“Oh my god,” I sigh, remembering how Stuart and I made fun of his name. “He’s so handsome!”
Putting the image of my great grandfather aside, I keep digging. A manila folder is under a thick book that appears to be a journal. Lifting it out, I open the front cover and read the words Dr. Jim Endicott, Patient Notes—Mariska Renee Heron, Age 6. My brow lines just as the doorbell rings.
I scan the page quickly. It appears to be some sort of medical record, but I’ve never seen it. The bell rings again, and I have to set it aside to get my dinner.
The young guy out front wears a tan uniform-type shirt and jeans. His hair is shaggy and dark brown, and he appears to be about my age. “Pad Thai Number 3 heat with miso?”
“That’s me,” I say, digging out my wallet.
“You’re home alone on a Friday?” His brows disappear under his shaggy hair, and I think of high school and boys who never understood my preference for solitude.
“I’m… doing research,” I say hastily, signing the receipt and handing it back to him. “Thanks!”
Closing the door, I go to the kitchen and pop open the top of the paper container. I take a deep inhale of fish sauce, pork, and crisp steamed veggies, and my stomach rumbles. Setting it aside, I grab the flimsy white plastic spoon and dig into the miso. One spoonful, and the tangy bite of lemon fills my mouth. It’s chased by the savory zest of seaweed and fish, dashi. I eat it quickly, spoonful after spoonful, until it’s gone.
My tummy is warm and satisfied, but I pour a glass of Pinot Gris and carry the carton of Pad Thai back to my bedroom along with a fork. I’m curious about this strange manila folder, and I wonder why I’ve never seen it.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my closet, I pull the folder onto my lap as I hold the carton above it to eat my dinner and read.
Mariska Renee Heron, Age 6. Diagnosed with a brief yet severe case of HERV-X, a retrovirus known to cause hallucinations, dissociative disorder, and in worst cases schizophrenia.
I feel the bite of Pad Thai I’ve just taken stick in my throat. Setting the carton aside, I change positions. My back is against the wall, and my knees are bent. My entire focus is on this folder I’m holding as I dig deeper into a story I’ve never been told.
Flipping forward a few pages, I read more of Dr. Endicott’s notes.
Patient’s symptoms include hearing voices. She indicates hallucinations of color around individuals’ heads and recounts vivid dreams believed to be real.
Tentative diagnosis is schizophrenia with dissociative disorder, however patient’s grandmother refuses treatment. Against medical counsel, patient’s guardian removed her from our care and insists on home treatment and managing patient’s care through homeopathic remedies.
My face is hot, and my insides simultaneously flash hot and cold. What the hell is this about? Reaching for the journal, I open it to the beginning and examine the date. The entry is around the same time as these notes, and it’s written in Yaya’s script like a diary.
I can’t remember everything that happened that day. Mishka was playing outside when she started complaining her head ached. She was tired, and I believed she had become overheated, perhaps needed water or tea.
That night, her fever spiked so I gave her aspirin. She began having seizures and convulsions, and I was so afraid. I had to take her to the hospital.
Men in white coats tried to take her from me, but she cried and screamed. They let me accompany her back, but she soon lost consciousness. When she was no longer aware, I slipped away to the chapel and prayed until a nurse came and found me.
Her fever had broken. They were sure she had made it through the worst of the mysterious virus, but we were only at the beginning of our journey.
I took her home and we resumed our life as usual. We would go to church, go to the store. Mishka would go to school, where she always made good grades. She was an imaginative child, creative and whimsical, so at first I paid it no mind when she said the voices told her to do this or that.
One day I passed by her bedroom, and she was sitting on the floor playing with her dolls. All at once she dropped the doll she was holding and pointed into thin air.
“No!” her little voice was brittle. “I won’t listen to what you say. I’m not a failure!”
Naturally, I was disturbed. I went into the room and asked to whom she was speaking. Who would tell my beautiful girl she was a failure? She answered so surely, “The people. They talk in my ears.”
We are gypsy folk by heritage. If someone claims to hear the voices of our ancestors, no one questions this. If someone sees a vision of the future or dreams a prophetic dream, no one bats an eye.
What was happening with my little granddaughter was something different. I took her back to the men in white coats. I asked them what was happening to my baby, and they said they needed tests. Tests upon tests upon tests. They needed the blood and the urine. They wanted the video and the hours upon hours of interviews and case studies.
My little girl was so tired after the first month. She cried and begged me to take her home. The men gave her medicines to stop the voices, but the medicines changed her as well. Her beautiful golden eyes dulled, and her happy disposition flattened. The medication transformed her into a daytime sleepwalker.
When I went to see her in the hospital, she no longer had a personality. Her face was pale, and her glossy hair hung in dull brown locks over her shoulders. Her eyes sunk into her young face, and she was like a living corpse.
Dr. Endicott talked of hydrotherapy and lobotomy. I couldn’t allow this to happen to my beautiful girl. She was so full of life. I went to the men in the white coats and told them I was taking my Mishka away from their madness. Yes, I called it their madness for they had taken her confusion and turned into their experiment.
I would care for my little girl. She would stay at home with me, and I would home-school her. I would bring back the light to her eyes. She would paint and sing and dance, and together we would conquer these voices.