already turning, climbing up a log to jump on the back of the horse. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Heather’s voice pulled me back into the present as she said, “That’s one of the reasons I thought about going back, so I could help her. I hope she’s okay.”
I shook off my memory, though the emotions still lingered, fear and confusion sitting hard in my belly.
“She’s probably okay, right?” Heather said.
“It sounds like you feel some responsibility for Emily, but she’s an adult and can make her own decisions. Just like you made a choice to leave, now you can choose to follow your treatment plan and take care of yourself.”
She nodded. “I know. I am getting better. I can feel it already.”
* * *
After I was finished with Heather, I met a new patient, a woman in her early seventies named Francine who was brought in after she’d been found wandering the neighborhood in her nightgown. She’d been diagnosed with dementia and didn’t have any family. Dementia patients were always hard to treat as there wasn’t much we could do for them, and they had to stay at the hospital until there was room in a nursing home. They were confused and upset by their memory losses and frequently tried to escape. Francine had spent the day walking around, testing the doors, begging us to let her go. She refused to be comforted, and we had to just leave her alone, until she calmed down on her own. When we met, I’d asked if she knew why she was in the hospital, and she’d laughed gaily and said she’d been on an adventure, then her face had turned grief-stricken and scared. She said, “Why am I here? When can I go home?”
I gently said, “Miss Hendrickson, you’re in the hospital because you’re having troubles remembering things, and we don’t want you to get hurt.”
She was looking around the interview room, a confused expression on her face. “I’m in the hospital?” Her eyes suddenly lucid and clear, she turned to me, and with a sad voice said, “I’m never leaving here, am I?”
“You’re just staying here a little bit longer while we run some tests.”
She grabbed my hand across the desk, her face lit up with a smile and her eyes sparkling. “I had such a life! I was an artist and traveled the world to paint. I had friends in every country. I could tell you stories, so many stories.” Her eyes filled with tears, leaking into the deep grooves on her face, her white hair long and snarled around her face. Her voice quavered, filled with doubt and turned little girlish. “I don’t have anyone. No family, no one. I don’t know where everyone went. What happened to all my paintings? Where’s my pretty house? I just want to go home.” She started to cry harder. “I can’t remember anything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Back in my mid-twenties, when I was still living in Victoria and starting my second year of university, my therapist suggested that I talk to my mom and my brother about my experience at the commune, to see if they could open the window to my memories. But if anything, they slammed the door shut on them.
My mother never liked speaking about the commune after we left, especially if my father was around, but I caught her alone in the field one fall morning as she spread hay into piles for the horses. The sun was out, warming dew from the night before and making the ground steam. Mom was dressed in one of Dad’s bulky work coats, her dark hair stuffed under an old cowboy hat. Even in that masculine garb, she was pretty.
I grabbed a flake and started to help her. After a moment, I said, “Mom, I need to talk to you about the commune.”
She kept working. “I don’t like talking about the past.”
“I know, but this is important. I’ve been in therapy, for my claustrophobia, and my therapist thinks something happened to me at the commune.”
My mother stopped and looked at me. “Like what?”
She was shorter than me, but she pulled herself up tall, her shoulders
* * *
Heather’s voice pulled me back into the present as she said, “That’s one of the reasons I thought about going back, so I could help her. I hope she’s okay.”
I shook off my memory, though the emotions still lingered, fear and confusion sitting hard in my belly.
“She’s probably okay, right?” Heather said.
“It sounds like you feel some responsibility for Emily, but she’s an adult and can make her own decisions. Just like you made a choice to leave, now you can choose to follow your treatment plan and take care of yourself.”
She nodded. “I know. I am getting better. I can feel it already.”
* * *
After I was finished with Heather, I met a new patient, a woman in her early seventies named Francine who was brought in after she’d been found wandering the neighborhood in her nightgown. She’d been diagnosed with dementia and didn’t have any family. Dementia patients were always hard to treat as there wasn’t much we could do for them, and they had to stay at the hospital until there was room in a nursing home. They were confused and upset by their memory losses and frequently tried to escape. Francine had spent the day walking around, testing the doors, begging us to let her go. She refused to be comforted, and we had to just leave her alone, until she calmed down on her own. When we met, I’d asked if she knew why she was in the hospital, and she’d laughed gaily and said she’d been on an adventure, then her face had turned grief-stricken and scared. She said, “Why am I here? When can I go home?”
I gently said, “Miss Hendrickson, you’re in the hospital because you’re having troubles remembering things, and we don’t want you to get hurt.”
She was looking around the interview room, a confused expression on her face. “I’m in the hospital?” Her eyes suddenly lucid and clear, she turned to me, and with a sad voice said, “I’m never leaving here, am I?”
“You’re just staying here a little bit longer while we run some tests.”
She grabbed my hand across the desk, her face lit up with a smile and her eyes sparkling. “I had such a life! I was an artist and traveled the world to paint. I had friends in every country. I could tell you stories, so many stories.” Her eyes filled with tears, leaking into the deep grooves on her face, her white hair long and snarled around her face. Her voice quavered, filled with doubt and turned little girlish. “I don’t have anyone. No family, no one. I don’t know where everyone went. What happened to all my paintings? Where’s my pretty house? I just want to go home.” She started to cry harder. “I can’t remember anything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Back in my mid-twenties, when I was still living in Victoria and starting my second year of university, my therapist suggested that I talk to my mom and my brother about my experience at the commune, to see if they could open the window to my memories. But if anything, they slammed the door shut on them.
My mother never liked speaking about the commune after we left, especially if my father was around, but I caught her alone in the field one fall morning as she spread hay into piles for the horses. The sun was out, warming dew from the night before and making the ground steam. Mom was dressed in one of Dad’s bulky work coats, her dark hair stuffed under an old cowboy hat. Even in that masculine garb, she was pretty.
I grabbed a flake and started to help her. After a moment, I said, “Mom, I need to talk to you about the commune.”
She kept working. “I don’t like talking about the past.”
“I know, but this is important. I’ve been in therapy, for my claustrophobia, and my therapist thinks something happened to me at the commune.”
My mother stopped and looked at me. “Like what?”
She was shorter than me, but she pulled herself up tall, her shoulders
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