Outside In - Part 4

I was still thinking about the conversation in the coffee shop as my bus came to a stop just in front of the hospital.  I stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and took a deep breath of fresh air.  The bus had been crowded as usual and the combination of the thick hot air and the anxiety I was feeling about this party Mel was determined to get me to go to was almost suffocating.  For the first time I was actually grateful to have to visit the hospital, it was a welcome distraction from everything else.  Walking up the steps, the image of Nick that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my head was beginning to fade as I readied myself for the coming events.

The smell of stale smoke and urine enveloped me as I entered the elevator, causing my hand to instinctively cover my mouth.  Quickly reminding myself that I should spend the rest of my visit breathing through my mouth, I jerked my hand from my mouth and tucked an imaginary stray hair behind my ear, hoping that the action had looked more natural than it felt.  The sharp look that I received from the white-haired lady in the wheelchair beside me told me she had seen through my attempts to cover-up my reaction to the stench. 

A wave of shame washed over me and I could feel my cheeks stain with hot blood.  I looked away from her watery blue eyes repeatedly pressed the button marked ‘B’ as if this would hurry the elevator to the basement.  The Basement; the bowels of the hospital.  The faces of the patients kept down here were hidden from the general public.  People coming in to visit newly born babies, friends who’d just had their appendix out or a cast put in place or a parent who may have just survived a heart attack were protected from seeing those who more than likely would not be cured by their stay here.  They were protected from seeing the effects of the illnesses that could be treated but not cured.  The patients in ‘The Basement’ were, in turn, protected from them, I suppose.  They were protected from being judged by their actions that would seem unusual and sometimes offensive to those who did not understand their condition.  This is the explanation my dad offered the first time we visited this place together. 

The elevator doors slid open and a welcomed breeze blew in from the sterile hallway.  The scent of rubbing alcohol and cooked pasta quickly replaced the urine but the smell of smoke was still present.  I stood to the side as the white-haired woman wheeled herself passed me, I couldn’t resist the temptation to look at her once more and my weakness was rewarded by another sharp glance from the watery eyes.  I hovered inside the elevator for a moment until I was sure that she had gone and then I stepped out into the hallway. 

The walls were painted a dull yellow that may have once been bright and cheerful but the years had worn it down until only a faded version of itself remained.  A dark pea-green stripe had be painted along the centre of the wall only a few months ago, I’m sure it was an attempted to ‘brighten things up’ but shiny new paint only made the dull yellow take on a dingy brown tint that darkened the entire space.

Stopping at the large double doors that were now so familiar to me, I pushed the red button located on the wall.  The resulting buzz was loud and, at one time, had startled me but now I hardly even heard it.

“Yes?” the voice through the intercom sounded slightly annoyed.  I looked at my watch, 4:30pm.

“It’s Samantha here to see Vivian Blake.”  I heard the words as I spoke them, they were involuntary, a script that I read almost everyday at this time.  From this point on, I stepped out of my role as a 17-year-old high school girl and into my role as a17-year-old with a schizophrenic mom.  Each action was methodical and thought out, every word was carefully censored before it left my mouth.  I was going to visit my mother the woman who had given me life but the truth was each time I did, I wasn’t sure what version of her I would find.

There was a muffled noise through the intercom that I couldn’t quite make out but sounded suspiciously like a sigh.  Had I interrupted her dinner break? I wondered.  I waited a moment until I heard the click behind the door, indicated that the annoyed nurse had in fact unlocked the door to allow me entry.  I placed both hands on the cold steel bar and pushed my way in to the hospital’s psychiatric ward



The nurse’s station was a large U-shaped desk encased in glass like a fish tank.  There were several small slits and a sliding door in the glass to allow them access to those of us on the outside.  Behind the desk sat the nurse with red-rimmed glasses that seemed to be here every night at this time.  Her name was Patty, although she had never introduced herself to me, I had more than enough opportunities to view the name tag that was pinned to her ample chest.  It was hidden now as she slumped over some paperwork.  As I drew closer to the desk she looked up at me and, just like every other day, she smiled, not so much with pleasure but with recognition and she stretched her neck so that her lips were closer the slits in the glass.

“Your mom’s in her room Sam.  She’s had a pretty good day today.”  Her voice sounded muffled as it floated out toward me from inside the tank.  “You can take these to her, if you want.”  She added, sliding the small door open and placing something on the metal tray on my side of the counter.  I looked down at the package of cigarettes.  She must have had a good day, I though to myself.  Cigarettes were confiscated by the nurses whenever family member or friends brought them in as gifts.  These little sticks of tobacco were valued higher by most of the patients in here than anything else; even medication.  The nurses would have to monitor and ration their cigarettes to avoid fights and panic attacks that could occur if they ever ran out.  There was something about the act of smoking that calmed those with uneasy minds. 

Visions of my mother sitting on the couch, a cigarette ever present in her right hand and a cup of tea in her left flashed before me.  No matter how long you left her for, when you came back she would look exactly the same.  There was something strangely comforting in her consistency.  I took the package and placed it in my pocket, they would come out at the inevitable lull in our conversation or if she became agitated by my presence.

“Make sure you bring back what’s left, your dad left a carton and that pack’s full.”  Patty’s voice floated behind me, I didn’t bother to respond.  I knew the drill, I’d been here often enough and she knew it.



My mother sat in the pink armchair, gazing at the window, a picture that may have seemed somewhat normal if the blinds hadn’t been tightly shut.  I could see her lips moving slightly and her dark eyes were wide as they darted from left to right rapidly.  Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap as if she were trying to keep them still.  She was deep in conversation with someone in her head so I stood there dumbly not wanting to interrupt. 

The ‘daughter’ in me always seemed to be in conflict with the ‘care giver’ in me, especially in these cases.  She had raised me to be polite, not to interrupt, but did that apply if the person she was speaking to didn’t really exist?  It was times like these that I wished I had a rule book to refer to or a teacher to help me figure things out.  But my teacher was here, tangled up in her own thoughts, no longer able to guide me.  I cleared my throat loudly before walking into the room hoping to get her attention.  Her head did not turn toward me but her lips stilled and she unclasped her hands and rested one palm-up on each of her thighs.  An awkward silence filled the room but this was all part of our daily ritual, I moved closer to her and sat down on the edge of her bed so that I was facing her.

“Mom?”  I said quietly, knowing that she could still be somewhere deep inside herself and not wanting to startle her.  “Mom, it’s me, Sam.”

Her head turned slowly toward me and I could feel my chest tighten.  This was the moment that would set the tone for the rest of the afternoon.  There were so many responses that I could get from her at this point and they varied greatly.  Most days she would smile weakly and ask if I had brought her something new to read or a new pair of pajamas but sometimes, if she’d had a ‘bad day’ she would just look at me from far behind her eyes with a glazed-over expression that told me she had medication pumping through her body.  The worst was, on the few occasions, when she would look at me and her eyes filled with confusion.  Those were the days when she didn’t remember me at all.  Thankfully this had only happed a few times and my father had been with me all but one of those times.  The time I was on my own, was the shortest visit I had ever recorded.

But today, thankfully, she looked up at me and smiled.  Raising her hand and placing it on my knee she whispered, “Sammy.”  She began to rub the edge of my kilt between her finger and thumb.  “I’ve always liked this uniform.”  Her eyes drifted to my knees and suddenly her face filled with concern.  I had forgotten about the scrape on my knee.  When I had visited her yesterday, I was wearing my charcoal pants so my injuries had been concealed but today my bare knees were exposed.  “What happened?”  Her eyes were wide and filled with worry as she looked up at me again.

My face filled with colour as, once again, I relived the embarrassing moment in my head.  I knew my mom well enough to know that she was running through several scenarios in her head and most would revolve around the suspicion that someone had hurt me on purpose.  That was one result of her condition, ever since she had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, I noticed that she was extremely protective of both my dad and I, she had this deep-seeded belief that the world was out to get us.

“I tripped when I was trying to catch the bus on Friday.”  I admitted.  “It’s nothing.”

Her eyes bore into mine, looking for the truth in my statement, or the lie.  I held my breath and her gaze.  Finally, she relaxed in her chair and pulled her eyes away from mine. 

“You should be more careful, honey.”  She replied maternally.

I nodded, releasing my breath.  “I know mom.”

She was silent again and staring at the closed blinds as she had been when I walked in.  Her lips were closed tightly and her eyes began to dart in my direction as if she were checking to see if I was watching her.  I knew that, in her head, she was somewhere else now, maybe reliving a memory and, from the smile on her lips, I could tell it was a good one so I didn’t disturb her.  She turned her body so that her back was to me and all I could see was the side of her face.  She was uncomfortable with me being there now, some part of her mind was telling her she wanted to be alone.  Sometimes this lasted so long that I would have to leave without saying goodbye bit other times it passed quickly.  Today it passed and she turned again, with what seemed a great deal of effort, so that she was in her original position.  I waited patiently, still she did not speak.



The silence stretched and she continued to look out the window as she pulled a cigarette from the package I had given her and lit it.  Normally, patients were not allowed to smoke in their rooms but my mom had earned the privilege by helping the nurses change beds and clear away dishes.  She had always liked order when she lived at home with us and everything had its place so it was nice to know that a little piece of the mother I knew still existed. 

After exhaling a cloud of pale grey smoke, she leaned toward me again and whispered, “There’s a new doctor here.  She’s got red hair.”  Her voice dripped with disapproval as if the colour of the woman’s hair offended her greatly.  She didn’t take well to strangers; I guess that’s where I get it from. 

“Really? What’s she like?”  I ask although I knew she would criticize the woman, I wanted to keep her talking, keep her focused on me.

She opened her mouth to answer my questions but before she could, a shadow darkened the doorway.  We both looked over and there stood a tall, thin woman wearing a grey skirt and white lab coat.  Her angular face was cat-like right down her large oval green eyes.  Her wavy fire-red hair was cut short and fell just below her chin. She held a clipboard tightly to her chest and smiled warmly at us.

“Vivian? Would you like to introduce me to your visitor?”  She asked, her musical voice filling the room and somehow managed to make even the harsh lights that illuminated the room a little softer.

My mom sighed loudly, “This is my daughter Samantha.”  Her voice held a dismissive tone about it and, as if in response, the doctor retreated a little through the door.  I smiled apologetically over at her; I knew the power of my mother’s intonations better than anyone.  She could lace her voice with acid or sugar depending on her mood and clearly this doctor’s presence had darkened her mood considerably and I felt a little sorry for her.  “Hello Samantha.”  She said warmly, taking a step into the room now and returning my smile.  “My name is Dr. Anastasia Welding, but everyone calls me Dr. Anne.”  She held her hand out toward me.  I slid of the edge of the bed and took her hand in mine.  Her skin was soft and cool, her grip strong.  The subtle pink paint on her nails sparkled even in the limited light.

“It’s nice to meet you.”  I said as I pulled my hand away. 

The doctors eyes shifted from my face to somewhere behind me and I looked back to see that my mother was lighting another cigarette.  She would do that all day if she was allowed; smoke one after another until she made herself sick. “I’ll take that pack back to front desk for you Vivian..  I think you’ve had enough for the evening, don’t you?”  She said softly as she crossed the room and quickly picked up the package of cigarettes.  I cringed inwardly, bracing myself for the argument or angry look that the doctor’s comment would elicit but was pleasantly surprised to find that my mother simply shrugged and turned her face toward the window once again.  Dr. Anne walked toward me and as she passed, her hand rested on my shoulder.  She guided me toward to door and stopped just before we entered the hallway. 

“Your mother didn’t sleep very well last night Sam so she might seem a little cranky.” She whispered, the concern in her voice was reflected in her green eyes. 

It was clear that the doctor was trying to make me feel better by giving me an excuse for my mother’s rudeness and it made me smile.  She clearly didn’t realize that I had been coping with her mood swings most of my life.  She seemed genuinely concerned, and so I humoured her. 

“Okay, maybe I should cut this visit short then?”  I asked although I had already decided that it was time to leave. 

Dr. Anne nodded her head and rubbed my upper arm with her hand.  “I think that might be best.”  She agreed.

We stood there for another moment in silence and I wondered if there was something I was expected to say.  She was studying my face closely as though she were trying to read my thoughts.  There was something vaguely familiar about her expression and I wondered if I had possibly seen her in the hospital before now.  As the silence became increasingly uncomfortable I began to look around, avoiding her inquisitive stare.

“I’ll just go say goodbye to her then.”  I said finally as I turned back into the room.  My mother had moved from her chair onto her bed, her eyes were closed.  I walked quietly to the bed and reached out for my bag that still sat at the foot of the bed.

“Are you leaving?”  Her voice was quiet and weak and she did not open her eyes but I thought I could detect some relief in her tone.  She must have been very tired.

“Yes.  The doctor says you need your rest.”  I replied.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night sweetheart.”  She said just as her head tilted to the side, her chest raised a fell deeply and evenly, she had fallen asleep.

I watched her face for a moment.  While awake, her eyes and lips were constantly moving.  She was always having animated conversations both with people who existed in the real world and those who existed in her head.  The deep grooves around her mouth, the ever present tension in her lips and the dark circles under her eyes were all testament to a mind plagued with stimulation that she could not control.  When she slept though, her face was relaxed and her eyes closed and still.  I could almost pretend that there was nothing wrong with her.  I kissed her forehead lightly and left the room, turning off the light on my way out.  I wanted to say goodbye to Dr. Anne before I left but she was in deep conversation with the nurses behind the glass at the front desk so I let myself out and began my journey home.