Cinnamon (Shooting Stars 1)

"Are you upset about losing the baby?" I asked. "Sure," he said. "But..."

"But what. Daddy? Don't say Grandmother Beverly might have been right. Don't dare say that," I warned him.

"No. Not exactly. I just wonder if Amber would have been strong enough for it, for raising a child from infancy again. She seemed so fragile. I began to wonder if we had done the right thing. Not because of her age," he quickly added. "I just wonder if she had the temperament for it."

"She had it. She would have been a wonderful mother to a new baby," I insisted.

He nodded, but not with any confidence. He simply nodded to shut me up.

We were both quiet then, both lost in our own thoughts, almost strangers on a train who just happened to be seated side by side. I had no idea where this train was heading.

All these events and discussions passed through my mind when Clarence asked me if I believed my father when he told me he would visit Mommy at the mental hospital after his dinner meeting.

"No." I finally replied. "I don't believe things he tells me these days. Lately. I keep finding his lies scattered all around the house."

"Huh?" "Never mind." I said. "I have other things on my mind at the moment."

After school I got into my car and headed for the Chester Alton Psychiatric Hospital, a privately run institution outside of Yonkers where Mammy had been placed that morning. It was just far enough to be a good long ride. The car was really Mommy's car, but even before she had become pregnant and had her aches and pains, she had hardly used it. I already had logged twice as many miles on it than she had.

It wasn't just hard to believe I was on my way to visit my mother in a mental clinic: it was painful and actually very frightening. I could feel the trembling start in my legs and slowly vibrate up into my spine as I drew closer a

nd closer to the clinic.

When I parked and got out, the building looked intimidating. It was so white that with the afternoon sun slipping out from under clouds, the reflection made me reach for my sunglasses. The moment I saw my image in the car window, a whole new persona came over me and helped me face what I had to do: visit my mother in a mental hospital. It was just too difficult to do it as her daughter.

I brushed back my hair, took a deep breath and moved forward like an actress about to step on a stage. It felt good, liberating. I walked differently, held my head differently and stepped up to the front entrance. Pretending was like wearing a mask and when I wore a mask, no one could see how terrible and how frightened I felt inside.

The lobby was deceiving. It wasn't that it was too immaculate-- the tile floor gleaming, the furniture looking brand new. It was too cozy, too warm. I was expecting almost as much security as a prison with bars on all the windows and patients wandering about in house gowns, babbling or just staring vacantly at their own empty minds and sterile walls.

However, these walls had many pretty pictures, oils of pleasant country scenes, people with happy faces, bright flowers. There were fresh flowers in vases on tables and magazines neatly organized in a rack on the right wall. On the left was a small area with a television set. Three people sat on a sofa, all nicely dressed. I had the sense that one of them might be a patient, but there was no way to tell who were the visitors and who was the patient. Maybe they were all patients.

I thought the place resembled an upscale hotel lobby more than it did a psychiatric clinic.

A pretty young nurse sat behind a reception counter. She looked up and smiled at me as I approached.

"May I help you?" she asked. For some reason she reminded me of my dentist's assistant, her teeth glittering through that Colgate smile. I was almost expecting her to follow with. "Do you floss?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm here to see Amber Carlson.'"

"Amber Carlson?" She looked down at a large book and turned the page. reading. "Immediate family only," she muttered.

"I'm her younger sister," I said. "I've just flown in from Los Angeles and driven here directly from the airport."

"Oh."

"How is she?"

"Well. I don't have updates as to patients' conditions, but let me call the nurse's station and advise them of your arrival."

"Thank you." I lazed around as she dialed and informed the head nurse. She listened a moment and then thanked her and hung up.

"Mrs, Mendelson asked if you could please give them a few minutes. Your sister has just had a therapeutic bath and they're getting her back to bed," she said.

"Oh, fine."

"Los Angeles. How was your trip?"

"Smooth." I said. "I had forgotten how beautiful the foliage is here in the fall. Living in southern California," I said "you just forget the dramatic changes of season."