I’m coming, Cece. Please hold on. Please.
When my fingers graze the porcelain of the tub, I almost cry with relief. The water is almost up to her chin now. I start to reach for the faucet, but a harsh voice makes my fingers freeze.
“Mrs. Winchester. Don’t move.”
I reach for the faucet anyway. Nobody is going to stop me from saving my baby. I manage to get the water off, but before I can do anything else, strong hands grasp my arms, yanking me to my feet. In a haze, I see a man in uniform pulling Cecelia out of the tub.
“What are you doing?” I try to ask, but my speech is slurred.
The man who rescued Cecelia ignores my question. Another voice says, “She’s alive, but it looks like she’s been drugged.”
“Yes,” I manage. “Drugged.”
They know. They know what Andy has been doing to us. And now he’s drugged both of us. Thank God the police came. And now a paramedic has Cecelia on a stretcher, and they’re lifting me onto one as well. We’re going to be okay. They’ve come to save us.
A man in a police uniform shines a light in my eyes. I look away, wincing at the unbearable brightness. “Mrs. Winchester,” he says sharply. “Why were you trying to drown your daughter?”
I open my mouth but no sound comes out. Drown my daughter? What is he talking about? I was trying to save her. Can’t they see that?
But the policeman just shakes his head. He turns to one of his colleagues. “She’s too out of it. Looks like she took a bunch of the drugs herself. Get her to the hospital. I’ll call the husband and let him know we got here in time.”
Got here in time? What’s he talking about? I’ve just been sleeping all day. For God’s sake, what do they think I’ve done?
FORTY-THREE
The next eight months of my life are spent in Clearview Psychiatric Hospital.
The story, which has been repeated to me countless times, is that I took a bunch of sedatives that my physician prescribed to me and also gave my daughter some in her bottle. Then I placed her in the bathtub and turned on the water. My intention, apparently, was to kill both of us. Thank God my wonderful husband Andy suspected something was wrong and the police arrived in time to save us.
I have no memory of any of this. I have no memory of taking pills. I have no memory of putting Cecelia in the bathtub. I don’t even have a memory of my physician prescribing that medication for me, but the family doctor Andy and I go to assured us he did.
According to the therapist I see at Clearview, I suffer from major depression and delusions. The delusions are what led me to believe my husband was keeping me captive in a room for two days. The depression was what caused me to make the murder-suicide attempt.
At first, I didn’t believe it. My memories of being up in the attic are so vivid, I could almost feel the sting on my scalp from the hairs I pulled out. But Dr. Barringer keeps explaining to me that when you’re having delusions, it can feel very real even when it’s not.
So now I’m on two medications to keep this from happening ever again. An anti-psychotic and an anti-depressant. When I have my sessions with Dr. Barringer, I own up to my part in what I did. Even though I still don’t remember it at all. I only remember waking up and finding Cecelia in the bathtub.
But I must’ve done it. There was no one else there.
The part that finally convinced me I’d done it myself is that Andy could never have done something like that to me. Since the day I met him, he has been nothing but wonderful. And through my entire stay at Clearview, he has visited me every chance he could get. The staff love him. He brings muffins and cookies for the nurses. And he always saves one for me.
Today he brought me a blueberry muffin. He knocks on the door of the private room at Clearview, an expensive facility for people with psychiatric issues who also have money. He’s come straight from work, and he’s wearing a suit and tie, and he looks achingly handsome.
When I first came here, I was locked in the room. But I’ve done so much better with the medication that they’ve given me the privilege of an unlocked room. Andy perches at the other end of my bed while I stuff the muffin into my mouth. The anti-psychotic has ramped up my appetite, and I’ve put on twenty pounds since I’ve been here.
“Are you ready to come home next week?” he asks.
I nod, wiping blueberry crumbs from my lips. “I… I think so.”
He reaches for my hand, and I flinch but manage not to pull away. When I first came here, I couldn’t bear for him to touch me. But I’ve managed to push my feelings of revulsion aside. Andy didn’t do anything to me. It was my screwed-up brain that imagined it all.