.
“You’re a good boy.” Her voice is hoarse and weak and as she drops her hand she lets out a sigh that testifies as to just how much strength it takes for her to complete the simple action.
“Can I get anything for you?”
She shakes her head slowly. “You should just go, Trey.”
My chest tightens at the use of my name. It feels like forever since she has spoken it.
“There is nothing for you here,” she continues, “but death.”
“Don’t say that Lo,” I use the shortened version of her name that my grandmother used to use when she was being stern with her daughter. “You are here and you are going to get better and I’m going to be here for you.”
I see her eyes begin to fill with tears and for the millionth time since her life had begun to unravel, I wish I could take it all from her. I wish that I could bear her burden so that she would smile again.
“It is I who should be there for you. What sort of mother leaves her son to fend for himself? Your grandfather would be ashamed that I have let the spirits take over.”
“It isn’t the spirits mother. It’s an illness; that is all. You haven’t done anything wrong.” It is a common argument between us. My mother believes, like most in my tribe, that we are in control of our own bodies and it is up to us to keep the evil and dark spirits from meddling with us. Too many of the members of our tribe believe that my mother’s condition is of her own making because of weakness. They love her, don’t mistake that, but they still believe in the old ways. It was hard to leave our tribe but it was necessary.
“You’re a good boy,” she tells me again, though she doesn’t pat my face this time. I see her eyes glaze back over and know that my time with her for the day is over. She has retreated back inside to the world that only she knows, one where I cannot go.
Chapter 3
“Do you ever have a moment in time where you wish you could hit the pause button and just observe the scene? Like in a particularly busy part of a movie where you can’t seem to take in all that muddles the screen so you pause the film to allow your eyes to roam over the action and take in the details. That is what I wish I could do in this moment. I wish I could pause it and take in the person before me because the sheer presence of him muddles my brain and I can’t seem to take him all in.”
~ Tally
I’m hunched down beneath the table like a frightened rabbit as I watch the tall figure kneel before the new patient across the room. I’m not sure how I came to be hunched down. All I know is that the moment he walked in the room, I felt the uncomfortable rush of something pouring through me. I’m not sure if I liked it or not.
He is Native American; there is no doubt in my mind about that based on his extremely apparent features. His long, black, amazingly shiny hair would have any woman envious of the obvious health in the locks. It flows down his back like a cascading waterfall. His naturally tan skin appears as smooth as silk and his piercing dark eyes don’t seem to miss a thing. He had even caught my movement and had glanced in my direction when I had so brilliantly decided to hide from a person I didn’t even know. I watch as he slowly stands and continues to look down at the woman before him. By the hesitancy in his movements she is obviously very important to him and I’m awed by the tenderness that such a large, imposing guy can show. After several minutes he turns to leave and my eyes never leave his retreating form until I can no longer see him. I feel a kick to my ribs and scramble up with a grunt.
“Crap Candy,” I growl at my snickering companion as I rub my side and glare at her. “What was that for?”
“A better question would be why were you hun
I frown at her. “That’s tacky don’t you think?”
“I’m sixty years old and crazy; I can do tacky if I want,” she snorts at me.
I can’t really argue with her there. Like pregnant women, old, crazy ladies pretty much get a free pass on crassness and eccentricity.
“So come on,” she pats the chair that I had so quickly vacated, “tell Candy all about it.”
I roll my eyes. “He just took me off guard, that’s all,” I lie smoothly.
Candy isn’t buying it. “He was hot, just admit it. Hot and he got you bothered.”
I cringe. “Candy, you calling a guy young enough to be your grandson hot is just not right.”
“Psht,” she flips her hand at me. “I’m old, not blind or dead. Besides, I didn’t say I wanted to jump his exotic bones.”
I groan as I bang my head against the table. “Where do you learn these terms? I mean it’s not normal for someone your age to blurt out crap like that.”
“Did you just use the term normal in a sentence describing me?” She raises her brow surprisingly at me.
I laugh. “Good point.”
“So, are you going to tell me why Pocahontas’ brother had you running for the hills?”
“There is something wrong with you, you know that, right?”
She smiles at me. “That’s what the voices in my head keep telling me. Now spill it.”
I know she isn’t going to relent until I tell her something, so I decide to surrender.
“I don’t really know, just that when he walked into the room, I immediately knew something was different about him. I’ve never been drawn to a guy before, but I was definitely drawn to him.”
Candy tapped her chin with one of her long fingers. “Hmm, so it was lust at first sight?”
I grin at her. “I will admit he was pretty hot.”
She scoffs. “That’s like saying the Grand Canyon is kind of deep.”
“Once again, you basically saying a teenage guys is eye candy, is really creeping me out.”
“If that’s the creepiest thing you ever hear from me then consider yourself lucky,” she winks wickedly.
“I mean, yes, I noticed that he was good looking, but that wasn’t it,” I try to explain. “It’s like he was one pole of a magnet and I’m the opposite and I’m drawn to him. It sort of freaked me out and I went into fight or flight mode.”
“Ahh,” she says with a single brow raised. “So you are a runner?”
“Well did you want me to walk up to him and smack him in the face?” I ask her.
“With your lips?” she laughs.
I shake my head at her with a chuckle. Just the picture of me going up to him and kissing a perfect stranger, albeit a mega–hot stranger, and seeing the shocked look on his face was rather hilarious.
“Well I’m sure he’ll be back for another visit soon. Are you going to run and hide every time you see our new little fascination?”
I blow air out of my mouth and my cheeks puff up. “It’s a distinct possibility.”
“Not on my watch,” Candy stands up and grabs my hand pulling me to my feet. “Knowledge is power, my little protégé. Maybe if you know a little something about our new toy then you won’t feel the need to hide.”
“Did you seriously just call him a toy?” I ask incredulously.
“No,” she says as she tugs me towards the entrance of the rec room. “I called him our new toy.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe you need therapy,” I tease.
“That’s what they tell me, and by they, I mean the entire medical community and a Judge.” Candy cackles as we walk down the hall―well she walks while she drags me behind her.
“Hey Mildew,” Candy slaps her hand down on the counter of the front desk but Mildred is so used to her antics that she doesn’t even flinch at the movement or the deliberate slip of her name.
“What can I do for you Candace?” Mildred’s voice is dry and though she usually smiles sweetly at everyone, she is looking at Candy with obvious annoyance.
“Well I promise to leave peacefully if you will let me have a looksee at the sign–in clip board.” Candy bats her eyelashes flirtatiously.
“Why?” Mildred draws the word out as she looks up over her glasses at Candy.
“It’s a secret, but don’t worry, I’m not planning anyone’s demise, not just yet. Pinky and I just want to know what that tall drink of water’s name was.”
I roll my eyes as I look around Candy’s shoulder. “Don’t mind her, Mildred; she’s in rare form today.”
Mildred glances back at Candy and then to me. “No Tally, I’m afraid this is her usual form. His name is Trey and that is all I’m going to tell you, now off with you. Tally, you have a meeting with Dr. Stacey in a few minutes I suggest you not miss it.”
I smile at her and grab Candy’s hand, pulling her quickly away from the front desk before she can smart off to Mildred and get herself in trouble. Candy loved to aggravate Mildred and for some reason I had the sneaky suspicion that Mildred was one of those people you could only push so far before she reared back and stabbed you with a pencil.
“Trey?” Candy says his name as if he is a strange new fungus. “He doesn’t look like a Trey.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, maybe Running Eagle, or something more Native American-ish.”
I shake my head at her. “Stereotype much? This isn’t a movie you know?”
Candy snaps her fingers. “Damn and here I thought I was Wynona Ryder and you were Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted.”
“Phuulease, if anyone is Angelina’s character it is your crazy old ass.” I keep walking as she stops.
“Where are you going?” She asks me.
“In case you missed it, I have a therapy session,” I tell her as I turn around but continue to walk backwards.
“What about planning your next encounter with tall, dark and…,”
“If you say lickable, I’m going to puke,” I warn her.
She winks at me. “You’re the one who said it Pinky.”
I throw my hands in the air and turn around, ignoring her hollering about my future children needing names that reflect their mixed heritage. I swear that woman is going to scare me sane.
~
“Hi Tally,” Dr. Stacey waves me in as she continues to stack files that are scattered across her desk. I take my usual spot on the plaid love seat across from the two mahogany chairs that circled around a matching mahogany coffee table. I watch as she calmly finishes what she is doing and I’m struck again by how collected she always appears. I’ve never seen her frazzled or out of sorts. I wonder what that must be like because I always feel frazzled and out of sorts. I wonder what I must look like to her. She must think I’m such a mess, which, duh, I kind of am, hence my current residence at a psychiatric hospital. I shrug inwardly and take comfort in knowing that I am far from the worst patient in this place.
I turn to look out the window and notice that the sky has clouded over and rain is beginning to sporadically pelt the ground. My mind wanders as I listen to the pitter patter of the rain drops on the glass. I wonder where the guy from the rec room has gone, what he’s doing, and how nice it must be to have the freedom to leave this place. The thought suddenly makes me feel smothered and I try to take a slow breath to keep from hyperventilating right there in the middle of the doc’s office.
“Tally?”
I turn at the sound of my name and based on the look on Dr. Stacey’s face, she must have called my name several times before I finally looked at her. Back when I had first begun sessions with Dr. Stacey, I had put up a wall as tall as the Great Wall of China, hiding behind my usual sarcasm and smartass-ness. She had taken it with much grace and patience and I had grown to respect the fact that she didn’t reach across the table and smack me, which I totally deserved. I was finally worn down by her persistent kindness and had b
“Where’d you go?” She asks me with a gentle smile.
I learned early on that lying to her wasn’t an option. Dr. Stacey had a way of reading me. I always felt as if she could see the truth in my mind, even when I wasn’t telling it. I think that somewhere along the line, she had majored in deciphering psychiatric patient bovine scatology.
“I was just thinking about how nice it would be to be able to come and go from here instead of being stuck in this building all the time,” I admitted.
She nodded and I see the compassion in her soft hazel eyes.
“I know that it must be hard to be here, especially at your age, when everything inside you is telling you to run free and enjoy your youth. I want that for you, Tally, but we need to make sure that you are ready to function in situations that you can’t control. We both know that you don’t want to have another incident like you had before you were brought here.”
I nod, agreeing with her but not wanting to discuss what had happened. Once again I wonder if she can read my mind.
“I know you don’t like to talk about it, but you have a month until your senior year starts and we need to talk about healthy ways to handle stress and moments when you begin to feel out of control. The medicine will help, but medicine is only 10 percent of the solution. The rest is learning to manage the disease, not letting the disease manage you.”
“Okay,” I let out a deep breath, readying myself to delve into the memories that I try to keep locked up.
“What was the final straw?” She asks.
“My history teacher being a condescending ass.”
To my surprise, Dr. Stacey blurts out a laugh. “I’m sorry, that really isn’t very professional but it’s just that I remember having a teacher like that when I was in college and I wanted to punch him on a good day, so I can only imagine what you must have felt like on one of your bad days.”
I nodded. “For days I had begun to feel agitated over nothing. I just felt like at any moment I was going to explode, a ticking time bomb. Little things would cause me to react so irrationally. That morning I hadn’t been able to find my keys and I had yelled at my mom and thrown my book bag at the front door. In my mind I was asking myself what the hell is wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop.”