Free The Quiet Room by Lori Schiller, Amanda Bennett Page A

out. The illness had captured her, and was part of her.
    We hugged her, and talked briefly of home, of her brothers, of how much we loved her and how much we hoped she would be better soon. But the things we said weren't registering. She was preoccupied with thoughts that seemed to perplex and amaze her both at the same time.
    She leaned over, and in a hushed, confidential tone, whispered to me.
    “I know you aren't going to believe this, Daddy, but I can fly.”
    “What?” The hairs in my arm stood out. I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly, but I was afraid that I had.
    “I can fly. Really, Daddy. I can.”
    It was not a boast, or a challenge. She herself, I could see, found this state of affairs incredible. She was very soft-spoken and focused, deliberate and serious.
    “Why don't you show me, Lori.”
    She scanned the hallway until she spotted a nearby sofa. She climbed up on the pillows. I saw the soft cushions of the sofa sink under her weight. She stood up straight, with a deliberate, almost practiced motion, and then spread her arms as if ready to take flight. She looked down, first at her feet and then at the floor. And then she paused.
    “It's not high enough. I can't fly from here.” She looked around her. “If you could take me to that window there, I could show you. I can fly.”
    And she believed it. There was no doubt about it. If we had taken her to an open window, she would have plunged, arms outstretched in flight, to the ground.
    We didn't know what to say, so we changed the subject, and left the hospital soon afterward. As we left, her words rang in my ears. “I can fly, Daddy. I can fly.”

6
    Payne Whitney Clinic, New York City, June 1982
    MEDICAL RECORDS
    6/17/82 Primary Therapist Note
    Patient describes her day of admission as one where she heard voices. “I was afraid I would take my hammer and smash my apartment.”
    6/17/82 Nursing Note
    At 8 p m patient had episode of severe auditory hallucinations coupled with intense psychomotor agitation: She was writhing, forcefully grimacing, holding her hands to her ears, shaking her feet repeatedly, and seemed nearly oblivious to external stimuli. This episode lasted about ten minutes. After it subsided she was initially guarded about what had happened, but later did admit to auditory hallucinations, to feeling ashamed and hopeless about the hallucinations, and to feeling that she must “fight” the voices when they occur, and that discussing them makes them more difficult to “fight.”
    6/21/82 Nursing Note
    Patient appeared quite preoccupied and angry earlier this morning. Patient refused to discuss what was the matter and stated she was fine! She stated she knows what to tell the doctors in order to let them discharge her. She wants very much to leave Payne Whitney Clinic and was able to say her parents brought her here and that was the only reason she remains here.
    6/23/82 Primary Therapist Note
    Patient remains agitated and intermittently actively hallucinating. It became clearly evident in discussion how tormented she is by these voices and how hard she is fighting to resist their commands. Much of her treatment resistance appears to stem from fear of the repercussions of revealing these hallucinations to staff. “They'll kill me if I tell.”

7
    Steven Schiller Scarsdale, New York, July 1982
    I was sixteen years old when Lori was committed for the first time. When my parents told me what they had done, I lost it. I stood there in the kitchen, my hands shaking with rage.
    “You're wrong!” I shouted at my parents. “You're wrong! This is no way to treat one of your kids.”
    My father sat at the butcher block table. My mother was nervously fluttering through the kitchen, compulsively arranging and rearranging her kitchen that was already spotless.
    “Steven,” my father began, “Lori is sick.” There was a pause. “We are doing what is best for her …”
    “Sure you're doing what's best for her,” I said sarcastically.