The door clangs shut, and the lock clicks. My stomach hurts. I feel goose bumps all over. I've never been in a cell before. I told Mama I didn't want to come with her to see Phil at this mental hospital. Leaning against the cold iron bars, I look at the white linoleum floor, the bed, the two chairs, and the tiny window cut into the concrete wall. My heart pounds. A stale, antiseptic smell sickens me.
Over in the corner Mama's friend stands on one leg, traces the air with his fingers, and hums, a smile frozen on his face.
"He's composing," Mama explains. "Isn't that right, Phil?"
The thirty-two-year-old Mozart stops in mid-note, his body rigid.
A guard dressed in white rests his face against the iron bars. The name on his long white lab coat says he's Keith McPherson. "Everything all right in there?"
Mama nods.
"Call when you want to leave." The guard walks away, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.
Mama pokes me. "Keith," she whispers, "and all the others at this hospital don't know genius when they see it." She smiles, winks at me, and sits on a chair next to Phil's bed, watching him.
I want to ask if we can go to the fair and ride the roller coaster right this very minute, but I already know the answer. I swallow my words and keep my mouth shut. Today's my twelfth birthday, and the fair ends at ten tonight. I don't want to mess anything up.
I look at my watch. Seven forty-five. Twenty-two whole minutes later, and Phil's still standing perfectly still on one leg, his arms up in the air. I don't know how he does that. When the neighborhood kids play statue and my brother Clifford whips me around, I can't hold a one-legged pose for more than ten seconds. And I always win. Maybe I'll ask Phil to share his secret, if he ever moves again.
In the cell across from Phil's a bald-headed guy with vacant eyes stares at me. I stare back. He gives me the creeps, but I can't look at Mama, and I'm tired of watching Mozart.
"Who?" a deep voice whoops.
I whirl around.
The statue's alive. He thumps Mama's head, jarring her back to the here-and-now. "Who?" he asks again, shuffling towards me.
I darn near jump out of my skin, but Mama sits there, all calm and composed, like she's used to being whacked.
"Phil," she says, "I want you to meet my daughter, Caroline."
"S-S-Suzy," I stammer. "Caroline's your sister."
She laughs. "That's right."
Phil grunts and holds out his hand. He scares me. I don't want to shake his hand, but Mama's giving me one of her looks, so I do. Then Phil turns around and talks to an empty chair, opposite the one Mama's in.
"See, Annie? I told you my best friend would come to see us. She brought company. Too bad you can't stay to visit." He reaches toward the chair. "Come, Annie. I'll show you to the door."
My eyes widen. My jaw drops. I can't help it.
"So nice to see you again," Mama says to the invisible lady, and then she nudges me with her elbow. "Tell Annie goodbye."
"What?" A cold shiver runs down my spine. "Mama, can we just..."
"Tell Annie goodbye."
I flick my fingers. "Bye," I say, wishing I could disappear with her.
"Sit," Phil orders, pointing to the chair.
My hands feel clammy. My heart's about to hop right out of my chest. I swallow hard, sit on the edge of the cold, white chair, and chew on a fingernail.
"Suzy," Mama says, shaking her head, "you can't use your new manicure set if you keep biting your fingernails."
That's what she and Dad gave me for my birthday -- a green leather manicure case with a whole bunch of metal tools inside. Mama's like that. Always trying to improve me. Anyway, I tried to use the file this morning, before we left to see Phil, but I didn't have any fingernails. I cut and filed my toenails, instead.
"I'll try not to, Mama," I tell her, but I'm already chewing on them again. If we don't get out of here soon, my fingernails will be stubs.
Phil twists his head from side to side and cracks his knuckles. "They're watching me," he whispers.
"Who?" Mama asks.
"The F.B.I."
Sure, I think. You and Al Capone. I feel a nervous giggle coming on, so I suck in my cheeks, hard, and wink at Mama.
She frowns at me and leans forward in her chair. "Tell us."
I glare at her, but she looks right through me, her eyes riveting on Phil's.
He digs into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper about the size of a postage stamp. "Here's proof. I wrote it all down." Closing his fist, he tiptoes to the iron bars and looks first to the right, then to the left, taking his own sweet time. "Gone," he says, "and old George is asleep. Now we can talk."
Phil sighs and plops himself down on his bed, the first time he's sat down since we got here. A wild look comes over his face, like in that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde movie. My stomach starts to hurt again. If his hair stands straight up, I'm going to scream for Mr. McPherson.
"Come over here," Phil says, motioning for me and Mama to join him. He unclenches his fist and slowly begins to unfold his piece of paper.
I don't know how this guy can write so small, all those letters scrunched up like that. I lean closer, but I can't read one word, not one. Looks like he's covered both sides of the page with scribbles and diagrams, even in the corners.
"See," Phil whispers, tapping the page. "It's all right here -- in code."
Mama's finger follows the top line, her lips moving.
"What's in code?" I ask.
"Shh," Mama says. "We don't want them to hear."
I smirk. "Who? The F.B.I.?" I poke her and point to my watch.
She ignores me and turns to Phil. "But what about the TV cameras, the wiretaps, and the bugging devices in the walls?"
My eyes scan the room. Bare walls. No TV. No phone. Nothing.
"It's okay," he says. "I outsmarted them. Come closer and listen. I'll tell you all about it." A wide grin spreads across his face -- and Mama's, too. She scoots closer to Phil, her deep brown eyes glazing over like she's in some kind of a trance.
"Mama!" I shout. "Mama!" She doesn't answer. I feel my eyes get hot. I bite my lip and try to stop shaking, but I can't. When I finally do, I sit like a statue, watching these two friends with their brains turned the wrong way.
They whisper in the shadows for a long, long time. I look at Mama, shudder, and bury my head in my arms.
"Hey," Mr. McPherson says, turning his key in the lock. "Visiting hours end at nine. You'll have to go."
Mama doesn't move.
Mr. McPherson walks over and touches Mama's shoulder. "Visiting hours are over." He shakes his head and puts her hand in mine. "Take her home, Little Lady," he says. "There's a phone at the front desk, if you need one."
Outside, a cool breeze blows. The Mama I used to know turns to me and smiles. "I almost forgot," she says, checking my watch. "We'll have to hurry to make it to the fair."
"I'm too tired, Mama."
She squeezes my hand. "But I thought you wanted to ride the roller coaster for your birthday."
I want to tell her that I've just been on the longest roller coaster ride I'll ever be on in my whole life, but I don't.
"Let's just go home, Mama," I say. "Let's just go home."
~Mary Chandler
© Copyright 1998 by Mary Chandler.
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