Page 7 of Twisted Vows

It’s funny how psych wards don’t look anything like what I would imagine an actual “mad house” to be.

The ward has about two dozen rooms with white walls, a lemon-scented aroma, and enough space for patients to stretch out. The overhead lights keep shadows to a minimum, and nurses in pale scrubs patrol the floors, floating past like smiling ghosts with eyes that see everything. They’re always moving and too busy to answer questions. A few of them who’ve seen me visit with lilies nod slightly as I head for my mother.

Today, I brought pink tulips that tremble at the stems like they know they don’t belong here.

Mama hates tulips. I remember her calling them smug little posers once while chatting with a florist. She loved tending her garden, prepping me for school, and reading her paperback novels before discussing them at her book club.

Mama used to be so full of life. Now, she doesn’t say much of anything. Watching her blank stares when I visit always breaks my heart into smithereens. Sometimes, when she talks, she only whispers in riddles, but more often, she just lies still, drooling.

Nurse Cathy, a woman in her mid-fifties with gray-streaked auburn hair pulled tight, a perma-frown, and a suspiciously chipper voice, glances over her clipboard with a soft hmm.

“Elena’s had a rough week.” Her lips purse as if she just bit a lemon. “We’ve upped her sedatives. Her episodes are escalating.”

“Episodes?” I roll the word around my tongue in confusion. “What kind of episodes?” The question comes out like honey poured over razors.

Cathy shrugs. “She’s been…more vocal. Restless. Night terrors. Hallucinations. The doctor thinks it’s time to adjust her regimen again.”

She speaks with a weird smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I understand that she’s only doing this to calm me, but a loud second voice screams bullshit.

I’ve got this squirm in my gut that insists someone’s been messing with Mama’s mind. The way she flinches at certain words. How her dosage seems to shift without explanation. The nurse who changes her answer when I ask the same question twice. But I don’t have any solid proof, and I’m not silly enough to transfer her on instinct alone. My father might be MIA, but at least he pays her bills directly via an arrangement he has with the hospital, and I can’t afford Mama’s care on a meager kindergarten teacher’s salary.

After thanking Cathy, I walk on, ignoring the way my shoes squeak against the linoleum. When I’m at the doorway of my mother’s room, I peek in.

Mama’s curled up in a sea of white sheets, her skin the color of porcelain. She’s smaller than in my memories. It’s like she shrinks further inside herself every time I visit.

But those eyes.

Green, like moss after rain, the rare shade my own eyes inherited.

Except they’re too glossy. Drugged. Once she spots me, her lashes flutter like moth wings.

She twitches, her fingers drawing invisible shapes on the blanket. An E. Then a V. Then…static.

Dread settles in my chest.

“Mama?” I whisper her name like a prayer.

She goes still. Her eyes shift, not quite meeting mine.

“Mama, are you with me?”

Her mouth opens, cracks, and closes around words too sharp or too broken to finish.

“I brought you tulips. You love them. Remember?” I set them on the nightstand.

I wanted to conduct this test.

Her lips tremble. I watch for a smile, but it flatlines before I can be sure. Her eyes circle from the nightstand back to me, and I lean close, hoping for a response. Instead, I get the same restless motion. I’m about to rise back up when her fingers stretch out and clutch mine, grasping at me like I’m a lifeline.

My breath suddenly hitches. I try to extract my hand from hers, but she’s stronger than I remember.

Is this intentional? Is she trying to pass on some message?

“Mama.” The name stumbles out. “What is it?”

To my shock, she inches up on the pillow, her papery skin paler than the sheets. The dark circles beneath her eyes are the only pigmented part of her skin. “Your da… Watch… He’s…watching…”

“Mama. Say that again. What?”