Long Lost Escape

It was late at night but all I could hear was the buzzing of the fluorescent lights in the hallway. I lie awake, unable to sleep and unwilling to dream; I long to be free soon but for now I continue to wait. I look up at the large barred-in window at the twilight sky outside, so peaceful and dark. In here I hear the footsteps of staff in the halls, moans or cries by other patients, the grumbling of the old pipes in this beige-paint and concrete ward. I shift in my bed, longing for my own bed while I try to find comfort in these scratchy industrial sheets on this vinyl mattress.

I have been in this psychiatric hospital for many weeks; I am set to be discharged soon since the doctors and nurses all seem to feel I am doing better. I had a nervous breakdown following months and months of stress and the doctors declared I was experiencing delusions, no longer safe to be alone without treatment. I have had many labels throughout my life: Delusional, borderline, crazy, eccentric, unstable… none of those words matter. I am a 35 year old woman with the world at my fingertips, as a self-made entrepreneur with plans. This hospital, this supposed place of treatment… this is not my home. This is a blip in my path to success. I think about my travel plans and what awaits me once I get out of here; it helps me cope with these endless nights.

I hear the night nurses outside in the hallway, and they always talk too loud. They think patients don’t hear them or don’t listen but I always do. Knowledge is power and there’s nothing more I want than to get out of this place; I have important business to return to and this vacation from independence has been close to intolerable.

The older nurse speaks first, with her gravelly, smokers’ voice; “There’s the one I was telling you about, Vesper-something. 35 year old female, bipolar diagnosis, with recent delusions.” I lay still, feigning sleep but eagerly and intently listening. I hear a younger voice, presumably another new night nurse.

“Goodness, how did she end up here? I heard she had a royal come-apart in her home?”

Gravelly nurse shushed her. “We call it a mental health relapse; she was looking through a relative’s attic for this old journal or something. A journal that the relative we have spoken with says isn’t real.”

I hear the younger nurse murmur something and I hear their clunky nurse shoes continue down the hallway. I internally seethe as I roll over, staring into the hallway through the tiny window of my door. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, delusional… that “journal” is a bound black book of travel logs and account information. My uncle had it secured in his safe until he died a year ago; he had told me to find it and take it with me when I left for Italy for my business trip. He had property in Europe and had arranged for me to assume responsibility of that property, in addition to a trust he had left me for an inheritance. Yet somehow my aunt finagled to gain sole beneficiary of all his accounts, all his properties. She was his second wife, we never got along. My uncle raised me since my parents were killed, and when he met this woman she tried so hard to be rid of me. I’m convinced she hid that journal to stop me from enjoying anything from my uncle, even after death.

My aunt, Margaret, was so set on blocking my efforts, she called the police after finding me searching the attic in my uncle’s home; the home he raised me in. She somehow had her name on that home and claimed in broke in, in a delusional rage. My bipolar disorder, while well managed, has caused me great stigma in my family for many years. It gave Margaret the perfect stage setting to state I’m crazy, and that this journal is a delusion I have held for years, perpetuated by my uncle who struggled with mental health in his declining health.

Therein lies my problem; the journal existed. The property in Europe is real, the trust account is real, but the only other person who knows that helped ensure my continued stay in this place. My ticket out is lying, acknowledging an untruth to gain freedom but ultimately I need that journal before I can leave for Italy. I feel my thoughts circling and resign to trying to sleep. I shut my eyes and count my breaths, willing sleep to come to pass this time.

I wake at the startlingly bright sun in the window. It’s a spring paradise outside my window, birds singing, trees blowing gently in the breeze, the river rippling just beyond the property line. One would never know such natural beauty and peace laid just beyond this stone building of human suffering and despair. I sit up at the edge of my bed, shuffling my feet into my slippers just as an orderly knocks briskly at my door.

“Good morning…uh… Ves-Vesper? Are you Vesper Montellio?” He clenched his clipboard, looking eagerly polite.

I sigh lightly and stand. “Yes that’s me.”

The orderly smiled. “Great thanks. I’m new, still learning all the faces to names. I got your meds and your mail.”

I approach the door and swiftly take my pill cup. “Mail? I don’t get mail.” The orderly smiled and said, “Well today you do. Have a good one.” He made his exit to the room across the hall as I walked down to the common area to read my mail. The envelope looked plain and innocuous. No return address. Hm.

I opened it and shook out a letter; the handwriting was a fancy, sophisticated cursive.

‘Dear Vesper,

I hope this letter finds you well; it took considerate effort to locate you and I pardon the unsolicited contact. Your uncle was a dear friend of mine for many decades and I was sorry to hear of his passing. I know you were an important person in his life, especially as he entrusted me to take care of a very important possession of his-‘

My breath catches in my throat.

‘My dear Vesper, your uncle Marco was concerned his wife might keep this from you at all costs, and asked me to keep this journal aside for you. I have returned to Padua overseas but before I left, I secured this journal at a local bank in a security box. Please contact the bank at the number below; your name is on the box account.

Take care love, please visit when you can. Myaddress is at the bottom of this letter.

Sincerely,

Gino Muccio

My hands shake; I feel sheepish for rifling through boxes and suitcases when the damned journal wasn’t there. My future suddenly feels bright, open; now that I know the journal is safe and another living person on this Earth knew my uncle’s true intentions I can breathe. I set my focus on my next task which is my treatment review this Thursday, with my aunt Margaret and my doctor. I have remained adamant she is gas-lighting me, fueling a longer stay and more vindication for the ever-spiteful Margaret. I fold the letter back up and put it in the envelope; when I get back to my room I put it in my sock drawer for safe keeping. That night I slept deeply and calmly.

Finally Thursday arrives; my review meeting is the first one of the day. I am ready and feeling composed. I have prided myself on my business savvy, and the ability to remain in control even when stressed. This ability was cracked and even a little dented after my uncle died, resulting in my possibly manic state when searching the attic of our home. I am resolved and ready.

An orderly comes to my door at precisely 8:51AM, to escort me down to the conference room. My psychiatrist Dr. Wood is already there, reviewing something in his fancy leather-bound binder while my social worker Kayleigh sets up her laptop; she looks up and smiles at me as I enter the room. I sit down at the end of the long polished table and fold my hands neatly in my lap. I clear my throat as I focus on my words and body language. “Good morning Dr. Wood, good morning Kayleigh.”

Kayleigh replied, “Good morning Vesper, good to see you.”

Dr. Wood smiled at me, and stated, “Hello Vesper, we’re almost ready to get started. Your aunt should be here shortly.”

I struggle to keep my smile in place; I loathe that my aunt is my only living relative and that this team is so “family-focused.” The team calls family “natural supports” and the more you have, the more stable you seem to be apparently.

We wait in polite silence as I watch the big clock over Kayleigh’s head. 9:00AM. 9:02AM. 9:05AM.

Finally at 9:09AM I see my aunt Margaret appear in the doorway with an orderly; she always strikes me as the stereotypical new-money widow. Margaret has shown up today in new-looking clothes and what appears to be brand-new black needle-point heels. She shoves her oversized white sunglasses up her forehead as she drops her Gucci bag down on the chair next to her, sitting 3 feet away from me.

“I’m sorry I’m late but the parking at this place is terrible,” Margaret says. She looks at me briefly with her icy, up and down scanning glare before smiling brightly at Kayleigh and Dr. Wood.

Dr. Wood clears his throat. “Well I apologize, it can be a busy place at times. We do appreciate your time this morning.” Margaret taps her finger on her leg as Dr. Wood shuffles his papers.

Dr. Wood smiles at me as he begins speaking. “I have been reviewing Vesper’s progress. Since her admission 7 weeks ago, she has made great progress. She is responding well to her medications, participating in groups and-“

Margaret holds her hands up. “Wait, are you letting her out?”

I bite the inside of my mouth as Kayleigh taps away at her laptop, looking toward Dr. Wood. Dr. Wood replies, “Well we don’t have criteria to keep her; her symptoms are managed and the delusions-“

Margaret sits bolt upright, appearing indignant. “This woman was rummaging through my house! And you’re going to set her loose in the streets?”

Kayleigh speaks, smoothing her sweater as she speaks. “Margaret, I understand that that incident was difficult but we can’t keep someone here who isn’t ill and can succeed in the community-”

“This is ridiculous,” Margaret all but spat out. “Crazy people with all these ‘rights.’ I will have you know I have been looking into guardianship so I can have say in Vesper taking her meds and staying in care. Her ‘illness’ drove my Marco to an early grave.”

My eyes tear up from anger and panic as I process everything Margaret just said. I hear Dr. Wood explain how the guardianship process goes and it doesn’t replace free will. Margaret argues I’ll always be crazy and that this journal delusion makes me unsafe. I can’t take anymore. I stand quicker than I mean to.

“This woman is they crazy one, I don’t want her making decisions for me!” I hear someone yelling and realize it’s me. I keep yelling that Uncle Marco loved me, that the journal is real, that I will get out of here, live a real life again. Margaret recoils in apparent horror, Dr. Wood is talking. My rage at that woman and being trapped her is dizzying; My world goes black.

I wake in my bed in my room later. It’s afternoon and I know my chance at going home is delayed again. I sit up and reach for Gino’s letter; I re-read it and dream of leaving here.