“They know me here. I come here a lot,” he whispered.
“Oh? That’s nice,” Mary said.
“Sometimes, they give me the evil eye.”
“Excuse me?”
Bill scrunched his forehead and leaned over the table toward Mary. His eyes looked exactly the same behind his thick glasses. “This,” he said. “They do this.” Then he sat up. “But I’m not afraid of them. It’s just a message. I get messages all the time.”
“No one is giving you any messages, Bill,” said Mary. “People may look at you a little oddly, but it’s not a secret message. I think shaving would help. A clean-shaven face gets less looks.”
“I don’t like to shave,” Bill said, rubbing his face which was covered with erratic gray stubble. Then he leaned over the table again. “The beard protects me. It protects me from them knowing who I am.”
“It’s okay that they know who you are. You don’t need protection. Really. You’re a good man, Bill. No one is out to get you.”
He laughed gently. “You’re young. You don’t know anything.”
This made Mary blush. “Tell me about yourself,” she said, trying to change the subject. “Where are you from? How long have you been living at Cleveland Circle House?”
“I’m from Waltham. I’ve been in Cleveland Circle House for four years, ever since I got out of the state hospital.”
“Do you like it here? I bet it’s nicer than the hospital.”
“Sure. There aren’t as many crazies here. I don’t like the crazies. I know we’re all a little crazy, but they had the real crazies in the hospital. I like it here.”
Bill stood up and went to the counter and Mary watched him. He got a refill of coffee and sat down and lit another cigarette. “I hate decaf. I like the real stuff.”
“Brigid doesn’t think the caffeine is good for you, Bill.”
“I know. But what’s a man to do? It’s my only fun. I don’t drink beer anymore. I don’t have any ladies anymore.”
Mary didn’t know what to do. To grab the cup away from him seemed cruel. And she didn’t think she had it in her to do that, anyway. Who was she? A young college student. He was a grown man, regardless of everything else.
As they walked back quietly, she said, “I enjoyed talking with you, Bill. Anytime you want to talk, or need to talk to someone, you can come and get me. And try to remember, no one is out to get you.”
“That’s nice,” he said, as they walked up the porch steps. “You’re a pretty girl. I like you.” And then he patted her on the shoulder.
The weeks passed. Mary learned how to fill the ice cube tray and made sure that everyone took their meds. As time went on, the futility of it all made itself aware to her. Would telling Bill that no one is out to get him ever convince him otherwise? Of course not. He had his delusions long before he met her, and most likely, he’d have them until he died. Mary began to focus on the practical, like Brigid, like all the others who worked at Cleveland Circle House. She tried to make sure the clients were all shaved and showered. She wanted their shirts tucked in. She wanted them in clean clothes. She wanted the bad smells to go away. She wanted them to do their chores and brush their teeth. The wild mood swings, the delusions, the overwhelming sadness and rages and fears — what really could be done about those? They came and went, taking over people and then setting them free. The blue and white and pink and red pills Mary doled out seemed to help some. If nothing else, they dulled the whole experience of life for them. Mary began to think that that was the best that could be done. To mother them about their daily life, and to medicate them so they didn’t feel so deeply.
It was the middle of August, a Monday, and the group session was being led by Ahmed’s wife, Laura. Brigid was there, like always, as well as a graduate student named Dave and another man, Roger, who worked there but also lived in another one of Ahmed’s houses. He had been a client, but now he worked there. This gave Mary a sense of hope — They can be healed! They can get better! Normal even! — but she also kept her distance from him. She was ashamed to admit it, but he frightened her.
Laura was a petite brunette, with a very gentle voice. She began the group often by asking someone to “share,” and then the person to the left of that person would share, and so on, until everyone had shared. Today was different.
“I wanted to start by sharing myself,” she said. “My sister had a baby who died this week. The baby was born dead. It was a full-term baby. She named the baby Alexandra and there was a lovely funeral for the little angel. She also was able to hold her little girl. I was there at the hospital with her husband to witness the birth. You see, we didn’t know at first the baby was dead, not until after we arrived at the hospital. She asked me to take pictures of her holding Alexandra, which at first …” Here, for a minute, Laura faltered. “Which at first bothered me. I guess I thought it was too much. Or something. But I did what my sister asked. What else could I do? In her moment of grief and sadness? I felt obliged to give her at least that, to honor her wish. So I took a picture. And then she asked me to hold her daughter and her husband took a picture. And I took a picture of her husband holding the girl, too.”
The one rule about group was that no one was allowed to say anything to the person speaking. Everyone just listened and then when the turn ended, everyone else just said “thank you.” It was non-judgmental. It was just a place to share.
Laura reached in her purse. “As the days passed, I became less upset by my sister’s request. I now really understand it. This was her daughter, dead or not. She was going to remember her forever. Why pretend not to? The days of trying to forget these things are thankfully over. No one forgets giving birth to a dead child. No one ever has, or will.”
“Thank you,” said Dave.
“Thank you,” Mary said, out of obligation.
“I’m not done yet,” Laura said, a hint of peevishness in her voice. “I brought the picture of myself holding Alexandra here to share with you all. I am going to pass it around. I, too, am grieving the loss of my niece. And I would like to share my pain here. That’s what group is for.”
Mary’s head felt very light and her ears started to ring. The picture came around and she looked at it. In it, Laura looked down at the blue infant in her arms, not at the camera. Self-consciously, Mary held onto the photo for a moment, attempting to disguise her fear and disgust.
At the end of the session, they all took turns hugging each other. They often did that, but sometimes they did some other kind of “touch” therapy. Mary truly hated this part of the sessions. Just because they worked together didn’t mean they should touch one another. She didn’t understand the logic of it. As Laura came toward her for their hug, Mary gritted her teeth. Slap, slap! She imagined slapping her, not hugging her. Then she hugged her.
The next week Mary’s father called.
“I’m coming to visit you! Before school starts. I’m coming next weekend.”
“Is Mom coming, too?” Mary asked, surprising herself with the bitterness in her voice.
“She doesn’t want to,” he said flatly. “But I’m desperate to see you, Mary. It’s been too long!”
A flash of memory from Christmas passed through Mary’s head. Her mother’s back to her, angrily doing the dishes. Her father, wringing his hands, asking, “What record should I put on, Mary? What would you like to hear?”
“You’ll have to stay at a hotel,” Mary said. “We don’t have a lot of room here.”