Sonja Yoerg - All the Best People

August 1972

Carole was ten when her mother was committed to Underhill State Hospital. For a rest, her father had said. By the time Carole was old enough to understand that the truth lay elsewhere, beyond her grasp, her mother had received insulin coma treatment for hysteria, colonics for depression and electroshock just because, and Carole gave up wondering how her mother had lost control of her mind and simply coped with the fact that she had. Recently, Carole overheard the nurses say Solange Gifford was haunted, and although Carole did not, strictly speaking, believe in ghosts, it was as fitting a diagnosis as any.

She arrived at Underhill for her weekly visit a few minutes after nine and signed the register. A vase of lilies crowded the counter, the sweet musky scent mingling with the clinical bite of disinfectant and another smell, mushroomy and dark, that existed only here.

The receptionist greeted her and swiveled to face the switchboard.

Ill have them send your mother out, Mrs. LaPorte.

Thank you. Carole felt her cheeks flush. Shed forgotten the womans name although shed spoken with her a dozen times. Id like to go outside with her, if thats all right.

The woman smiled. If she was insulted at not being called by name, she hid it well. Well have to see how she is, but Ill let them know.

Carole nodded and handed a small shopping bag across the counter. Some blackberries for her. Theyre coming on fast this year.

She took a seat in the empty waiting area, the same seat she always chose, the left of the two between the ashcan and the magazine rack. Stale cigarette, bad as it was, countered the other odor. She leafed through an issue of Womans Day with Pat Nixon on the cover and suggestions for budget-friendly casseroles. One with tuna and cream of celery soup appealed to her, and her husband, Walt, was fond of celery, but shed never remember how the recipe went. Someone had torn out a different recipe, ripped the page right down the middle, but Carole wouldnt dream of doing such a thing. Even if she could bring herself to destroy public property, shed never enjoy the meal.

An orderly came through the double door dividing the reception area from the wards and propped it open with his foot. Mrs. LaPorte.

She slid the magazine into the rack and stood, her legs heavy, her stomach queasy. She made her way down the corridor and glanced at the windows, set high, out of reach, and thought of the years, the thick stack of years her mother had been locked up here. Thirty-four years inside these brick walls, or barely outside them. Institutionalized. That word said it all. Long and cold and slammed shut at the end like a thick steel door.

The orderly escorted her into a lounge overlooking a slate patio beyond which lay a vast carpet of lawn. Solange stood beside the patio doors expectantly, reminding Carole of how her daughters cat waited by the back door to be let out. Her mother noticed her and smiled. Perhaps she was having one of her better days.

Mama. Carole rested her hand on Solanges narrow shoulder and kissed her cheek. She led her mother to the patio and breathed deeply once they were outside. They set off by habit along the perimeter of the grounds.

They were not easy to pair as mother and daughter. Carole took after her father, lanky and square-shouldered, with dark blonde hair and eyes the color and shape of almonds. Her mother was petite and fair-skinned, and her eyes shifted from gray to green depending on the light and her mood. Solanges hair was the color of concrete, but Carole easily remembered the deep red it had once been because she saw it every day on her daughter, Alison. Red as an October maple, her husband called it.