Becky Guo, Becky Guo, won’t you play with me
I can’t, said Becky, I’m hanging in a tree.
Becky Guo, Becky Guo, let me braid your hair.
I can’t, said Becky, I’ve died way over there.
Becky Guo, Becky Guo, where are you today?
I’m here, said Becky, and I’ll remain until you pay.
My toes are ice-cold when I enter Wellbrook Psychiatric Hospital. I know without looking that they’ve gone deathly pale beneath my socks and shoes, as though shuttling blood to my vital organs will sustain me in this place that is not old enough to be quaint: stained orange carpet, cement walls, cottage-cheese ceiling. I think briefly of fleeing, and how no one would stop me because no laser-printed hospital bracelet has yet been clipped to my wrist. But I’ve promised to come, and I am attempting to be brave. I approach the front desk while fingering the tin milagro that dangles from my neck.
The receptionist raises her head and asks, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Wendy Chung. I have an ECT consult at 2 p.m. with Dr Richards.’