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I blame the mother. I never liked that woman. Deborah—accent on the “bor.” At her daughter’s first lesson, Deborah sat on my modest sofa in her pearls and expensive shoes—they probably cost more than I make in six months as a piano teacher—and constantly interrupted while I struggled to get to know the child.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mary-Lynn. Tell me about yourself. Do you go to Bradford Elementary School?”

Mom answered, “Mary-Lynn goes to Merriweather Day School.” Of course—an upper-crust private school.

“That’s lovely, Mary-Lynn. What kind of music do you like?”

The little girl looked up at me with her startling bright blue eyes and started to answer, but her mother cut her off. “We only play classical music in the house. Oh, and some jazz on the weekends.”

“But I like the Barenaked Ladies,” Mary-Lynn said.

Deborah seemed taken aback. “The what?”

Mary-Lynn giggled, her auburn pigtails bouncing merrily. “The Barenaked Ladies. Sometimes we listen to them at school during art class. Miss Finley loves them.”

“Well, I can see I’m going to have to have a talk with Miss Finley.”

This was going nowhere, so I politely told Mom to hush up. She did, though she obviously didn’t like it one darned bit; she wasn’t used to being told what to do. But I had a reputation for turning out little Mozarts, and I kept a waiting list a mile long of affluent families like hers who wanted their children’s fingers to be trained by yours truly. Now that she’d found her way in, she didn’t want to get on my bad side.

Meanwhile, Mary-Lynn sat there all prim and proper in her expensive Oshkosh overalls and cute pink Stride Rites, the picture of sweetness. She listened to all I said and followed each direction. I thought she’d be a fine little student if I could convince her mother not to stick around during the lessons.

My wish came true the second week. Deborah escorted Mary-Lynn up the walkway from the car, chatting on her cell phone the entire time and not even saying “hello” when I answered the door. Once I took the child’s hand, Mom abruptly turned and clicked back to her car, giving me a view of her gym-toned butt and bottle-blonde bob. She sat out there for the half-hour lesson.

“Mommy has a boyfriend,” Mary-Lynn sang as she skipped into the music room and plopped down on the bench. “That’s who she’s talking to on the phone.”

Shocked, I didn’t know what to say.

“His name is Josh. Daddy doesn’t know.”

I cleared my throat and took her piano books from the fancy music satchel her mother had purchased. “Mary-Lynn, you probably shouldn’t be talking about this.”

She wiggled on the bench cushion and smiled innocently. “Why not? It’s funny. She’s so dumb she thinks I don’t know. But she talks to him all the time when I’m in the car, and I hear everything she says. If Daddy found out, he’d kill her.”

I opened the lesson book and placed it on the music stand.

“Well, when you’re here, you should be focused on music. Now, let’s see what you’ve accomplished this week. Did you do those five-finger exercises?”

“No, but I can play this!” She launched into a two-fingered version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” This did not impress me, but one must encourage any musical ambition in a child.

“That’s very nice, and soon you’ll be able to play it the right way if you pay attention and do your exercises each week.”

“Okay, I’ll practice this week, I promise.”

The rest of that lesson went well, but as the weeks went by, things rapidly deteriorated. With her mother sitting in the car each week, little Mary-Lynn became—how can I put this— rowdier. I tried to teach her, but she banged on the keys, talked constantly, and could not sit still. She continued to bait me with talk of Josh and how mad her father would be when he found out.

Perhaps worst of all, at least for my psyche, she’d taught herself to play the infernal theme song from that Inspector Gadget movie, and that’s all she ever wanted to play. Over and over, faster and faster for thirty long minutes. Then we’d pack up her books and I’d escort her to the door and watch her skip down the walk to her mother’s Mercedes.

After a few weeks of this, I did the only thing I could. I called DeBORah and explained the situation.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Robar.” She paused, then continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “I didn’t want to tell you this up front, but Mary-Lynn has been diagnosed with ADHD.”

I didn’t respond.

“I’ll be completely frank with you. Her pediatrician advised us to get her into as many activities as possible to help burn off her energy, so honestly, I don’t care if she learns the piano or not. Please just keep her occupied for that precious thirty minutes a week.”

“But Mrs. Edlesworth, that’s not what—”

She hung up.

The following week, an unfamiliar young woman who had the demeanor of a rag doll dropped Mary-Lynn off. She introduced herself as “Mary-Lynn’s nanny” and informed me that she would bring the child to lessons henceforth, as Mrs. Edlesworth had joined the Tennis Club and the times conflicted. Then she handed me an envelope containing a card. I opened the card and found a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. The message in the card read:

With a tip like that, I certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Meanwhile, Mary-Lynn continued to irritate. Another month went by, and it didn’t seem that the plethora of activities helped her burn off any energy. She played that mind-numbing song incessantly, stopping only to tell me about her mother’s conversations with Josh. Some of her stories included words no child her age should know, let alone say.

One November day, she stomped into the house and threw her music bag on the floor. “I don’t want to take piano lessons anymore. It’s stupid.”

I composed myself before speaking, smoothing my skirt and clasping my hands in my lap. I had a speech I used in such situations.

“Mary-Lynn, do you know how many grownups wish they could play a musical instrument? Your parents have given you a gift. If you keep up with lessons, you’ll be special your whole life.”

“I’m already special. That’s what Mommy tells all her friends, anyway. She never tells me that, though. She just punishes me by sending me to my room when I want her to play with me. She doesn’t want to do anything with me. I hate her.” She burst into tears.

I took her in my arms and comforted her for thirty minutes.

The following week, everything changed.

I opened the door to a brand-new nanny and, to my surprise, a brand-new Mary-Lynn. Gone was the rambunctious little girl with her rat-a-tat stories and constant playing of the Inspector Gadget theme. A sedate, calm child had replaced her. The nanny introduced herself and handed me an envelope. This time, the card read:

Another hundred-dollar bill slid out of the card.

Not knowing what to expect, I sat beside the little girl, who didn’t acknowledge me.

“Hello, Mary-Lynn. How are you doing today?”

“Okay. I’m ready for my lesson,” she mumbled, looking straight ahead at the piano.

I decided to proceed as though this were her first lesson, and to my surprise, she paid attention. When she returned the following week, she’d practiced, and slowly but surely, she began to play properly. But there was a downside.

Week after week, she progressively became more subdued. Even her skin tone changed and lost its childlike vibrance. She played adequately but displayed no happiness, no giggling, no joy in the learning.

I missed the Inspector Gadget theme.

Her mother had found a magic elixir to turn her child into the daughter she wanted, but it came with a price. Why Deborah wasn’t satisfied mystified me.

You see, every few weeks, the nanny handed me a new note with a similar message:

The doctor has changed Mary-Lynn’s medication. Hopefully, we’ll see improvement. Deborah Edlesworth

Then, one week:

We’ve changed pediatricians and are now seeing one in Boston. We hope that she can help us with Mary-Lynn’s out-of-control behavior. Thank you for your continued patience. – Deborah Edlesworth

The hundred-dollar bills kept coming, but I began to see them as hush money. I’m no doctor, but it seemed to me that this woman was over-medicating her child, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

We were about six months into lessons when I received a letter from Deborah in the mail.

This stunned me. How could the zombie-like child I’d been teaching for the past several months need further treatment for hyperactivity? It didn’t make any sense.

I didn’t cash the check. Instead, I tried to put the whole matter out of my mind.

Two months later, my cell phone began blowing up with text messages and missed calls while I taught a lesson. When I finally finished for the evening, I returned a call from my friend Eleanor.

“Did you hear what happened? That mom you didn’t like—Deborah Edlesworth? Her husband shot and killed her this morning. They say he came home and caught her with her tennis instructor. Shot them both right in front of the little girl, then shot himself.”

It took me a while to get over that one. Things like this don’t happen often in the life of a piano teacher. But just when I thought I’d moved past it, I experienced something even more bizarre.

Shopping at the local mall one day, I spotted Mary-Lynn standing in line with an older woman at Auntie Anne’s. Her appearance was healthier, but she still displayed the zoned-out affect she’d had when I last saw her. I stopped, said hello, and introduced myself to her grandmother, but the child didn’t seem to remember me.

Then, as I turned to go, she looked at me and winked. I know she did. I didn’t imagine it.

I still can’t sleep, wondering what exactly that wink meant.

Locked in the Psych Ward: A Memoir of Broken Promises and False Confessions

by Jamie Lyn Weaver

    A struggling woman is admitted to a prestigious Chicago hospital seeking help for her compulsions. Instead, her unethical psychiatrist ignores her actual problem and "treats" her as a victim of satanic ritual abuse. He uses powerful drugs and discredited forms of therapy to convince her she spent years in a cult where she sacrificed babies and committed other heinous acts.   Every page of Weaver’s riveting memoir shows how she struggled to maintain her sanity through one terrifying experience after another.   Learn more about the book and its author at jamielynweaver.com   Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes and Noble, or ask for it at your local independent bookseller.

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