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There was no choreography to my reunion with Tim. I had expected more-patrolling corrections officers, conspicuous cameras, locked doors. I smelled stale coffee, passed a water fountain, a pegboard with key chains, a janitor’s closet. I cleared a second mechanized door and a voice from behind the glass told me to keep walking until I saw the visiting room on the right.Īlong the sterile hallway, open doors revealed offices, a nurse’s station, a Xerox machine.
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After I’d handed over my driver’s license and emptied the keys, gum, and ChapStick from my pockets, the mechanized door inched open. Behind the glass, three uniformed officers scanned a bank of monitors. I moved my hand to my belt buckle like I was explaining myself to airport security.
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“Vincent?” my full name, one I rarely heard, traveled through opaque glass next to the metal detector.
I crafted a list of innocuous questions, a warm-up I hoped to perform before approaching the business of memory.Īs I waited, looking toward the metal door, I heard a voice but couldn’t see its source. I had a strategy for this first visit, a strategy that would keep me focused and prevent the details of my mother’s death from interfering with my mission - Help Tim remember, help him be restored. I fixated on these details, let the contours of this broad metal door distract me from the questions I had for Tim. I noticed a metal detector, a machine standing like a sentry before a wall-size door.
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I let my eyes travel the rest of the room, scan the plaques commemorating distinguished employees, a glass case housing a ceramic Virgin Mary, a series of nesting dolls, a miniature Buddha. The winner, a freckled woman with full cheeks, looked like a school nurse, one who spent her afternoons comforting kids with upset stomachs. I stared at a bulletin board that celebrated the clinician of the month. A glossy copy of Parenting magazine sat on an end table. Inside, I stopped to scan the waiting room - chairs, green carpet, framed photographs of former wardens. Whiting is on the back side of the campus, on the downslope of a hill near where the Connecticut River bisects Middletown. Many of the old structures still line the campus - late-Victorian architecture, broad brick buildings, nineteenth-century boarding school meets asylum. Whiting had grown out of the state facility for the mentally ill, a compound that opened in 1868.
Three months had passed since our mother’s death.Īs I approached that first night, the brick buildings looked hollow, like old warehouses in an abandoned mill town. It was dark when I drove to Whiting for the first time. In this excerpt, Vince goes to see Tim at Whiting Forensic Hospital, visiting his brother for the first time since their mother’s death. Using a mix of personal essay and journalism, Vince pieces together his mother’s life, his brother’s illness, and ultimately, begins the process of salvaging his love for his brother. In his new memoir, Everything is Fine, Vince Granata explores grief, mental illness, and the bonds of family as he delves into the tragedy of his mother’s 2014 death at the hands of his schizophrenic brother, Tim.
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