Free One of Us by Tawni O’Dell Page A

vandalism, and then beingfound incompetent to stand trial—she becomes a model patient and is released. She’s cooperative and quiet and spends all her time reading and crocheting hats for orphans. The notes from various doctors in her records describe her as “smart,” “friendly,” and “pleasant.” It’s only when the subject of her illness comes up that she becomes “difficult,” attacking not only the “ignorance” of their claims against her but the “stupidity” of their entire profession including her own son, who she never fails to mention is a psychologist, too, even though she wanted him to be an astronaut (something I never knew until I read it in her file).
    Tommy went to court once to try and become her legal guardian with the authority to force her to take medication. At the hearing, Mom was demure and charming and told the judge she was not mentally ill, that all her life people have been calling her crazy just because she has a lot of energy. As proof of her sanity she showed him her social security card, named the first eight United States presidents, and explained the difference between skydiving and skywriting. She also complimented his eyes and told him he looked too young to be a man of the cloth.
    He didn’t grant the petition, claiming the court cannot deprive an individual of her legal rights just because she seems somewhat confused and has an unusual personality. He didn’t see her on a bad day.
    The J. M. White Hospital admits people who have been sent from jail or who pose a danger to themselves or others. Mom ended up here two years ago after stealing a bicycle in Hellersburg and riding into the middle of moving traffic causing a three-car fender bender where fortunately no one was seriously injured including herself. She told the police she purposely ran into one of the cars because the driver was a child molester.
    The criminal charges were dropped but she was committed to White, a temporary relief for both Tommy and me. As psychiatric facilities go, it’s not a bad place and it’s only an hour’s drive from Lost Creek.
    I find Mom alone in her room. She’s had three roommates since she came here. I’ve never met any of them. The first one she felt sorry for, the second one was a spy, and the current one is reputedly a close friend of Oprah’s and puts on airs because of it.
    The roommate’s dresser top is covered with junk, but Mom’s isclean except for the pile of her hand-crocheted hats. Each one is a different color that corresponds to a positive personality trait she has stitched across the front: blue is “compassion,” green is “forgiveness,” purple is “tolerance.”
    She doesn’t believe in accumulating possessions. She says they weigh her down. But the few things she does have, she guards fanatically.
    She’s sitting in a chair with a book in her lap wearing the Christmas bathrobe Tommy picked out for her years ago. It’s bright green and covered in prancing reindeer. She still wears her reddish-blond hair long and straight. It’s streaked with silver like she’s just finished combing sugar through it. She’s small, almost waiflike, and has a child’s round face, button nose, and freckled cheeks.
    Each time I see her I’m struck again by how young she looks on the outside. I’ve seen many older people whose faces have been ravaged by time, but the eyes peering out from behind their masks of wrinkles are bright and youthful. Mom is the reverse. She’s done her aging on the inside. Her face seems relatively untouched, but her once lively green eyes have faded into a dull gray the color of pond ice.
    The only time there’s any vitality in them is when she’s having a manic episode, and then they blaze with a black intensity that I imagine must fill her head with the same kind of burning ache that comes when frozen fingers regain their feeling in a heated room. I know she is seeing something not of this world.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    She doesn’t