The Wolf, the Knock, and the Visit
This essay is the seventh in a series, Carefully Come Undone, in which Brittany Miles explores the many aspects of raising a child with schizophrenia
Early morning, my wolf, Layla, stirred.
Slicing the silence.
Restless in her den.
The voices were back. Psychosis descended upon us.
I lived with dread. Routine as breath.
We didn’t have order in our lives, just patterns I adopted.
Clung to.
An impression of control.
Layla felt everything; I felt nothing.
Fear ruled this pack.
No one understood that.
Layla needed intensive psychiatric intervention to quiet the voices. It had been a few long years after the hospital. She wouldn’t take the medicine, and I could no longer care for her. These were the times that frightened me the most. I was helpless as her mother. During the height of COVID-19, the demand for mental health resources far outweighed the supply. Especially for tweens. There was nowhere for us to go.
After hours of searching, I found something that looked like a fit. I’ll call it The Program. It had everything we needed from intensive therapy: education and peer counseling, psychiatric care, and therapy from professionals skilled in working with kids like Layla. I was ecstatic; I couldn’t believe our luck in the middle of the pandemic. We met with staff, and in a matter of weeks, Layla had a team of professionals ready to support her recovery. Sweet.
Layla received the full spectrum of care. There were glimmers of hope; she was willing to talk to these people with my prodding. She was trying. Even with this progress, something still felt wrong. Awkward.
I reread their website. Replayed the intake. They promised stability. I was starting to see decline. Layla was the skinniest she’d ever been. Her tiny afro was matted, skin ashy. Every day chipped away at the little bits of her I had left. She no longer resembled my wolf.
Her only coping mechanism was to sleep through appointments and life. Some mornings I found her sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. Her eyes unmoving, as if she’d come home from war. I emailed the team. They offered a call. It was not what I expected. Looking back now, it was the beginning of the end.
One morning around 4 am, Layla circled the ottoman with that same blank stare. She told me she was in a box. It was coming down on her. She knew who I was, but not where she was. Once she tired of pacing, we crawled into bed. I rubbed her arms, kept up streams of chatter, and half watched her favorite comfort show.
In the dawn’s early light, she blinked, soft-eyed again.
When I asked where she’d gone, she said, “I don’t remember.”
***
Being afraid for Layla wasn’t new. But having a team that shrugged it off was new. Her former medical team had answered every call. Talked me down many nights. We left that team when Layla stopped responding. They were sad to see us go, but I couldn’t keep paying for services we didn’t use. That’s why the new team was an important find. But unlike before, my emails were met with silence. Sometimes the team sent links to generic websites for support. Which I found weird. That had never happened before.
One afternoon, Layla called me to her window.
“Mama, the cars can hear me thinking.”
I hugged her. “No, baby, they can’t.”
“But what about people? You hear me thinking, right?”
“No, Layla Bug, I don’t.”
That night, I searched Google for psychosis and thoughts. I found the term “thought broadcasting.” I intended to learn if this was a symptom of schizophrenia. She had other hallmarks like hallucinations and delusions. Now this.
I reported it. As usual, the response was lackluster. They sent tips for “reintegrating Layla into her social circle.” She was too zoned out to think, but sure, let’s reintegrate.
My mother had been a social worker for years. Dinner table talk had familiarized me with how and when to advocate in these situations. But it was difficult to fight for Layla in the face of The Program’s apparent indifference.
We moved to a new home, and I asked the team for a plan to help Layla adjust. They offered one: breathing exercises and calming routines. For once, I felt supported; there was a plan. It worked. Moving day was smooth.
But after a few days in the new place, Layla’s anxiety exploded. Our new den didn’t feel safe yet. She was afraid of everything: the street, the neighbors, the coyotes howling at night. She complained of a ringing in her ears, a new symptom. It grew louder each night.
I reported the hallucination. They suggested it might not have been a hallucination; it might have been the wind. In other words, they thought I was hallucinating Layla’s hallucination.
It wasn’t the wind.
They asked if her hearing had been tested lately.
I hung up reeling.
This couldn’t be right.
That call made it clear: we were in the wrong place.
I withdrew her from The Program.
***
Many months later, a sharp knock rattled the door. I wasn’t expecting guests. Not the Amazon knock. The rhythm became louder. Faster. Layla was in her room. I peered through the crack.
“Are you Brittany?”
“What is this about?”
A woman stood on the other side of the door with paperwork in hand.
“I’m with the state. We received an intake for neglect. Your child hasn’t been in school for some time. Can I come inside?”
Neglect? My jaw tightened. I cocked my head to the side, surprised and confused.
I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. Mama bear instinct. Layla didn’t need to overhear.
“Now isn’t a good time.”
“When can we schedule a convenient time?”
“Who sent you here?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
Behind me, I heard the deadbolt click. I turned the doorknob. I was locked out.
“Here’s my card. You can reach me or my supervisor anytime. His number’s on the back.”
I nodded. She left down the walkway.
But I was trapped outside barefoot.
In January.
I knocked. “Layla, open up. It’s Mama.”
“I can’t. Why are you outside?”
“Never mind. Meet me at the deck around back; bring a kitchen chair.”
I trudged through wet grass, mud squeezing between my toes. At least I hoped it was mud. Layla pushed the chair to the deck railing, confused. I swung my leg over, trying not to go ass over teakettle, and climbed down. Layla left the door open. I tracked dirty footprints on the carpet.
“Who was that, Mama?”
“No one,” I whispered. “I need to clean up.”
“Who was it?!”
Her voice cracked, so rare it frightened me.
“No one.”
I shut myself in the bathroom. As I wrestled with muddy feet, I willed the tears not to come. There was no time for that. After the anger faded, dread set in. Layla could be taken from me.
No. This can’t happen.
Corporate life had taught me everyone had a boss, so I dialed the supervisor’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“I’m not a neglectful parent,” I said. “My daughter’s sick. I think she has schizophrenia. This is a mistake.”
He sighed. “Ma’am, I understand. You do have rights. We have paperwork to do, but we’ll be in touch about next steps.”
“Please.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” he replied. “But we must do our work. All right?”
“I get it. Thanks for your time.”
I called Layla’s father. We traced the edges of it. Two stunned parents looking at the minutiae of madness. My ex confirmed I was a good mother. He’d do whatever he could to get us through this. We were lucky, I supposed. For other Black families, the same knock on their door could mean everything taken away.
Phone calls done, I allowed myself stillness.
Behind my lids flickered a Super 8 reel of our lives:
Baby Layla wrapped in a pink swaddling blanket,
in wolf ears at Great Wolf Lodge,
a sand bucket on her head in Mexico,
the Blue Lagoon in Iceland.
My heart’s time capsule.
I’ve never been afraid of a bully before. I wouldn’t start now. No one could take Layla from me without a fight.
That night, she fell asleep beside me, needing my skin to sleep. Breath held steady. Calmer. Now.
Counting her breaths in the night was proof I could love.
Her next to my skin, proof I could be loved in return.
***
There was a light knock at the door. Teddy barked. He was hidden in my room with treats. Layla sat quietly in her room.
I strode to the door. I answered with courage.
“Welcome. Please come in.” I had a stranger in my home. The caseworker’s calm manner put me somewhat at ease. They were less bureaucratic than our previous meeting.
I offered a seat on our couch. “No, thank you. I need to check your home. I’m going to inspect the kitchen.”
She proceeded to walk in the kitchen and turn the water off and on. Snooped in my fridge and pantry. She was judging me—it didn’t feel good. I hoped the pantry needing a new paint job didn’t take off points. Was the sink clean enough? Did the dish towels smell? If something were askew, could I lose my kid?
Next, she moved to Layla’s bathroom. It was spic and span. I spent hours cleaning it and the rest of the house. I heard the water turn off and on in the sink and tub. Finished, she came into the living room and walked in a small circle and nodded approvingly.
“Can I go outside?” she said.
“Of course,” I leapt from the couch to unlock the door. She popped out (it was cold) and came back inside. There was nothing there to see. She bobbed her head as if listening to an invisible rhythm.
This visit was going well. We were good enough. I was good enough to parent.
But my stomach dropped when she said,
“I need to speak with Layla. Where is she?”
“Back there.” I pointed towards her room.
I knew Layla was nervous and didn’t know how her interview would go. Would she smile? Would she make eye contact or talk? It was hard to say; her mood was unpredictable. Layla was full of fear.
I heard her knock on the door. The sound roused Teddy. He barked again.
While they spoke, I fiddled with my phone on the couch. Mostly reading Twitter and Instagram. Harmless pastimes, but maybe that makes me a bad parent? I was now questioning my every action.
I strained to hear but couldn’t make out anything.
The caseworker came back.
“How soon will you close out our case?”
“I still have a few more interviews to do. I’m thinking about two weeks. Talk to you then?”
“Let me walk you to the door,” I said while rising.
“No need, I’ll see myself out, have a great day.”
Sweat pooled between my breasts.
It was over.
My family hung in the balance of one woman’s opinions about me.
There was nothing I could do.
I went back to work.
***
A month on pins and needles, the email came through—I was cleared. The agency thanked me for my patience. Patience, really?
I was owed an apology. It wouldn’t come.
Like the staff at The Program, the state had a job to do. That job was to help Layla, in theory, but it felt more like they had a series of boxes to check. They weren’t the ones with her in her den, staking their own lives on her wellbeing. That was me.
About the Author
Brittany Miles writes fiction and essays exploring family, motherhood, mental health, and identity through lyrical, emotionally resonant storytelling. Her work appears in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times, and is forthcoming in Open Secrets Magazine, Tir Literary Magazine, and Minding Our Business: A Blacklandia Anthology on Mental Health and Healing.
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