Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

She pressed her arms to her sides, stared at the ceiling. The window above her was a pleasant blue rectangle. Pretty day in L.A. I doubted she’d noticed.

“It’s time for you to leave, Zelda.”

She remained inert and mute. But when I began to repeat myself, she raised herself to her elbows, sat up and straightened her spine and positioned herself with the grace of a dancer. Swinging her feet over the bed, she rose to her feet. Moving in stages, each segment slow and deliberate.

Reverse origami, a woman unfolding sequentially.

Without a word, she walked past me toward the door, barefoot.

I got in front of her and held out her shoes. She began to take them but let go and they dropped to the floor. Before I could pick them up, she’d stepped into them with surprising agility and resumed her trudge.

We stepped into the outer room. Kevin Bracht called out, “Good luck, Zelda.”

She continued past him, unresponsive. He began clearing his desk.

Zelda trudged steadily. I kept my steps small, the way you do with a baby learning to walk.

The cubicle area was empty. No opportunity for a “teachable moment.”

Here’s one of our inpatients. We ensure that their needs are met in a clinically responsible manner...

Not that this patient would’ve been much of an endorsement, plodding empty-eyed, totally unmindful of her surroundings.

When curiosity goes, a lot else has already vanished.

The rush of noise on Wilshire jarred me but did nothing to Zelda. I guided her toward the Seville and when I seated her in the front, she bent like modeling clay. As I belted her in, she remained still.

Once she was secure, I waited to see if she’d grow anxious but she didn’t and I got behind the wheel and eased into westbound traffic.

When I drive, I listen to music, switching between an MP3, old-school CDs, even Paleolithic cassettes courtesy the tape deck the car came with in 1979. My preferences fluctuate but I can’t tell you what criteria I use. Sometimes I put the MP3 on random shuffle and serve up a bouillabaisse of Sonny Rollins, Bach, Miles Davis, Santo and Johnny, Vaughan Williams, Patsy Cline, Satie, Gershwin, you name it. Along with sprinkles of street-corner doo-wop and any breed of great guitar music.

No telling how Zelda would react to music but I chanced it, choosing something melodic and soothing: re-press of an old French recording of Ida Presti, possibly the greatest guitarist who ever lived, and her husband Alexandre Lagoya, pairing on Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”

It’s a few minutes of gorgeous that rarely fails to settle me. I felt my blood vessels expand, heard my heartbeat slow.

Zelda remained unmoving and unmoved. Existing somewhere else.

Soon, she began to slump, ceding control to the seat belt, head bobbing like a dashboard toy. When I rolled over a rough patch of asphalt, her body flopped passively. Had Mike Nehru’s generous feeding of Ativan suppressed her that efficiently? Or was this typical behavior when she wasn’t sneaking into other people’s backyards and scaring the hell out of them?

That kind of extreme fluctuation would fit a variant of bipolar disorder, but it didn’t rule out schizophrenia. Or a combination of the two, as Lou had suggested.

Or some undiagnosed affliction no psychiatrist could classify beyond the ravages of a brain gone haywire.

Whatever the details, no way could she care for a child. Had she been sane enough to realize that and relinquished custody?

Or...

The music ended. Not an eyeblink from Zelda.

I said, “So you like Mounds.”

She said, “Mother.”

“What about Mother?”

She yawned and closed her eyes. By the time I reached La Cienega, her mouth had gated open and she was snoring. By Doheny Drive, the shuffle beneath her eyelids was unmistakable. REM sleep. The dream phase.

What does a madwoman dream about?

In this woman’s case, something pleasant. She smiled all the way to Santa Monica.

As I pulled up to BrightMornings, Zelda woke up, saw the sunlit sky, and said, “Good night.”

Sherry Andover was ready for us, clicking the gate open and telling me where to park. Zelda remained pliable as I drew her out.

“Hi, there, Ms. Chase. Welcome back.”

Without a word, Zelda trudged toward the building. Andover sprinted ahead and unlocked the door to Room Six.

The space was no larger than the cell Zelda had just left and was painted an eerily similar yellow. Two windows, both safety-grilled. Clean bathroom equipped with the basics of hygiene, nightstand, closet, one nature print on the wall — grouse in the heather. A change of clothes was folded neatly on the bed pillow. Other garments, including a pair of new sneakers, were visible in the open closet.

The outer surface of the door could be key-locked but no way to secure it from the inside. No guarantee of privacy but freedom easily obtainable.

Zelda lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Within seconds, her eyelids were ruffling again.

Sherry Andover said, “Glad to see you settle in easily, Ms. C.,” and we left.

On the way back to the Seville, I told her about Zelda’s request for candy.

She said, “You’re thinking junkie-jones?”

I said, “She’s had two days with no withdrawal symptoms. I suppose some of that could be the Ativan, but I doubt it could mask everything.”

“That’s been our experience, too. It calms them down but if they’ve got a serious habit they’re still throwing up and feeling miserable. I’ll keep an eye out.”

As I got back in the car, she said, “In terms of the candy, we try to keep the food reasonably healthy so the only sweets on hand are a big bag of those little Hershey’s Bars some nice person donated to us last Halloween and they’re probably stale. I’ll try to pick up some Mounds on my way home or tomorrow morning. Why not keep the populace happy?”

“Beyond the call, Sherry.”

“Look who’s talking.” She smiled. “I like coconut, probably steal a few. If she works out I’ll get her a roomie but I figured start as if she’s a newbie, even though she’s been here before. From what I just saw, she’s not big in the memory department.”

Amnesia could be another effect of the benzodiazepine in her blood. Of psychosis, as well. I said so.

“I don’t get into the pharm stuff,” she said. “I contacted the outpatient clinic, might be able to get a volunteer to take her the first couple of times. After that, she’s on her own.”

I thanked her again and started up the engine.

She said, “Candy and Mommy. Guess they’re the same to a baby... that’s kind of what people like her become, no? She mentions the kid, I’ll let you know. Ovid, huh? Naming him after a love poet. That took some imagination.”

“Once upon a time,” I said, “she was able to imagine.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon calling private schools, finally lost my ability to bullshit convincingly, walked to the kitchen and poured coffee. Caffeine was the last thing I needed and I ended up jumpy and wondering how to bleed it off. Then I remembered what Lou had told me about Zelda’s name change and began a new search.

No shortage of Jane Chases but none that matched Zelda. Then I realized I had no idea if she’d altered her family name, too, and put the issue aside.

Time to resume being a useful member of society. I scrounged up the fixings for a passable one-dish dinner: lamb shoulder, vegetables, Israeli couscous, everything sprinkled liberally with cumin and cardamom and chili powder. By the time Robin and Blanche came in from the studio, the pot was sizzling and the table was set.

Robin said, “You read my mind, just like they taught you in school. I’ve got sawdust all over, let me wash up. You’re a very nice man.”