Blackout

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

I was fourteen when I had my first blackout.

I remember most of that day so vividly I think it must be etched into my brain. It was summertime, so I didn’t have to wake up early. When I finally did get up, it was nearing noon, and I was starving. So I had gotten out of bed and hurried to the kitchen to get some of whatever my grandmother had left me for breakfast.

There had been a little sticky note on the freezer door with my name at the top. It was a reminder to call my father and ask him for some money. The light bill had been past due and my grandmother would not have enough to pay it.

At that time, my father and I had not had much of a relationship. I would call when I needed money, and he would either lie and say he didn’t have it, or give it to me. My mother had run off with some other man when I was six, right after my little brother had died, and so we couldn’t ask her for help. Hell, I didn’t even know if she was still alive.

So while I was microwaving the biscuits and gravy my grandmother had left in the fridge, I grabbed the cordless phone off its base and dialed my father’s number. He usually always answered, I think because he was afraid that if he ignored us, my grandmother would take him to court for child support.

“Hello?” he answered in his deep baritone voice.

“It’s Iris.” I replied.

“What’s up?”

“I need a hundred fifty dollars.”

I heard him sigh. “What for? I just gave you fifty last month.”

“The light bill. Grandma can’t afford it.”

“I thought she was working overtime cleaning them hotel rooms?”

“She is, but it ain’t enough. Can we get the money or what?” I hated it when he played 21 questions when I asked him for cash. Just say yes or no, for crying out loud.

“Don’t get f*****g smart with me, Iris. Damn!”

I remember feeling the first of the warning surges of anger claw up my body. I thought to myself, how dare he get mad because the child he helped create needs help? But I held my tongue and waited for him to answer my question.

He sighed again. “Look, I can’t afford to be giving y’all money every time y’all can’t handle something. I got my own family to think about. And my wife and kids ain’t gonna be missing s**t while I’m giving y’all my hard earned money left and right. It’s time for yo ass to get a job.”

“I’m only fourteen. I’m not old enough to work. And I’m your child, too. Why don’t I deserve to be taken care of, like your other kids?”

“Don’t be asking me stupid f*****g questions, girl. I’ll give y’all a hundred, that’s it. I’ma be there around three. Be outside or I ain’t giving y’all shit.”

Then he hung up.

I remember being so pissed off, I threw the phone down and watched it shatter into pieces. I knew, in the back of my mind, that my grandmother would be upset at me for breaking it, but I couldn’t control myself. I guess that should’ve been a warning sign.

For a while, I just stayed in the kitchen, pacing around the room trying to get a handle on this unexplainable rage. I paced so long I forgot about my breakfast in the microwave. It wasn’t until the phone base rang that I could finally stray from the path that should have been worn on the tiles by then.

I hurried to the base, subconsciously hoping that maybe it was my father calling to apologize. It was a futile hope; he had never shown me anything but contempt and impatience before. But I still couldn’t help wishing that deep down, he really cared for me.

But it wasn’t him. It was my grandmother calling from work, asking if I asked him for the money. I informed her that he’d be coming around three and that he said he would only give us a hundred dollars. She griped a little about what a cheap-ass he was, but conceded that a hundred dollars was better than nothing. She’d just have to find another way to come up with the other fifty.

I didn’t mention his attitude, or the unreasonable fury I felt that resulted in the destroyed cordless phone. My grandmother would always tell me that I had a hot head, and I didn’t feel like hearing it at that moment. So I just wished her a good rest of her day and pressed the speaker button to end the call.

By that time, I had calmed down a little. The pangs of hunger were returning to my stomach, and I remembered my food in the microwave. Knowing it was probably cold again by now, I retrieved it and dug in anyway. It was still delicious, and, distracted by this, I almost forgot about my earlier issues. That is, until I heard the impatient honking outside. The clock on the stove read 2:57. I guess he was ready to get this over with, as was I.

It was bright and sunny outside, a beautiful summer day, albeit a bit humid, as Florida usually was. Once I was on the porch, I took a moment to calm myself while the sun’s rays warmed my face. Then, I approached his slightly rusted Chevy at the curb.

His window was up until I got within a few feet of the car. He pretended to have just noticed me standing there, opened the door, and got out, leaving the engine rumbling. His light skin was shining in the sunlight, but his hazel eyes, exactly the shape and color of mine, were as cold as ice. Within seconds his wallet was out, and a quick glimpse told me that he had way more than a hundred in there. The rage returned in full force. He claimed that all he had was a measly hundred dollars to give to his child, a child he could barely acknowledge; but where was all the rest of that money going to go? After seeing that, seeing the lies being told right in front of my face, I didn’t even want the money any more. I would have rather been stuck in the dark.

He counted out a hundred dollars in twenties and thrust it towards me with a snide, “Here.” But I couldn’t force my hands to reach out and take it. I could only look at this dirty hush money in disgust. That’s what it was. Hush money. The bare minimum he felt he could get away with giving me to keep me quiet. But why should I have to take it? What was keeping me from getting my grandmother to put the hammer down on him and take his ass to court?

“Well?” he sneered. “Take the damn money so I can go, girl!”

“Naw,” I replied, “I’m good. Never mind, I don’t want it.”

“Girl, I done drove all the way over here to bring you this. Stop acting stupid and take the damn money.”

“I’d rather get it another way.”

“What you talkin’ bout?”

“I was just sitting here thinking why we haven’t put you on child support yet… And I can’t come up with a good enough answer.”

His face turned ashen, and his eyes widened in an emotion I could only interpret as anger. “What the hell? Girl, you done lost yo’ mind?”

His anger propelled mine, and I almost shouted, “Naw, daddy, I think I’m just now starting to use my mind. You ain’t never wanted to do s**t for me! I gotta beg you for a couple dollars just to help my grandma! And what’s stupid about it is, she actually grateful for this raggedy ass hundred dollars! If she put yo ass on child support like everyone keep saying, I’d get at least 400 a month, plus fourteen years back pay.” He blanched, probably wondering how I knew all this. “Yeah, I did the research! The only reason she won’t put you on child support is ‘cause she ain’t wanna have my name in the system. But you know what, that’s out the window. ‘Cause if she don’t do it, I’ll call DCF myself and tell ‘em everything.”

“Who the f**k do you think you talking to?” he yelled back at me, spit flying from his mouth. He advanced on me, but I refused to take even a small step back. I wasn’t afraid of him. There was nothing more he could do to hurt me or my feelings; he deserved no fear.

“I’m talking to yo’ ass, motherfucker!” I shrieked. “Ronald ‘deadbeat’ Kilpatrick! I’m f*****g sick of you acting like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you! I’m your child just like your other kids! But those bastards are better than me because... what? You hate my mama? Well guess what? Before she ran off with whoever she ran off with, she told me that you were the biggest mistake of her fuckin’ life, and she knew from the beginning you were a piece of s**t –“

Before I could get out another word, I was blindsided by a sharp blow to my face, and then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the curb, surrounded by shards of broken glass and twenty dollar bills stained with red droplets, bleeding from the open cuts on my fists. The Chevy and my father were nowhere in sight.

As I looked around, wondering what had happened and why I blacked out, I noticed the throbbing pain around my left cheekbone. I gingerly reached up to touch it; it was swollen, probably bruised. It seemed much later than it should be; the sky was getting darker by the second, and the crickets were chirping away. It might have been peaceful if I hadn’t been so confused.

Why did it seem like I had blacked out for hours? What had I missed? I tried to think back through the hours that must have passed, but the last thing I remembered was my father punching me. I guess it made sense that I lost consciousness, but what was up with all the broken glass and the blood on my fists?

Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I must have fell through his car window as I lost consciousness, a pair of headlights pulled up next to me, a car door opened and closed, and I heard hurried footsteps approaching me. I knew who it was before she could even speak, but before I could get a word out, my grandmother was gently probing my swollen face, asking me if I was okay. She helped me up and into the house, and sat me on the couch. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, relaxing for a moment; I could hear my grandmother fussing about in the kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator door, banging around in the cabinets…

I winced when I felt the cold ice pack on my cheek. “Iris, why in the world did you do it?”

“I only told him what he needed to hear, grandma. But regardless of what I said, he shouldn’t have hit me.”

“Yes, he shouldn’t have hit you. But you shouldn’t have messed up his car like that!”

The pain in my cheek flared as my face worked to display a confused expression. “His car? What are you talking about?”

“Busting his windows? Trying to stab him with the glass? I know he shouldn’t have hit you, but girl, I done told you about that temper of yours! Now he talking about calling the police!”

This comment made me temporarily forget the mystery of me supposedly breaking his car windows. “Call the police? He punched me in the face!”

“Yeah, I know it don’t make no sense, but you gotta be smart, Iris! I know he don’t do right by you, but we just trying to get what we can outta him. If you done gon’ and pissed him off, he ain’t gonna ever help us!”

This brought me up short. It seemed as if she was blaming me for his deadbeat ways. Why should I be at fault because he didn’t want to provide for his daughter? “Are you saying that it’s because of me that he’s such a shitbag, grandma?”

“Girl, watch yo’ mouth,” she scolded, “and no, that ain’t what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, you get more flies with honey, child. And you done sent that fly far away.”

Now I was back pondering what had happened that day. I had blacked out, and I didn’t remember anything from the time he hit me until I had come to sitting on the curb. But what she was saying happened had made sense. I had woken up surrounded by window fragments and bleeding from my knuckles. The injury matched the alleged circumstances perfectly; all the evidence fit. But why couldn’t I remember?

I haven’t seen Clarisa in a few days. She hasn’t been at group or at any meals, nor has she been showing up when they distribute our medicines. I know she hasn’t left here; usually, before a patient is released, we have a little celebration so that everyone has a chance to say goodbye and wish them luck. This is more than a tradition. It’s a necessity. It helps those who are still stuck here to see that there is a positive way out of, not only this hospital, but our mental illnesses. You aren’t even given the option of opting out of the release party when you’re discharged.

I make a point to ask the nurses about her, but they all tell me the same thing; it’s HIPPA protected information that Clarisa has asked be shared with no one but her doctors and nurses. They can’t even give me a word on her whereabouts.

I worry about her. I don’t want to worry, of course; I need to separate myself from any emotions about her, because it’s dangerous to think of her as a friend anymore. Being her friend will only hurt her, because hopefully, I will be out of here soon. And her being attached to me will only cause her pain once I leave.

So I force myself to put her in the back of my mind as I attempt to prepare emotionally for the hearing coming up in the next couple days. I have to be ready whichever way it goes. If I am released, I must be able to contain my happiness, because it will not do well to throw that in the faces of the victim’s families. I must retain a somber expression to let them know that I am sorry for their pain. Sure, it won’t make much of a difference anyway, because if I am released they will be hurting regardless of what emotion is evident on my face. But it doesn’t hurt to try to ease their pain, even if my trying is pointless.

If I am not released, I must contain my sadness. I cannot afford to break down, because these people feel that I don’t deserve freedom because of my crimes. They would see my tears as another display of my selfishness. I have murdered ten people, and instead of thinking of this, I am crying because I didn’t get out of a cushy hospital after five years. That would not be taken too well. Even though I know the depression will be crushing, I must hold it in until I am alone.

Finally, the day comes, and I am driven in the same van to the same courthouse. The crowd is even larger than it was last time, and the chants are so loud that I can clearly hear what they are yelling: “Iris Kilpatrick! Free her now!” And I am so delighted that I must duck my head to hide my wide smile.

Once I have retained my blank look, I sit back up. We have pulled up to the back entrance. I am escorted, shackled at the wrists and ankles, through the huge gathering of people until I am safely ensconced in a waiting room. I must be early, because they aren’t taking me to the courtroom just yet. One of my guards asks me if I am okay, which surprises me, because I kind of see them as emotionless robots here simply to usher me around while I’m outside the walls that keep the public safe from me. I tell him I’m fine, and I sit patiently until the bailiff comes in and informs us that we may enter the courtroom.

When I sit down next to Bobby, looking as dapper as usual in a fancy black suit, he immediately gestures for me to move closer to him, and whispers, “Alright, are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply quietly, “but I won’t lie, I’m so nervous I could pee on myself.”

He chuckles, and gets right down to business. “Okay, so the judge has a few options. He could release you outright, or with conditions, or he could remand you back to the hospital for an undetermined amount of time. It’s doubtful that he would release you outright, but he could release you with conditions like outpatient treatment or random drug testing, or he could make you live at a halfway house for a year. Any of those would be a good thing.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Just then, the bailiff calls for everyone to rise and announcing the judge’s entry. There is a flurry of movement as everyone stands, and then again as everyone sits. The judge has just one sheet of paper in front of his nose, and it seems like he is reading from it when he says, “Good morning, ladies and gentleman, and thank you for being here today. This was a very difficult case for me, because both sides presented compelling information. On one hand, we have the young lady institutionalized for five years after committing heinous acts while under the influence of mental illness, who, evidence shows, has been cured of her ailment and, according to many medical and mental professionals, poses no dangerous risk to the public. On the other hand, we have the families and friends of the victims who lost their lives, requesting that she be kept away from the public.

“There were a few things I wanted to mention before I rule on this case. Firstly, I would like to point out the conviction with which the people who have been treating Ms. Kilpatrick these last few years feel about her recovery. Not only with her condition, but with her attitude. They all feel that she is someone who would do well now that she is free from the disease that caused her blackouts.

“Another thing I would like to point out is what I have observed about Ms. Kilpatrick herself. I was also sent tapes of Ms. Kilpatrick’s counseling sessions, as well as videos of her interacting with other patients, and affidavits from patients that listed Ms. Kilpatrick as someone who helped them overcome their issues. Ms. Kilpatrick was not aware that she was being taped, nor was she aware that I had seen any tapes, so I am convinced that her personality in those videos was genuine. I also observed Ms. Kilpatrick during her testimony at last week’s hearing. And the thing I noticed most about her is that, not once during her testimony did she say anything on her own behalf to help her case. She, instead, used that time to apologize to the victims. It is, without a doubt, the most selfless thing I have seen in my 30 plus years being a judge.

“However, I must ignore whatever emotions I might have about this case and rule according to law and law only. And because federal law states that a person found not guilty by reason of insanity cannot be legally held indefinitely if proven that they have overcome their mental illness, I must rule that Ms. Kilpatrick be released fully, without prejudice. The only stipulation on this, Ms. Kilpatrick, is that you must continue to attend outpatient treatment according to what your doctor prescribes, and you must continue taking your medicine.”

The judge glances around the room with a weary expression while the noise level in the room elevates as people take in what he has said. “I know that many of you in this courtroom feel that I am making the wrong decision by setting Ms. Kilpatrick free. Most are probably surprised, given my history of being hard on violent criminals. To be honest, before I had seen the therapy videos provided by the mental health facility, I was not convinced she was not a danger. Even after I saw them, I still had serious doubts. But I am now certain that, with continued therapy, Ms. Kilpatrick can indeed contribute positively to society.”

And he is still speaking, but I am lost in this strange bubble of conflicting emotions; elation, fear, confusion, excitement, sadness. I can’t control my facial features so I have no idea what expression I am wearing.

I feel someone shaking my hand. It’s Bobby, pulling me up to hug me. He’s saying something, but my brain is still working through this unbelievable turn of events.

“What?” I ask stupidly.

“Congratulations, Iris!” he repeats, and he yanks me into his arms in a tight embrace. All the other sounds in the courtroom are coming into focus now. I hear crying, shrieking, muffled mumbling, and the sound of the movement of many people. I am afraid to look into the faces of the victims’ families, but I steal a quick glance back where I know Dr. Dillinger was seated. She is still there, embracing Rita’s son with her head on his shoulder, shaking with sobs. A tear slides down my cheek as Marc looks up and catches my eyes with the same intense stare as the other week. And I wonder again why he’s looking at me like that.

Everything is a blur as I am taken back to my prison for the last time. As I enter my room, there is a burst of commotion. “Surprise!” yells many voices, and then I am ganged up on by all the patients in our ward. They are congratulating me, hugging me, clapping my back telling me how happy they are for me. And it feels as if I am floating on clouds, I am so happy. I allow myself to smile widely for the first time since I woke up this morning, and the tears begin falling down my face.