11

SEDONA HAD NOT gone home at all, as she requested Dakota and Sierra be told. Instead, she had agreed to an inpatient mental health facility. That took some doing—at first she had resisted the very idea. Checking into a hospital, even if it was as plush as any resort, had not been part of her plan. Her plan had been to continue to cope by controlling her environment and keeping secret her greatest fear—that she would soon be as out of reality as her father had been since before she was born.

She had gone with Maggie to Denver, stayed with Maggie in her house and kept a few appointments with a psychiatrist by the name of Nan Tayama, a gentle woman of Burmese decent. “I’ve known Nan for years,” Maggie said. “She is the smartest woman in the world, I think. And probably the kindest. But if you don’t connect with her, I know others we can try.”

“How is it you know so many psychiatrists?” Sedona asked.

“We like the same part of the body. The brain. I like the physiology, they like the chemistry.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than chemistry,” Sedona said.

“You don’t know anything yet,” Maggie said. “First you have to be honest about what’s happening with you.”

Sedona tried her hardest. She gave Nan the benefit of the doubt. Nan was a tiny woman dressed in a suit that made Sedona wonder where she found professional-looking clothes made in such a small size. She assumed Nan was as smart and intuitive as Maggie said, and tried to open up. She explained that she’d started having manic episodes. Her heart would pound violently and she suffered from insomnia. Then the voices began. Usually it was her mother’s voice, telling her what to do. She’d already had two children, and believed she was out of the woods for schizophrenia since she was in her late twenties. She used the excuse of needing to be available for her kids and asked about working from home. Her employers accommodated her. Now, looking back, she wondered if they knew something was wrong with her and preferred to keep her out of the office. She was running analyses of psychological testing. It really wasn’t necessary that she be available for meetings or presentations as long as she supplied regular reports. And she did—long, meticulous reports. Being alone was better for her; she muttered to herself constantly, unless Bob or the kids were around, then by sheer dint of will she shut her mouth.

She went to see a psychiatrist with a good reputation and he immediately prescribed therapy and medication, but when she couldn’t wake up for the children, she stopped taking it and never went back. She was smart enough to know that meds without therapy or therapy without meds just wouldn’t do it. So, to cover what she knew was wrong, she made herself a rigid schedule that would disguise the fact that she didn’t want to leave the house, didn’t want to be with people. She went to the grocery store on Mondays, ran other errands on Thursdays, saw her parents twice a year. If her schedule went awry for any reason it was torture, but no one knew because it was apparent she used her time very well. Her house was perfect, her cooking delicious, her children excelled in school. Of course Bob wanted a social life, but she declined so often he all but gave up. She’d toss in a labored acceptance sometimes, just to keep the peace. He might be having an affair; she didn’t know. Didn’t really care. Not as long as her life was routine and no one knew her secret.

But it got worse, which of course was her worst fear. She experienced memory loss and confusion. She began to see things—animals in the refrigerator, the walls were crying, there was someone hiding in the closet in her bedroom and she was terrified to look. She couldn’t lie still in the dark; it made her bones itch. So she went to the basement—to read, she told Bob. But really she paced and muttered and tried to will it away.

She admitted to Dr. Tayama that she’d thought about suicide.

After her assessment, Sedona spent ten days in the inpatient facility, talking to the psychiatrist every day, taking medicine, enduring group sessions that for her were impossibly terrible. One thing she did grudgingly admit: the drugs were not as bad as the ones she’d been prescribed several years ago and probably a thousand times better than the ones her father had tried. She was resting better, though she’d wake up confused about where she was until she got her bearings.

She walked into Dr. Tayama’s office for her regular appointment.

“I’m so happy to see you, Sedona. You look well. Are you having a good day?”

“I think I would like it better if I could have a normal day,” she said.

“Then I have good news,” Dr. Tayama said. “You are normal. Not average, perhaps, but normal. Your version of normal.”

“It would feel good to be everyone else’s version,” Sedona said.

“Ah, that would be a problem. It doesn’t exist. I know it’s hard to be objective when you’re so far out of your comfort zone, but do you think the meds you’ve been taking are helping? Are you getting some sleep? Are the voices and images relaxing?”

“I suppose,” she said. “Whatever you’re giving me is an improvement over what Dr. Schizak gave me.”

“That was a combination of Mellaril and Haldol. I don’t know how you even got out of bed. I prescribed something that has less tranquilizing effect and isn’t an antipsychotic. I thought there was a fair chance your confusion, memory lapses and voices were induced by anxiety-provoked insomnia. Go long enough without sufficient sleep and your brain will conjure anything.”

“Anxiety?” Sedona said.

Dr. Tayama nodded. “It’s a smorgasbord of issues. Anxiety that produces isolation and sometimes antisocial behavior, insomnia, depression. Add to that some OCD. I’m still not sure if it’s the chicken or the egg—was your OCD severe enough to cause anxiety or did your anxiety lead you to attempt to control your environment as though you had OCD? In any case, to be conservative, I wanted to try a drug for anxiety and one for OCD. They behave as well as an antidepressant with some sedative side effects, just not as severe. It seems to be working. You seem alert and rested.”

“But Dr. Schizak said I was schizophrenic!”

Dr. Tayama shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think you told Dr. Schizak you were schizophrenic, like your father, when in fact you had a few symptoms that masqueraded as that disorder.”

Sedona pushed back into her chair. “Anxiety!” she said. She laughed as if in relief. “Of all the—”

“It can be very serious, as you can attest. You’re not out of the woods, Sedona. Anxiety and OCD have complicated your life, your relationships, your peace of mind, even some cognition. You have work to do. Drug therapy and counseling.”

“But it’s just anxiety!” she said emphatically.

“You thought about suicide,” Dr. Tayama reminded her. “The anxiety was so alienating and frustrating it caused depression. Not following a treatment plan—”

“I think I’ll go home now,” Sedona said abruptly as she stood to leave.

“Please take a seat and hear me out,” the doctor said. “If you leave now it will be exiting a mental health hospital against medical advice. You don’t have the best pharmaceutical protocol in place. I can’t just write you a prescription or give you a handful of pills. You need treatment, Sedona. Anxiety isn’t a state of mind, it’s a brain chemistry issue, just like depression or schizophrenia. You are not in control. Not yet. But your prognosis is good.”

“I’ll be fine now. Now that I know it’s not my father’s disease the anxiety will go away.”

“Not likely,” the doctor said. “You’re a psychologist, Sedona. You know severe anxiety isn’t nervousness or phobia...”

“I spent years recommending behavior modification for students with test anxiety and it’s been very successful. Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been a lifesaver!”

“I realize you’re feeling much better but leaving treatment now is a very big risk. I think we should talk with your husband or siblings, arrange for aftercare, get you set up with psychiatric coverage for medication and a good counselor.”

“I can handle it,” she said. “I know exactly what to do!”

The doctor stood but she had to look up to meet Sedona’s eyes. “This has happened before, Sedona. Often with disastrous results. I wish you would stay for a while, let us complete an evaluation so when you do go home you have the best possible opportunity for a better quality of life.”

“I appreciate your effort,” Sedona said. “But I hate it here. Hate it. I want my home, my family, my bed.”

“So would I,” Dr. Tayama confessed. “It won’t be too much longer. Please. You’re not entirely well.”

“I know—my version of normal, you said.”

“It’s manageable. But we need time. You need time. Patience.”

“Thank you. Goodbye, then.”

“Sedona, take my card,” she said. She scribbled on the back. “My cell number in case of an emergency. Call me if you need me.”

Sedona, feeling brand-new, took the card, smiled, turned and left the doctor’s office.

Nan Tayama sighed heavily and followed with her chart. She made a notation and handed it off to the nurse. It was not a locked facility. Sedona could pick up her personal items at the nurse’s station—items they kept locked up mainly to keep them from being lost, borrowed or stolen—her purse, her cell phone, her laptop, her charging cords. About an hour later Dr. Tayama watched from her office window as Sedona, suitcase in hand, opened the back door to what she assumed was a private car company like Uber.

* * *

It was very late on a Saturday night when Dakota held Sid in his arms, in his bed, in his cabin. “When I rented this place, it didn’t cross my mind that it might be a perfect hideaway for lovers.”

“I like it here,” Sid said. She patted his chest. “You’re a wonderful pillow.”