Diana signed in again, this time at the main desk, received a visitor's badge and went down a long hallway on the left toward her mother's ward. Her mom certainly wasn't close to being one of the worst patients in the place. Diana knew that the first floor was for the mildly nutty, and as one went higher in the building, the condition of the patients worsened. She didn't want to think about what lived on the third floor, although she knew that as her mother's disease progressed, she would, more than likely, get moved up.
Patients moaned behind closed doors, and the thick odor of disinfectant barely covered the rot and decay underneath. Human beings warehoused and slowly dying, and worst of all, their minds were dying first. Diana found the day room where the art show was scheduled to take place. The patients were scattered throughout, some in wheelchairs, some slouched over on the uncomfortable couches. A social worker in a pants suit stood at the front with the patient paintings, and two weary-looking attendants stood to the side, their arms folded, their boredom palpable.
Diana spotted her mom, sitting in a plastic chair near the front. Though only fifty, she looked closer to seventy, and every time Diana visited, it seemed like five years had been added to her age. Deeper lines, grayer hair, the bones rising, pressing against the skin. When Diana was a child, people always pointed out how much she resembled her mother, and at the time, Diana took pride in the comparison. They had the same small frame, the same deep brown eyes. But whenever she went to the hospital for a visit, Diana wondered if she was staring at some future version of herself, one that genetics and fate was leading her toward: mind and body wasting away at an accelerated rate in a depressing institution.
Diana slipped in quietly and, when she settled in the seat next to her mom, didn't receive so much as a glance. She recognized Diana about fifty percent of the time, a percentage Diana knew was only going to decrease as the disease worked its way deeper into her mind.
The social worker, a woman named Maria, had her hair pulled back into a small bun—nothing for the patients to grab hold of—and smiled broadly as she pointed to the paintings belonging to Emily, a woman not much older than Diana who had suffered head trauma in a car accident. Emily didn't speak, but instead sat in a wheelchair, her body tilted to the side, the kind of helmet kids wore to skateboard attached to her head. The canvas had a smear of finger paints, mostly green with a splattering of red that looked like vomit, and Diana wished she could be someplace else, anyplace else, rather than in a mental hospital being reminded of all the awful things that can happen to the human mind while the body kept merrily functioning.
When Maria finished talking about Emily's masterpiece, those who were able applauded, while others moaned and some even slept.
"And now," Maria said, "we have a painting by our very own Janet Greene." She nodded toward Diana's mom who smiled uncertainly as if someone had made a joke in another language. "Isn't this wonderful work?"
The painting was crude, black paint in thick strokes on white paper. It appeared to show a house, child-like in its simplicity. A square with a pointed roof and two windows, a squiggle of smoke curling from its chimney. There were trees around the house, straight lines for trunks and swirling, ragged-looking leaves. Diana felt a clutch of pity in her chest. Her mother, an adult human being, reduced to being praised for producing something a kindergartner could do.
"Janet?" Maria said. "Do you have anything to say about this?"
For a moment, her mom didn't speak, and Diana thought she had tuned them out, gone to whatever place inside the lost world of her own mind she traveled to. But then she cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter.
"That's my daughter's house," she said.
Maria nodded. "Lovely. And is this your daughter with you here today?"
Her mom looked over as if seeing Diana for the first time. "Yes," she said. "That's my daughter. That's Rachel. She lives in the house."
"We're so glad Rachel could come and join us. We love it when family members come to our shows."
But Diana was shaking her head. She felt the eyes of the entire room on her, everyone expecting the dutiful daughter to smile and nod and go along. But for some reason, Diana couldn't.
I'm not Rachel.
"No, Mom," she said. "I'm Diana."
"Rachel," her mom said, the name coming out of her mouth like an incantation, a word of protection and comfort. She repeated it. "Rachel."
"No, Mom. Diana. Rachel's gone. Remember? She left us. She left right before you got sick."
The room grew pin-drop quiet. Maria took a step forward, reached back and checked the condition of her bun. They didn't like disruptions at Vienna Woods, didn't like people—especially family—to come in and agitate the patients.
Her mom kept staring at Diana, certainty etched on her face. "You're Rachel, I know. I know my child."
"Well," Maria said, "I'm sure you and your sister look a lot alike."
"We don't," Diana said. "She was the pretty one." Diana took her mom's hand. "Mom, I know you know who I am. I know you can remember what happened to Rachel. She went down our road that night and didn't come back. We fought with her—"