of the hospital beyond a little terrace filled with potted plants. Joey tosses his suitcase onto the floral bedspread nearest the door as Joe lifts his onto the folding luggage rack in the closet. I peek into the bathroom at the shower and soap.
“Who wants to go first?” I ask, turning to beam my smile upon the first chivalrous responder. But Joey is gone. I catch just a glimpse of his sneaker as he darts out the door toward the dark streets of this unfamiliar city. Joe and I don’t budge, or even blink. Time is sucked out the door behind Joey. It is seconds or minutes or hours before we start to bump around, yelling at each other to do something. Joe runs after Joey. I stay behind because we can’t find where we put any of the room keys. It’s only a few minutes until Joe returns, out of breath and empty-handed. He saw Joey running far ahead on the sidewalk but couldn’t catch up. When he called out, Joey took one glance over his shoulder and ran faster.
Joe and I shout about what we should do and which of us should do it, but our room soon turns quiet. There is nothing for us to do. Nothing but wait. And pace. And hope that Joey comes back. So that’s what we do. Hours later, when there’s a knock on the door, Joe and I trip over each other to open it. Joey enters, flicks away our questions, and collapses on his bed without a word. Rolling toward the wall, he pulls a pillow over his head. Turning out the lamp on the nightstand, Joe and I sit on the edge of our bed. We whisper and wait for the rough cadence of our son’s deep-sleep breathing. Finally, tiptoeing, we move around the darkened room, creating a tipsy mountain of suitcases and shampoo bottles in front of our hotel room door. Now, if sleep does come, we’ll be awakened if Joey attempts another escape during the four hours until sunrise.
Nobody eats the hearty breakfast served outside on the terrace under the warm December sky that nobody notices. We just move the sausages and eggs around on our plates until it’s time to depart for Joey’s appointment. The three of us trudge across the street to the sprawling hospital, but only two of us know what’s coming. (I’m only trudging on the outside; on the inside I’m running away.) The closer we get—to the glass doors at the main entrance, to the sign aiming us to the psychiatric ward on the sixth floor, to the metal door behind which he’ll be locked up—the more halting Joey’s steps become. And the harder it becomes to keep my trembling knees from folding. I watch as my son’s grudging trust turns to rabid anger at the realization that he’s been duped. A whirling dervish of elbows and legs, Joey turns on me, face twisted and pleading. As he’s taken away by the white-coated staff trying to restrain him, I claw at the air between us, crying, begging Joey to understand what is to him an inexplicable betrayal.
Weighing in at 138 pounds, down from a normal of 190, and measuring a heart rate of thirty-eight, Joey’s vital signs indicate that he’s a sick young man indeed. The medical team prescribes three to six months in the eating disorder program. If Joey weren’t so weak, he’d blow a gasket.
Several days later, Joe returns to India and to Rick. Eventually, I move into a beigely appointed efficiency apartment within walking distance of the hospital. Visiting hours are from four to six o’clock in the evening, but that only matters if Joey deigns to see me. I fawn over him as much as I can to make up for my big fat lie and for him being so sick.
Christmas passes. The New Year begins. The days, weeks, and months crawl by. Joey gains some weight, but becomes manipulative and mean. There’s an aura of smug shadiness around Joey—nothing sharply defined—but a mother knows things.
Something in Joey is slipping away.
Gasp.
The cards. Is what’s happening to Joey what spooked that moth-eaten old fortune teller in India?
Bewildered, lonely, and terrified, I don’t know what Joe and Rick think or feel about anything. And I don’t even care.
After three long months of captivity and self-pity, it’s springtime when Joey is discharged from the eating disorder program and the two of us reunite with New Delhi. We silently embrace the roadside vignettes on the ride home from the airport—bicycles stacked with entire families; red-bottomed monkeys lolling in the heat; sugarcane- and chai-wallahs hawking their wares. Home. But not for long. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to remain in India after the end of the school year with Joey heading off to college in the fall.
Joey appears less sunken and shrunken, but he has no understanding of what happened or why. And neither do I.
“I ate what they wanted me to eat, did what they wanted me to do, and said what they wanted me to say—anything to get the hell out of there.” That’s what Joey told me on the plane. Whatever it takes, I guess.
All that matters is that my healthy Joey is back.
With the help of family and friends, Marines from the American embassy across the street, fellow Boy Scouts, and our Indian cook, driver, and sweeper, Joey designs and builds a wooden play fort for kids at a local orphanage—his Eagle Scout project. At his Court of Honor ceremony, surrounded by many of the same faces, Joey solemnly accepts his badge. Standing tall and proud, he is presented with an American flag flown over the very embassy in which we gather. Celebrating this moment that is, as much as having dodged this moment that almost wasn’t, I fight back tears. My son has made it; he has survived the wild ride of adolescence, stronger and better for it. Today the real Joey shines—both inside and out. He gives a brief speech.
“Mom, you are the most amazing person I know. Out of everyone, we are the most alike. Because of this you always know when I need help, or just a loving hug. There have been times when I’ve thought I didn’t need help, but it was you who showed me that I really did. The last months have been hard, but in every struggle you’ve been there for me, never giving up, even when I was ready to. For seventeen years you’ve been my best friend, and not once have you let me down. I know you’ll always be there for me, and I want you to know that no matter how far apart we are, I will always be there for you. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me; every hug, every word of encouragement. Thank you for being my mom.”
With multiple college admission offers and academic scholarships to choose from, Joey sets his sights on his high school graduation and life’s next great verse.
Life is good. I feel silly for having given the old mystic and her tarot cards a second thought.
In the smallest hours of this not-yet-dreadful morning, I’m snug in my bed in Bethesda, Maryland, tangled in a tumble of pillows, Joe’s arms, and dreamy dreams. Such a cozy cocoon. Until I roll over to answer the phone.
I hear the voice of an old family friend, but don’t want to hear what she’s saying.
“Joey’s in the hospital. He was drunk and then swallowed a bottle of pills. The emergency room doctor is pumping his stomach now. Sandy, he was trying to kill himself.”
My heartstrings stretch the miles to where my son lies in San Diego, California.
“Hold Joey’s hand. Even if he can’t hear you, please tell him I’m coming.”
Clutching my head in my hands, I cry without breath, without sound. Turning my face upward, I struggle to set free the anguish that’s jammed inside my chest, my throat, my being, but I’ve no strength to propel it forth.
A
