Running With Scissors_ A Memoir Part 16

Finch came into the room, drying his hands on his shirt-tails. He peered outside. "Excellent," he commented. Then he shouted to Hope. "Good work."

Hope turned back, beaming.

Finch said, "You two just wait. Things are really gonna turn around for us now. It's a sign from G.o.d."

"Can we have twenty bucks?" Natalie asked, hand outstretched.

Finch reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "I only have ten."

Natalie took that and pulled me by the arm. "Let's go for a walk."

The first sign that things were, in fact, turning around came in the form of a frozen b.u.t.terball turkey. Hope won it from a radio station by being the first caller to correctly identify a Pat Boone song. It didn't fit in the freezer, so she placed it in the bathtub to thaw. But there were only two bathrooms in the house and Hope had placed the turkey in the downstairs bathroom-the one with the shower. So instead of removing the poultry to take a shower, we all just showered with it at our feet.

When Finch received a windfall in the amount of one thousand dollars from the insurance company, he took this as a definite sign that the t.u.r.d had, in fact, been a direct piece of communication from The Heavenly Father.

As a result, he scrutinized each of his bowel movements. And, because G.o.d could just as easily speak through any one of us, insisted on seeing ours before we flushed.

"No f.u.c.king way," Natalie snapped, as she flushed the toilet, despite her father's incessant pounding on the bathroom door.

"Okay, Dad," called Hope, as she sprayed Glade in the air.

After inspecting a number of Hope's t.u.r.ds and one of his wife's (which he deemed inferior), he decided that only his t.u.r.ds were acting as messengers from heaven. So each morning, he called Hope into the bathroom to remove the waste and set it outside on the picnic table with the others.

Together, he believed, the bowel movements would tell a more complete picture of our future.

Would I get into beauty school? The answer was many small, broken stools. "Chop, chop, chop, like scissors. I'd say that's a yes," the doctor said with a smile.

Would the IRS seize the house? "Diarrhea means they'll mess the records up. The house is ours!"

What about Hope; would she ever get married? "See all that corn? Hope's going to marry a farmer."

The doctor recorded these events on paper. Complete with ill.u.s.trations of each t.u.r.d, along with an accompanying interpretation. This essay went into the monthly newsletter, which he mailed to all his patients.

For weeks that summer, it seemed nothing could be done; no action taken, no decision made, unless the contents of the doctor's lower colon agreed.

"I certainly wouldn't get my hopes up about taking some job outside the house," the doctor told Agnes. "It's just not in the cards, so to speak," he said, pointing into the toilet.

The mood changed dramatically, however, when the doctor became constipated. "I haven't had a bowel movement for a day and a half," he said ominously from his seat in front of the television. "And I'm not sure what that means."

The constipation sent Hope straight to her room where she performed a barrage of bible-dips: Will dad have a B.M.? Will the IRS take the house? Will more patients quit therapy? Have you stopped speaking to Dad through the toilet? Will dad have a B.M.? Will the IRS take the house? Will more patients quit therapy? Have you stopped speaking to Dad through the toilet?

To Natalie and me, it was as if everyone in the house had sipped tainted water. Except us. But instead of seeing it as a brazen form of neurological pathology, we thought it was funny. "Can you believe my father holds a medical degree from one of the most prestigious universities in America?" from one of the most prestigious universities in America?"

"If he he can be a doctor," I said, " can be a doctor," I said, "I should be able to get into beauty school." should be able to get into beauty school."

My fixation on beauty school intensified during times of stress. I also wrote in my journal more. Writing was the only thing that made me feel content. I could escape into the page, into the words, into the s.p.a.ces between the words. Even if all I was doing was practicing signing my autograph.

"Why don't you be a writer?" Natalie suggested one afternoon. "I bet you'd be a funny writer."

My journals were not funny. They were tragic. "I don't want to be a writer," I said automatically. "Look at my mother."

Natalie laughed. "But not all writers are crazy like your mother."

"Yeah, but if I inherited the gene to write, I'm sure I got her crazy genes, too."

"Well, I just don't think you're going to be happy ... cutting hair."

This infuriated me. I wasn't going to cut hair. I was going to own a beauty empire beauty empire. "You don't understand the plan," I said. "You don't listen."

"I still think you'd hate it. Standing around all day long sticking your fingers in people's dirty hair. Yuck."

I had no intention of sticking my fingers in anyone's hair, just approving packaging designs from behind a gla.s.s desk. A beauty empire was my only way out. I loved the Vidal Sa.s.soon commercials that promised, If you don't look good, we don't look good If you don't look good, we don't look good. That expressed, perfectly, my refined ability to put others first.

By the third day, after still no bowel movement, the doctor instructed Agnes to give him an enema. The enema was successful, but the doctor believed the contents of his bowel had been too compressed, and then too destroyed by water, to make an accurate reading. "I'm afraid that this sudden freezing of the bowels," he said to us as we were gathered in the living room, "signals that G.o.d has chosen to no longer communicate in this way." instructed Agnes to give him an enema. The enema was successful, but the doctor believed the contents of his bowel had been too compressed, and then too destroyed by water, to make an accurate reading. "I'm afraid that this sudden freezing of the bowels," he said to us as we were gathered in the living room, "signals that G.o.d has chosen to no longer communicate in this way."

Hope was deeply distraught.

At that moment, the oldest Finch daughter, Kate, walked into the house, making a rare appearance. Surprised by the gathering, she said, "Hey, what's everybody doing in here?"

She smelled like perfume. Her makeup was flawless.

Natalie snickered. "Take a seat, Kate. You've missed some good stuff."

Kate smiled. "Oh, yeah? What'd I miss?" She brushed off the surface of a chair and sat on the edge.

The doctor explained the past few days to his daughter, offering to take her out back to the picnic table so she could inspect the messages from G.o.d herself.

After Kate slammed her car door and drove away, Natalie leaned forward. "You really should write all this stuff down."

I said, "Even if I did, n.o.body would believe it."

"That's true," she said. "Maybe it's better to just forget it."

PHLEGMED BEFORE A LIVE AUDIENCE.

A.

LTHOUGH BOTH N NATALIE AND I I LACKED THE ABILITY TO LACKED THE ABILITY TO play piano, we were gifted at manipulating others into playing for us so we could sing. Three of Finch's patients played well enough to follow the sheet music we placed in front of them. Of these three, Karen was the best because she was tireless. Whether this quality was innate or caused by improper dosage of her medication, she would happily play the theme from play piano, we were gifted at manipulating others into playing for us so we could sing. Three of Finch's patients played well enough to follow the sheet music we placed in front of them. Of these three, Karen was the best because she was tireless. Whether this quality was innate or caused by improper dosage of her medication, she would happily play the theme from Endless Love Endless Love five times in a row and then move without fuss into a rousing rendition of "Somewhere." When Karen would begin to complain that her fingers were getting tired, Natalie would pull a Snickers bar or a joint out of the patch pocket on the front of her skirt. This would usually keep Karen playing, but sometimes she would just become very stubborn after an hour and a half of steady keyboard work. In these cases, five times in a row and then move without fuss into a rousing rendition of "Somewhere." When Karen would begin to complain that her fingers were getting tired, Natalie would pull a Snickers bar or a joint out of the patch pocket on the front of her skirt. This would usually keep Karen playing, but sometimes she would just become very stubborn after an hour and a half of steady keyboard work. In these cases, Natalie would resort to bribery. "You know," she would say temptingly, "I could call my dad and see if he could see you later this afternoon. I'm sure he would." Pause. " Natalie would resort to bribery. "You know," she would say temptingly, "I could call my dad and see if he could see you later this afternoon. I'm sure he would." Pause. "If I asked him." This usually got at least another medley out of her.

It was our goal to become an international singing sensation, on a par with Peaches 'N Herb or the Captain and Tenille. When there was no patient around to play piano for us, we practiced upstairs in Natalie's room by singing along to Stevie Nicks alb.u.ms. The problem was, Stevie was sometimes hard to understand and Natalie had long since lost the liner notes to the alb.u.m. So I would lie on the floor with my head next to the speaker and Natalie would stand with her finger poised over the needle.

"Wait, I can't understand that-play it again," I'd say, scribbling furiously to keep up. "Is she singing 'just like a wine-ringed love' or 'white-winged dove'?"

Natalie would drop the needle on the record, causing it to screech. "Hold on, here it comes."

The verse would play and again I couldn't understand. "f.u.c.k it, I'll just write something in."

After I finished transcribing, with dubious accuracy, the words to our favorite songs, we would sing them over and over as we watched ourselves in the mirror on Natalie's dresser.

"My arms look so fat," Natalie would comment. The problem was, she was holding a curling iron up to her mouth to simulate a microphone and this doubled the girth of her arms, which were plump to begin with.

"Well, we'll use stands," I offered. "We won't ever take the mic out of the stand."

Natalie would then toss the curling iron on the bed. "That makes sense. Good thinking."

Sometimes we would drag the fan upstairs. This would create a sort of Stevie-Nicks-in-a-wind-tunnel look that we especially loved. "I wish I had a carpetbag," Natalie would say, as her feathered hair blew back away from her face.

Our dedication to our craft was relentless.

"Knock it off you two, I'm trying to sleep," Hope would sometimes complain in the middle of the night. Of course, this just made us turn the stereo up louder.

If we happened to be in rehearsal downstairs in my room and a neighbor padded across the lawn to rap gently on the window and ask us to please be more quiet, Natalie might simply lift her skirt and mash her v.a.g.i.n.a against the window while extending her middle finger.

We had dedication. We had, we were positive, enormous talent. What we needed was a captive audience.

And what more captive an audience could one ask for than the permanent inmates of the Northampton State Hospital?

"I think it's a fantastic idea," Dr. Finch said.

"You think they'd let us?" Natalie asked. The prospect of a live audience had caused her face to flush and small b.u.mps to rise on her forehead. She scratched madly at her face.

"I should think they'd be thrilled that two talented young performers had offered their services, free of charge."

We wanted to press him for more encouragement, but the power of the TV was too strong and he was nodding off to sleep.

"This could really turn into something," Natalie said, her eyes slightly wild.

I agreed completely. "Maybe it'll make the papers. Do you know how to write a press release?"

The b.u.mps had spread to her upper arms and she scratched them. "No, but Hope does."

"I know it's not Broadway, but it's a beginning."

Our next step would be contacting the entertainment director for the hospital. This proved to be more difficult than we had antic.i.p.ated, mainly because there was no such thing as an entertainment director at the Northampton State Hospital. There was only a depressed fat lady behind the front desk who looked at us hopelessly when we made our inquiry.

"I'm not sure I even understand what you're asking," she said.

Natalie exhaled, trying to manage her impatience. "I told you, I'm from Smith College and he's from Amherst. We're music students and we'd like to perform for your patients. As a special treat."

"Uh huh," the woman said doubtfully. "Hold on a minute and I'll see if I can find somebody." She scanned a piece of paper that was taped to the desk next to the phone and punched in an extension. She turned her head away from us and spoke softly.

"Don't worry," Natalie said. "If worst comes to worst, we can make my father call somebody. He knows people here."

The reason he knew people there was because the whole family used to live on the hospital grounds, back before Finch had his own practice. Natalie's first memory of home was of being in that very hospital, surrounded by lunatics. In fact, it had been her father's dream to someday have his own own psychiatric hospital. When this didn't happen, he did the next best psychiatric hospital. When this didn't happen, he did the next best thing. He allowed his house to fall into a state of disrepair and then he invited patients to live there. I always wondered if the fact that the Finch children had been raised in a mental hospital was the reason their threshold for weirdness was so high. thing. He allowed his house to fall into a state of disrepair and then he invited patients to live there. I always wondered if the fact that the Finch children had been raised in a mental hospital was the reason their threshold for weirdness was so high.

"Somebody will be with you shortly. Would you ..." she started to say something, maybe offer us a tiny paper cup of water, but changed her mind.

"Thanks," Natalie said.

We moved away from the desk and stood near the door. It seemed wise to stand near the door in case we had to make a sudden run for it. There was no telling who was on the other end of that phone.

A moment later, a robust nurse appeared. She walked with the gait of a horse wrangler and her forearms were thick and muscular, like she'd had loaves of French bread implanted under the skin. "Hi. I'm Doris. How can I help?"

Natalie repeated the lie that we were music students from Smith and Amherst and that as part of our study, we wanted to sing at the hospital.

Doris's first reaction was one of practicality. "We don't have an auditorium," she said.

Natalie said, "That's okay. We can sing right on the ward."

I was glad she spoke the lingo.

"We don't even have a piano," Doris said.

One glance around the lobby of the dilapidated building and it was easy to see that a piano wasn't all they didn't have. Running water was doubtful. This place was getting a lot of sponge-bath action, and that was about it.

Natalie cleared her throat and smiled. "That's fine. We could sing a capella."

"I don't know that song," Doris said.

"It's not a song. That's a technical term. It means we could sing without any instruments. Just our voices."

Doris placed her hands on her hips and c.o.c.ked her head slightly to the side. "Let me get this straight. You wanna come here and sing for the patients and you don't need any musical instruments. Just the two of you, just singing?"

We nodded.

"For free?"

We nodded again.

Doris considered this for a moment but there was obviously something bugging her. "Can I ask why?"

I was beginning to wonder that myself.

"Because it's excellent training," Natalie answered automatically. "We need as much experience before a live audience as possible."

Doris laughed. "I don't know how live your audience is gonna be. But if you wanna come up and sing, I don't see why not."

We left feeling manic with excitement, like we'd been booked on The Today Show The Today Show. "We are gonna blow them away," Natalie said as we trudged down the hill.

"G.o.d, what should we sing?" I said.

"Good question."

I mentally ran through our repertoire. Blondie's "Heart of Gla.s.s" might cause somebody to have a flashback. "Enough Is Enough" was good, but we really needed percussion to make it work. Plus there was always the danger that it would hit a nerve and spark a riot. "Somewhere" from West Side Story West Side Story? No, that would just remind them that they, too, wanted to live somewhere else.

"What about 'You Light Up My Life'?" Natalie suggested.