Dolly called out, “Janet Jackson!” whenever the mental health workers approached the hall. Jim
and Esther were in a room making sweet rhythm, so Dolly and I were on the lookout. Jim and
Esther were full adults, in their twenties, but they were kind to us and Dolly and I liked to help
them be in-love.
In the hospital, we all knew that people could do unspeakable things to children. We were the
children. Or had been, at some point. Dolly and Blond Andrew took turns playing Billy Joel on
the ward’s piano in the evenings, Dolly pounding out “Angry Man” with her chubby, brown
fists. I was lithe and one day impressed everyone by doing that Janet Jackson chair thing in the
lounge. That’s how we got Miss Jackson in our corner. We used her name for everything that
had to do with being free.
After long days at work, my father would take the Metro-North up to see me. And though he had
never done me harm, I always pushed him to leave. It was like I was seeing the ghost of him
when he looked at me. Holding out his hand for mine as I watched him disappear through a wall.
Thirty years later, after he had passed away, I had dreams of us there in that fancy place in
Westchester. But in the dreams, it was me trying to hold on.
Dolly’s father used to come to the hospital, too. He’d sing with his raspy voice as Dolly played piano. For moments, we
were all a family singing together at Christmas. The kind of Christmas where no one ever
remembers the crucifixion. Easter might as well be just an island far, far away.
Dolly told me I was beautiful and until then, only paler people had done that. Grown men
hunting for a soft, tawny deer. Dolly had met her share of cruel men, too. Unspeakable things. So
when she found a hospital worker pressing against me at the pool table she called out, “I miss you much, Janet Jackson!” and managed to lead me away to the piano. She wanted to hear me
sing, she said. Even sotto voce. It was ok to be quiet. Just stay near so I can listen.