Freedom of Sketch

Visitation, Part I

The hospital crouches beneath a veil of fine rain. It mists against the windows, the water streaming down the reinforced glass like beads of sweat. Because it's a Saturday, we spend most of our hours staring at walls and picking at carpet fibers. There are some coloring pages for those who are interested. I'm only interested in curling up on one of the beanbag chairs in The Lounge to take an all-day nap. The other girls stir up a loud racket about which mental disorder is the worst, so I retreat to my room for a rare moment of peace.

After lunch, Circle Valley opens its doors to close relatives, caseworkers, and other guests from the Real World. The techs stay on high alert during visiting hours, because there's almost always some sort of screaming competition, followed by door-slamming and angry hall-pacing. Conversely, the doctors turn off their pagers and play hide-and-seek with the parents who try to stalk them down to discuss how their kid is a Special Snowflake and shouldn't be on medication. Or the ones who want to know why they've been spending $1,500 a day for the last month and their child isn't cured yet.

Wade sticks his head into my room, where I'm lying on my back in bed and plaiting my hair into tiny braids. "Shiloh, you have a visitor," he says.

I sit up. "Who is it?"

"Your mom, I think."

I anxiously tail Wade, cowering like a five-year-old behind his broad linebacker figure. It's been nearly a week since my admission, and my mother and I haven't had any face-to-face contact yet. The surge of fearful energy in my head takes me by surprise. What can she do if we get into an argument? Ground me? Send me to my room?

The cafeteria is packed with weepy-eyed moms who repeatedly tap their chins, and stone-faced dads who obsessively check their watches. Most of them are well dressed in slacks and collared blouses. Their bags sit in their cars, per policy. Wouldn't want anyone smuggling in bubblegum, paper clips, or meat cleavers. Cell phones and cameras are also prohibited, so any family wanting to make an album of their daughter's trip to the mental hospital is out of luck.

I spot my mother sitting at a table near the door to the yard. She's wearing a melon green polo shirt and khakis, even though it isn't spring yet. Her winter coat is draped over her knees. Her tan leather boots are new.

She doesn't recognize me right away. I've undergone a rapid transformation, my exoskeleton peeled away to reveal a weaker, paler version of me. There's no steel in my face, no chains around my neck. The only pieces of jewelry I wear are plastic hospital bracelets: the white one with the barcode and numbers that label me as just another case file, the orange allergy alert band, and the red one restricting me to the dreaded Level One. "Hi, Mom."

She looks up from the big box of tissues that serves as the table's centerpiece. "Hi," she echoes. "How... how are you... um... how are you doing?" Her voice is stiff and weighted with awkwardness.

I shrug and take a seat in the chair across from her. "I'm fine; just tired," I say. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

She narrows her eyes at me. "Am I not allowed to visit my daughter?" she responds icily.

I'm only thirteen words into my visit, and she already wants to skewer me on her long, polished fingernails. "I was just asking," I say, my tone equally as sharp. "I didn't know if there was some type of emergency or something."

"No, no emergency. I just wanted to see you. It's so lonely at home without you there."

"You have the cats to keep you company."

She forces a smile, shaking with the effort of her Mother-of-the-Year performance. "You know it's not the same."

From across the cafeteria, a girl yowls like a wounded animal and stomps out of the room, leaving her parents stunned and red-faced in a haze of embarrassment. They gather their fleece jackets, slink out to the nurse's desk, and dejectedly return their visitor badges. I realize I have the upper hand. I can walk away from my mother whenever I want, and she can't follow me or make a scene.