The Way of the Waters

Alabama

We grew up in Georgia, but when I was 7 our small family moved to Alabama.

In Birmingham, we bought a large house.
Dad owned a textile factory so we had a lot of money.

The neighbors called the house a mansion when we moved in.

In 1971 my mother began to take her job as a psychiatrist more seriously; turning our home, into an asylum.

At school, I heard kids mutter words of the "rich girl living with loons".

I was never much of a gossiper, I didn't listen to the he said she said bullshit, and quite frankly I didn't care.

Our first patient came in on November 4, 1971.

Her name was Nora Peterson.
She was 34.

This particular asylum was known well for it's women's ward in the early years. In those days, men could have their wives committed for just about anything.

Depression, greed, menopause, asthma, inheritance, etc. A man could fall in love with the woman next door or just get tired of his wife and drop her off at the front doors.

These women, like Mrs.Peterson, would spend the rest of their lives behind the asylum walls,The only person with permission to check them out were their husbands, who left them behind.

Mrs. Peterson was a slender woman with dulling red hair.

She was only 34, but she was losing hair and her face was wrinkled more than my Great Aunt. Age freckles rested on her veiny hands and arms, so frail and fragile.

Since I was the only child and dad was always at work mom depended on me to feed and bathe Mrs. Peterson.

It was my first day on the 'job'.

"Come closer child," Mrs. Peterson's voice was full of grief as she looked out the window into our driveway.

I stood next to the bed side table, pulling the lamp chord illuminating the room.

Mrs. Peterson's silver eyes observed me stiffly.

"Ah," she inhaled sharply, her lazy eye staring off at the dusty bookcase.

We did our best to make the 'rooms' comfortable for our guests.

The rooms were made strictly of concrete in our basement,

over time we made it sound proof but for now they were bolted with steel doors.

Mrs. Peterson's room had a twin bed with dull gray comforter and pillow case.

She had a nightstand on the left of her bed and a small dusty bookcase in the bak corner of the empty room.

She was one of the lucky first guests; she had a window.

" You're a Virgo," she laughed.

" Yes," I looked at my hands, being stroked by her ring finger,

"August 18 is my birthday,"

At the Water's Asylum we had to make the patient feel like we cared about their pathetic back stories.

When I was 7 I genuinely did.

" When's your birthday Mrs. Peterson ?"

"Please, call me Nora."