She waddles down the hallway of the hospital, trepidation at the prospect of seeing Father causing her erratic breath. When Mother called three days ago to tell her he was there, she could think of nothing beyond the arrangements she had to make to come to him.

So here she is, heavily pregnant with twins, newly arrived on the Greyhound from Portland, facing the probability of seeing Father in a body she knows with a mind she doesn't.

Mother was vague and upset when she called. Mother's always vague and upset. She mentioned the Psychiatric ward and something about Father running around the house naked writing mathematical formulas on the walls, the counters, the floor. But what caused this mental collapse Mother never did make clear; maybe she just didn't understand it herself.

She had to call Cat back later to find out what really happened, but being nineteen and extremely naïve, Cat was less help than she could have used. Cat only spoke of her horror and disgust at seeing Father with his penis hanging limp and lifeless, his eyes glazed and vacant, scribbling algebraic equations at 2:00 a.m. on the wall, of all places.

She wondered if Cat would ever be the same, but she felt guilty that she had not been there to shield Cat from this strangeness. She had always protected Cat before. She heard the blame in Cat's voice when she spoke.

Now she stands outside the locked door telling herself she will not cry. Father always hated tears-a sign of weakness, man or woman, he always said.

The nurse in her starched white uniform opens the heavy door, her mouth pursed just exactly like Nurse Ratchet in that new Jack Nicholson film she saw at the moviehouse last week. She stifles a giggle, struggling to come to grips with the idea that Father could be in a place like this.

He is a brilliant scientist, she thinks to herself, how could this be? Ph.D. chemists do not lose their minds. Maybe they become a little absent-minded, you know, like forgetful. Putting little notes all over the place, stuff in wrong files, things like that. But not flat out crazy, berserk. No way.

She sees him across the room. He looks frail and small. At least he gets to wear his real clothes. She'd feel real funny if he had one of those hospital gowns with no back. She saw a lot of that when she worked in the nursing home, little old people shuffling around with their asses showing. The staff never cared, but she did. She always tried to tie them back together or put another gown on backwards so their whole selves were covered. She thought about what it would be like when she got old. Would she care if her ass hung out?

He looks at her and looks right through her as if he never knew her.

"Fred, look who came to see you," Nurse Ratchet says in a prissy singsong voice, like she is talking to a two-year-old. She wants to scream at Nurse Ratchet to stop talking to Father like that, but she doesn't because strange as it is, Father seems to respond.

He looks at her and their eyes connect this time. He blinks like he's clearing his vision or something and shakes his head.

"Which one are you?" he asks and she wonders what exactly he's asking.

"Which one what?" she responds, figuring maybe she can get a clue. Doesn't he know which daughter she is? That seems a bit ridiculous. There are four of them and they're different as night and day. Besides, she's the only pregnant one.

"Priscilla or Venus?" he replies. Now she knows who he thinks she is, and she's even more confused. Priscilla is his mother; Venus, his aunt.

"I'm neither, Daddy, I'm your daughter. You know, Jeannie, your firstborn, light of your life, apple of your eye, all that stuff you used to call me. . ." Desperate now that he recognize her, she hears her voice rising. She struggles for calm knowing panic won't help.

The blank stare comes back over his face. She knows she's lost him now, but she reaches out and touches his hand anyway. It can't hurt to touch him, right?

Nurse Ratchet hovers, expecting what--she doesn't know.

He wanders away and she follows, at a loss as to what she should do. Trapped inside this shell is a man she used to know, idolize, climb mountains with. Now she can't even carry on a simple conversation with him. As she stands in thought, leaning against one of those institutional tables found in conference rooms and cafeterias everywhere, he approaches a girl who is jogging in place in front of the windows.

This girl is thin, thinner than anyone she has ever seen before. Waif Girl looks to be twenty, maybe younger. He speaks to Waif Girl, but quietly. She can't hear their conversation so she moves closer, intrigued.

"Do you like green eggs and ham?" he asks Waif Girl, rocking to and fro on his heels like he does when he mingles at cocktail parties discussing politics, religion and the 49ers.

"I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam-I-am," Waif Girl replies, still jogging and staring, not at him but out the window.

She recognizes the lines from Dr. Seuss and it scares her what is going on. The two of them continue, like actors in a crazy play, back and forth, reciting lines while she listens in fascination, understanding nothing. He sways. Waif Girl jogs. Nurse Ratchet moves on to greener pastures.

She contemplates drawing him away from this scene, but this is the most life she has seen in him since she walked through the locked doors. God, she wishes Mother were here, but Mother'd probably be no help anyway.

Suddenly, he turns towards her. "Have you met my daughter, Jeannie?" he asks, dragging Waif Girl with him.

"That's not your daughter! I'm your daughter. I'm Jeannie," she cries desperately, looking for someone to explain what's happening. But Nurse Ratchet is busy at the far end of the room, counting milk cartons and straws.

"I do not like them in the rain. I do not like them on a train," Waif Girl chants louder now.

"What's wrong with her?" she asks this Father person who doesn't act like Father at all.

"She doesn't eat. She never eats. Not green eggs. Not ham. Not anything," he replies to no one in particular, "Try them and you may, I say."

They stand there, Father and her, in an uncomfortable silence. Waif Girl goes back to the window. She wonders what she should say, what she should do.

"Pardon me, ma'am," he says, "Do you happen to have any stray analytical formulas you'd like to have me work for you?"

"What?" she shrieks, wondering where this new train of thought is coming from.

"Formulas, you know, e=mc2, that sort of thing."

"Well. . . no, Father, the only formula I even want to think about is formula for these babies that're due soon."

"That's too bad I had some really truly nice ones. Ones you've never seen before." With that, he walks back to the window and Waif Girl.

"Would you, could you in a house? Would you, could you with a mouse?" he snatches at Waif Girl's sleeve. "Maybe you'd like a formula or two, light of my life. . ."

She hears him call Waif Girl that and cries, tears trickling down her cheeks in two slow rivers. She backs away toward the locked doors, hollering for Nurse Ratchet to let her out.

"Who is that girl?" she screams at Nurse Ratchet. "Why does he call her my name? And what's wrong with her?"

"Your name is Jeannie. You are his daughter. You have a disease. Anorexia. You know that," Nurse Ratchet replies in that impatient nasal voice nurses have perfected.

"What is wrong here?" she wails, confused.

"You know very well what is wrong with you, missy. You don't eat. You won't eat. No matter what we try, no matter what we do. You just don't," Nurse Ratchet mutters to herself, exasperated now.

"But why?" she questions, "What would make my daddy think I was anything like that?" Wrapping her arms around her waist, she leans her head against the cool glass of the window.

Then, straightening, she jogs.

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