Chapter 1
My husband, Henry Johnston, told me he'd been diagnosed with severe manic schizophrenia and that if he had an episode, he might grab a knife and kill someone.
To keep me safe, he volunteered to check himself into a private, fully locked-down sanatorium.
Through the iron gate, he reminded me that the nurse, Juliette Miller, had been risking her life to care for him, and insisted that I send her $17,000 every month to thank her.
So I worked on a construction site during the day and ran a stall at the night market in the evenings, pouring every dollar I earned into that bottomless pit.
But thirty years later, when I went to the sanatorium to bring Henry a pair of knee pads, I walked in on him and Juliette making love on the couch.
That was when it hit me that he was never crazy.
He'd faked the whole thing to hide out here, spending my hard-earned money on his mistress and living it up.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself back on the day Henry was waving that fake diagnosis around, acting insane and wrecking the place.
*****
Watching Henry foam at the mouth and fake a breakdown, I didn't try to stop him. Instead, I called an ambulance from the best hospital in town.
I sobbed as I signed the family consent form as his legal wife, agreeing to his "lifetime involuntary commitment" for being "dangerous."
If he loved pretending to be crazy so much, he could spend the rest of his life locked up in a mental hospital legally.
Crash!
The glass coffee table shattered, and the glass was all over the floor.
Henry was barefoot, stepping onto the shards, waving a fruit knife like a madman with one hand and gripping his own throat with the other, foam spilling from his mouth.
Man, he was going all out.
Back then, I fell for it.
I was crying as I wiped the foam from his mouth, begging him to put the knife down.
This time, I stood in the living room doorway, arms crossed, watching him put on his show.
Henry's mother, Jennifer Johnston, burst out of the kitchen, dropped herself onto the floor, and slapped her thighs.
"This family's cursed. Henry's got severe schizophrenia. He's gonna kill someone," she shrieked.
She was hollering so loud that the neighbors could hear, but her eyes were dry without a tear.
I glanced down at the shattered coffee table at my feet.
That table cost me 1.3 thousand dollars, two months of back-breaking work. But when he smashed it, he didn't care one bit.
When Henry saw I wasn't rushing over, he dialed up the drama.
He pressed the tip of the knife to his arm, leaving the shallowest scratch, and then dropped to his knees in front of me with a dramatic thud.
"Honey," he wailed.
He hugged my legs tight, looking up at me with red, tear-filled eyes, bawling like his world was ending.
His voice was shaking. "I found out I'd got severe manic schizophrenia.
"The doctor said when I lose it, I won't recognize anyone, not even you or our son. I'm scared I might kill you both."
He paused and then pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
"Here's the diagnosis. Take a look," Henry said.
I took it from him.
It was a stamped paper from the City Psychiatric Forensics Center.
Everything looked legit, with a proper serial number, an EEG report stapled to it, and the doctor's signature was tidy and official.
Last time, I didn't bother to read it. I broke down in tears, sobbing so hard that I could barely breathe.
This time, I read it word for word.
It was so professional that it could've fooled anyone.
Henry had gone all out. He'd spent a fortune to fake a whole set of legally binding medical records to pull off this act.
Any real mental hospital would totally buy it when they saw this set of papers.
[Severe manic schizophrenia. Recommend a locked-down sanatorium,] the report read.
I slowly folded the diagnosis report and tucked it into my pocket.
Henry didn't even notice.
He was still bawling his eyes out.
"Let me go to Juliette Miller's place. It's locked down tight, safe. Ms. Miller says she can handle me," he pleaded.
I almost burst out laughing.
When he said Juliette's name, he made her sound like a hero.
Last time, I believed she was my savior.
"Honey, I don't want to hurt you," Henry said, his voice shaking.
He leaned his forehead against my knee, his voice quivering. "Please, let me go."
Right then, Jennifer scrambled up from the floor, sniffling and wiping her nose as she rushed over.
She said, "Michelle, Henry's illness is too dangerous. He has to go to a locked-down sanatorium.
"Ms. Miller's place is so professional. It's way better than any hospital out there."
Our son, Lance Johnston, came running out of his room and threw himself at Henry, wrapping his arms around his neck.
"Dad, don't go. If you leave, who's gonna buy me a game console?" Lance whined.
He was only eight, and as he delivered his lines, he shot a glance at Jennifer to make sure he was getting it right.
I stood there, arms crossed, watching this so-called "family of three" clinging to each other and bawling.
What a touching scene it was.
But it had nothing to do with me.
I took a step back, putting some distance between us.
"Since Henry's so dangerous when he has an episode..." I said, my voice trembling.
I paused, covering my mouth, forcing out a sob.
I added, "I'll call 911 and have the city's psychiatric emergency response team come get him."
I pulled out my phone and put it on speaker.
The dial tone rang out.
Henry's crying stopped dead.
He froze, still kneeling on the floor.