Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 9

"Yeah. We did notice there was something wrong with her early on. Like, she used to be this wonderful, impeccably groomed hostess. One day when I came back from college, she showed up for dinner with her hair all messed up, as though she'd just woken up. She was dazed. We couldn't tell what was wrong. So we sent her to the best doctors our money could pay for. That's when they told us she had schizophrenia."

We pull up to a pair of ornate gates, above which are carved the letters: WAVERLY HILLS. The gardens beyond are filled with the green of trees and shrubs, and everything looks utterly peaceful in contrast to what I know we will find there. As soon as the guard at the sentry point sees me, he opens the gates and waves me in.

"I'm sorry," Beth says.

"Don't be. It happened a long time ago. We've had to live with it for most of our lives."

The drive is bordered by more flowering shrubs. Above the sound of the engine, birdsong filters through our windows. Here and there, we get glimpses of the inmates (patients! I should call them patients!) moving slowly about with their nurses.

A nurse is waiting for us at the steps to the entrance as we alight from the car.

"We had to restraint her," she says to me. "I'm sorry, but she's been refusing to eat and drink since morning. You're the only one who can calm her."

"You should have called me earlier," I say as I bolt into the building. I shoot a backward glance at Beth. "Stay here. I'll be a while."

"Don't worry about me," she calls.

I rush to my mother's room on the second floor, taking two steps at a time with the nurse in tow. From afar comes the sound of shrieking, as though a soul is being tormented mercilessly in h.e.l.l. My heart wrenches.

Inside the room, my mother bedraggled, eyes wild is in a straightjacket. She's screaming something unintelligible and tras.h.i.+ng around in a berserker rage. Two attendants are with her, looking distressed while they try to keep her from hurting herself. One of them has a syringe filled with some clear fluid gripped in his hand.

"No drugs," I say firmly. "I'll get this."

"But "

"No buts."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the nurse who was behind me nod surrept.i.tiously.

As soon as my mother sees me, she starts to cry pitifully.

"Oh Christopher, please, please take me away from here. You have no idea what they do to me. They're demons, all of them. They're trying to steal my kidneys!"

"Mrs. Morton," one of the attendants say, "we're not trying to steal your kidneys. We're trying to give you your meds "

I rush to her and wrap her up in my firm embrace. She clings to me as much as she is allowed to cling with her arms straightjacketed. Her breath is stale and her lank, greasy hair creeps into my eyes. She smells of neglect and sickness, though I know that hers is the sickness of the mind and not of the body. I remember burying my nose into that hair when I was a child. Then she had worn the scent of eucalyptus. She loved eucalyptus soap, and she would never mask it with perfume.

What happened to her here?

An irrational rage overtakes me, and I have to fight hard to suppress it. It's easy to blame the nurse and attendants for her state, but I know as with time and again that she has done this to herself.

"Mom, Mom, Mom," I say while stroking her back, "it's gonna be OK. I'm here."

"Take me away, Christopher. Why won't you take me away?" Her voice breaks at the end, and a dagger twists in my chest.

We have tried to take her away before. But in my father's house, we couldn't contain her, and we had to keep her sedated most of the time.

She needed help. Ma.s.sive help.

"You're going to get better soon and I'll take you away when you do, I promise. But right now you'll have to eat and drink something or you're not going to get better."

My mother sobs into my shoulder, and I let her. It pains me to see her reduced to this the beautiful, gracious woman that she once was.

Later, much later, when I have calmed her down sufficiently to get her out of the straightjacket, I lead her slowly downstairs. The wary nurse and two attendants follow three steps behind, making sure nothing extraordinary happens though in this place, anything ordinary would be considered extraordinary by most standards.

I take my mother by the hand to a section in the garden with a pretty white cupola, where a table has been set. My mother is British, and she used to love afternoon teas. It's all very peaceful in stark contrast to what just happened upstairs. A little silver tray of finger sandwiches and a dainty teapot with teacups have been set.

Mom used to serve afternoon tea to the members of the various charities she spearheaded back when she wasn't ill. I figured that tea would calm her even further.

Beth awaits us in the cupola. She gets up as we approach.

"Mom, this is Beth. She's someone I work with."

I think any other appellation would be too open for interpretation. 'Friend' has its connotations, and I think Beth isn't ready to be my friend as yet. 'PA' would be too formal and would denote the boss/employee relations.h.i.+p.

Beth holds her hand out warmly. "Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Morton."

My mother doesn't take her outstretched hand.

f.u.c.k. She's not going to have a full-blown attack again, is she?

"Mom?" I say gently.

My mother's eyes are s.h.i.+ning. They are the same hazel as mine. You can see what a beautiful woman she still is. I've managed to comb her hair and make her presentable in a floral s.h.i.+ft.

She whispers to Beth, "You're an angel. I can see your halo."

Beth seems out of sorts, but she manages a smile. Her outstretched hand doesn't waver.

I lean closer to my mother's ear and say, "That's what I tell her, but she doesn't listen."

Beth's smile stretches wider and stays.

This time, it's genuine.

We have tea with my mother and the nurse, with the attendants a call away. We make small talk. Well, as much talk as my mother can manage anyway. She seems to have calmed down a lot, and when she's not looking, I slip her meds into her teacup.

Just when I think everything is going OK, my mother turns to Beth.

"Selena?" she says earnestly. "I don't really know if you and my son will have a future. I understand what you're both going through, but it's wrong and it's got to stop."

Beth is a little taken aback.

I twitch in my seat. I don't really blame Mom. Selena and Beth do have more than a pa.s.sing resemblance.

"My name is Beth, Mrs. Morton." Beth's reply is gentle.

"The school board will throw you out," my Mom insists. "I know these things. You will be ruined and there'll be no place for you to go."

"Mom, she's not Selena. Selena's not here anymore."

Beth shoots me a quizzical look as if to say, "Who's Selena?"

I shake my head almost imperceptibly.

We stay with my mother until the sun goes down and twilight settles onto the green tops of the trees. It's time for Mom to go back to her room.

"She's had a lot of excitement for today and it's best she gets her rest now," the nurse says. "Thank you, Mr. Morton, for coming."

"Promise you'll call me sooner next time," I say.

"It's not always that easy, Mr. Morton."

"Call me Chris."

"We don't want to have to be calling you every day, so we leave only the most unmanageable of episodes to you."

I envelop my mother in a bear hug. "I'll come to see you next week, OK?"

Mom's eyes are filled with tears. "You're the only one who comes, Christopher. No one else ever does."

"That's not true. Dad came two weeks ago, remember?"

The nurse shakes her head behind my mother.

"No, he didn't," my mother says.

"Yes, he did."

It's always important to maintain the illusion that her entire family is behind her. Dad has remarried five years ago and I never had the heart to tell Mom.

It's Beth's turn to hug her. "Goodbye, Mrs. Morton. I hope you'll allow me to visit again."

"You're a nice, nice girl, Selena, despite what they say about you."

I can see that Beth is in equal parts perplexed and curious. It's not an episode in my life that I'm proud of. I wonder how long I can keep silent about it.

We drive away from the Waverly Hills sanatorium and head back to the city. Beth is pensive, no doubt contemplating the events of the afternoon.

"I'm sorry today didn't work out as planned," I say.

"No, not at all. It was lovely to meet your mother." She raises her eyes shyly towards mine. I have to catch my breath at the fragile honesty in them. "I must say she wasn't what I was expecting."

You're the only one of the women I've been with, I don't say, that I have taken to meet my Mom. And under such circ.u.mstances.

"We've kept a pretty tight lid over her illness. That's why you don't see us cozying up to any press."

"But why? It isn't something to be ashamed."

"I know. But my father is ashamed of her. He's afraid the genes will run in our family, and the board of directors which comprises of some old fogeys who have no clue about mental illness may declare either me or my brother unfit to head the company."

"But it's your company."

"It's still public listed and we have bosses to answer to, namely the board of directors."

She's silent for a while, taking all this in. I can imagine that she probably thinks my father is an ogre. But I don't blame Dad. I once did when Mom first got ill. But I realize now that he couldn't cope with the stress of it.

"Do the rest of your family go to see her often?"

"No. My father goes once in a while, but it hurts them too much to see her that way, you know. My brothers used to go a lot more often before, many years back. Then as time goes by and they marry and have families of their own, they see her less and less."

"But not you. You still go."

"I used to go a lot more often too, I'll admit. But I don't blame my brothers or my Dad. I'm the only one who's single, and I'm the only one with lots of time to spare."

"That's not fair to you . . . to take the burden."

"It's not a burden. She's my Mom. She loved me best when we were growing up. She's my responsibility now."

She nods, commiserating. She gazes out of the window so that her lovely profile is to me. Then she turns to me again, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with light.

"You're a good man, Chris Morton. You don't know it, but you're a good man."

"Why do you say I don't know it?"

"Just a hunch."

I don't respond to this, but a p.r.i.c.kly warmth spreads through my body to gather in a knot around my chest.

We arrive at her apartment. The Lambo draws hungry stares again from the denizens of the neighborhood, and I'm acutely uncomfortable under the collar.

"You know, I wish you'd move out quickly from here. Come Monday, what do you say you and I start looking for a place?"

Or you could always move in with me.

Naturally, I don't say this because it might scare her silly. It would scare me too if Taylor or anyone else were to suggest it to me. Funny how unexpected revelations can be misconstrued and distorted, even if they are absolutely honest.

Beth says, "Do you want to come up?"

The same light is s.h.i.+ning out of her eyes, and her lips are slightly parted.

I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat, and nod.

BETH.