A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“You want to have her admitted to Seven Trees?”

“She’s not crazy,” Claire said. “But she’s very upset.”

“I’ll call and arrange it. Do you know how to get to us?”

“I can’t even get her to open the door.”

“Well,” Bert said, “we don’t have a livery service.”

They didn’t speak for a minute.

“Call the cops,” he said. “They’ll take her to the local hospital and we’ll get her transferred out in the morning.”

Claire didn’t respond.

“You’re wasting time. If she does something, you’ll be responsible. Call the police. It’s not like in the city — they’ll be there in a couple of minutes and they’re very good about these things.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Bert said. “Call the cops. We’ll talk later.”

“Thanks,” Claire said, hanging up and immediately dialing for help, knowing that if she stopped to think, she might not be able to do it.

“Police, fire, or rescue?”

“Police,” Claire said, looking up at the house through the wet windshield. “I’m a therapist. I’m calling about a patient.”

“An emotionally disturbed person?”

“Upset,” Claire said.

“Is there a crime in progress?”

“No,” Claire said, then gave the operator the address.

“Is it dangerous to enter the premises?”

“No.”

“Is the person armed?”

“She’s locked herself in the bathroom,”

“A danger to herself?”

“Possibly,” Claire said.

“Please identify yourself when the officers arrive.”

“Of course,” Claire said. “I’ll wait in the house.”

Claire ran back up the steps, ducking her head against the weather. The remains of the picnic were scattered all over the living room. Claire quickly packed up as much as possible. In the distance, she heard sirens. Soon lights were swabbing the front of the house through the low, uneven fog — red, white, blue. Claire hurried toward the door, thinking about the neighbors, embarrassed that she hadn’t even moved in yet and already there was this display. Her foot accidentally kicked a piece of glass, hurling it like a hockey puck into the fireplace.

“I’m Claire Roth,” she said, standing in the driveway, in front of the police cars. “I’m the woman who called.” A cop sat in his car, radio in hand, talking. Claire came closer. “Hurry,” she said. “Please hurry.”

The police, four of them, in foul-weather gear, stomped into the house and up the stairs to the bathroom. One of the cops banged on the door. “Police,” he said. “Open up.”

No response.

“If you’re able to open the door, I suggest you do it now. We’ll give you to the count of ten.”

“I think something’s blocking the door,” Claire said, wiping rainwater off her forehead, pulling her damp blouse away from her skin. “I tried to open it before and it felt like there was something there.”

“One … two …” the cop began.

“They do that,” one of the cops said. “They get this superhuman strength and they do things like rip the sink out and wedge it against the door.”

“… Eight … Nine …”

“There was one lady threw a refrigerator down the steps, aiming for her husband. Missed him, but got the poodle.”

The cops gestured back and forth among themselves, deciding who would knock down the door. One cop pointed to his back, shaking his head, and another stepped forward.

“Stand back, please,” he said, warning Claire out of the way. He handed his gun and his raincoat to the one with the bad back and then hurled himself against the door. He rammed it three times before the wood frame cracked and the door popped open.

Claire stood down the hall, her hand over her mouth.

Two cops charged into the bathroom and Claire rushed forward. She watched them tackle Jody, slamming her face into the floor. One cop sat on her legs, another on her back.

“Let me go, you’re making a mistake!” Jody screamed, her voice muffled. They pulled her hands behind her back and snapped the cuffs on.

“Stop!” Claire said, held back by the two cops just outside the doorway. “You’re hurting her.”

They lifted Jody to standing. Her arms were intact; no slit wrists, no punctured jugular. But blood was streaming out of her nose, down her chin, dripping onto her shirt.

“Your nose,” Claire said, “I think they’ve broken your nose.”

“Are you happy now?” Jody screamed. “Look at me! Who am I, Claire, who the fuck am I now? I don’t believe you, Claire. I never will. I have a mother. I don’t want you.” Jody drew in a breath. “You went into my building. I saw you. I have it on tape. You stole my mail. That’s a federal offense. And what did I do?” she asked, her voice escalating. “I locked myself in a fucking bathroom!”

Jody choked and blood splashed onto the floor.

“Why are you coughing up blood?” Claire asked, hysterical.

“Where were you? Did you miss something? They knocked the fucking door down. They smashed my fucking face into the floor.”

“Get her out of here,” one of the cops said. “There’s no point.”

“You should’ve opened the door,” Claire said.

“Why? I was just sitting there minding my own fucking business. I didn’t know it was against the law.”

There was blood in her hair, mucus on her face. She looked wild, crazy. Claire went into the bathroom, got some toilet paper, and moved to wipe Jody’s face. Jody turned her head away and the cops pulled her toward the steps. Going down, she tripped, and the cop behind her tugged on her arms. Jody howled. They led her out into the cold, wet night, shoved her into the back of a police car, and slammed the door. An officer started the engine as Claire stood watching. The lights went on, the car edged backwards.

Claire tapped on the glass. “Jody,” she said. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Everything will be all right.”

I t was a warm Saturday in late May. Jody pulled a battered cardboard bankers box from under her bed and carefully unpacked the old reels of film and her father’s Super Eight projector.

The windows were open; she could hear people talking as they strolled down Perry Street. “You forget how big a city is, how much variety. Anything goes.”

The white space between posters from The 400 Blows and Apocalypse Now filled with images from Jody’s childhood. Eighth Birthday Party — Congressional Roller Rink, Rockville, Maryland. First Slumber Party — the Goodmans’ pine-paneled recreation room, bathed in the eerie, uneven glow of the Bell & Howell movie lamp, twelve little girls in sleeping bags arranged in a circle around the room. Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus — the Greatest Show on Earth, Jody chosen by the clown to ride in his wheelbarrow. A reaction shot of her mother laughing, hands over her mouth.

Jody flipped through the film reels, trying to read the dates, the titles. With everything there was a story, a memory, a moment, fluid like the stuff of lava lamps, stretching and pulling, constantly reconfiguring itself. She threaded the film through the projector; the sprockets grabbed the leader, drawing it in; the bulb flickered.

Family Vacation — Rehoboth Beach. An orange bathing suit, a yellow flower cut out around her belly button. Every day the sun would brown the stencil; every night she would see the darkening of the flower, coming up on her belly, like a photograph developing.

Jody riding the waves for hours and hours on end, waving at her father, standing at the water’s edge, camera in hand. Jody coming up for air, her hair long, wet, and salty, calling, “Mom, Dad, watch me, watch me — I’m doing a somersault.” The three of them a triangle, two in love with the third.