Joan’s room, with its closet and bureau and table and chair and white blanket with the big blue C on it, was a mirror image of my own. It occurred to me that Joan, hearing where I was, had engaged a room at the asylum on pretense, simply as a joke. That would explain why she had told the nurse I was her friend. I had never known Joan, except at a cool distance.
“How did you get here?” I curled up on Joan’s bed. “I read about you,” Joan said.
“What?”
“I read about you, and I ran away.” “How do you mean?” I said evenly.
“Well,” Joan leaned back in the chintz-flowered asylum armchair, “I had a summer job working for the chapter head of some fraternity, like the Masons, you know, but not the Masons, and I felt terrible. I had these bunions, I could hardly walk–in the last days I had to wear rubber boots to work, instead of shoes, and you can imagine what that did to my morale ”
I thought either Joan must be crazy–wearing rubber boots to work–or she must be trying to see how crazy I was, believing all that. Besides, only old people ever got bunions. I decided to pretend I thought she was crazy, and that I was only humoring her along.
“I always feel lousy without shoes,” I said with an ambiguous smile. “Did your feet hurt much?”
“Terribly. And my boss–he’d just separated from his wife, he couldn’t come right out and get a divorce, because that wouldn’t go with this fraternal order–my boss kept buzzing me in every other minute, and each time I moved my feet hurt like the devil, but the second I’d sit down at my desk again, buzz went the buzzer, and he’d have something else he wanted to get off his chest ”
“Why didn’t you quit?”
“Oh, I did quit, more or less. I stayed off work on sick leave. I didn’t go out. I didn’t see anyone. I stowed the telephone in a drawer and never answered it….
“Then my doctor sent me to a psychiatrist at this big hospital. I had an appointment for twelve o’clock, and I was in an awful state. Finally, at half past twelve, the receptionist came out and told me the doctor had gone to lunch. She asked me if I wanted to wait, and I said yes.”
“Did he come back?” The story sounded rather involved for Joan to have made up out of whole cloth, but I led her on, to see what would
come of it.
“Oh yes. I was going to kill myself, mind you. I said ‘If this
doctor doesn’t do the trick, that’s the end.’ Well, the receptionist led me down a long hall, and just as we got to the door she turned to me and said, ‘You don’t mind if there are a few students with the doctor, will you?’ What could I say? ‘Oh no,’ I said. I walked in and found nine pairs of eyes fixed on me. Nine! Eighteen separate eyes.
“Now, if that receptionist had told me there were going to be nine people in mat room, I’d have walked out on me spot. But mere I was, and it was too late to do a thing about it. Well, on this particular day I happened to be wearing a fur coat ”
“In August?”
“Oh, it was one of those cold, wet days, and I thought, my first psychiatrist–you know. Anyway, this psychiatrist kept eyeing mat fur coat me whole time I talked to him, and I could just see what he thought of my asking to pay me students cut rate instead of me full fee. I could see me dollar signs in his eyes. Well, I told him I don’t know whatall–about me bunions and the telephone in me drawer and how I wanted to kill myself–and men he asked me to wait outside while he discussed my case with the others, and when he called me back in, you know what he said?”
“What?”
“He folded his hands together and looked at me and said, ‘Miss Gilling, we have decided mat you would benefit by group therapy.”
“Group therapy?” I thought I must sound phony as an echo chamber, but Joan didn’t pay any notice.
“That’s what he said. Can, you imagine me wanting to kill myself, and coming round to chat about it with a whole pack of strangers, and most of them no better man myself ”
“That’s crazy.” I was growing involved in spite of myself. “That’s not even human.”
“That’s just what I said. I went straight home and wrote that doctor a letter. I wrote him one beautiful letter about how a man like that had no business setting himself up to help sick people….”
“Did you get any answer?”
“I don’t know. That was the day I read about you.” “How do you mean?”
“Oh,” Joan said, “about how the police thought you were dead and all. I’ve got a pile of clippings somewhere.” She heaved herself up, and I had a strong horsey whiff that made my nostrils prickle. Joan had been a champion horse-jumper at the annual college gymkhana, and I wondered if she had been sleeping in a stable.
Joan rummaged in her open suitcase and came up with a fistful
of clippings.
“Here, have a look.”
The first clipping showed a big, blown-up picture of a girl with
black-shadowed eyes and black lips spread in a grin. I couldn’t imagine where such a tarty picture had been taken until I noticed the Bloomingdale earrings and the Bloomingdale necklace glinting out of it with bright, white highlights, like imitation stars.
SCHOLARSHIP GIRL MISSING. MOTHER WORRIED.
The article under the picture told how this girl had disappeared from her home on August 17th, wearing a green skirt and a white blouse, and had left a note saying she was taking a long walk. When Miss Greenwood had not returned by midnight, it said, her mother called the town police.
The next clipping showed a picture of my mother and brother and me grouped together in our backyard and smiling. I couldn’t think who had taken that picture either, until I saw I was wearing dungarees and white sneakers and remembered that was what I wore in my spinach-picking summer, and how Dodo Conway had dropped by and taken some family snaps of the three of us one hot afternoon. Mrs. Greenwood asked that this picture be printed in hopes that it will encourage her daughter to return home.
SLEEPING PILLS FEARED MISSING WITH GIRL
A dark, midnight picture of about a dozen moon-faced people in a wood. I thought the people at the end of the row looked queer and unusually short until I realized they were not people, but dogs. Bloodhounds used in search for missing girl. Police Sgt. Bill Hindly says: It doesn’t look good.
GIRL FOUND ALIVE!
The last picture showed policemen lifting a long, limp blanket roll with a featureless cabbage head into the back of an ambulance. Then it told how my mother had been down in the cellar, doing the week’s laundry, when she heard faint groans coming from a disused hole….
scrapbook.”
I laid the clippings on the white spread of the bed.
“You keep them,” Joan said. “You ought to stick them in a
I folded the clippings and slipped them in my pocket.
“I read about you,” Joan went on. “Not how they found you,
but everything up to that, and I put all my money together and took the first plane to New York.”
“Why New York?”
“Oh, I thought it would be easier to kill myself in New York.” “What did you do?”
Joan grinned sheepishly and stretched out her hands, palm up. Like a miniature mountain range, large, reddish weals upheaved across the white flesh of her wrists.
“How did you do that?” For the first time it occurred to me Joan and I might have something in common.
“I shoved my fists through my roommate’s window.” “What roommate?”
“My old college roommate. She was working in New York, and I couldn’t think of anyplace else to stay, and besides, I’d hardly any money left, so I went to stay with her. My parents found me there–she’d written them I was acting funny–and my father flew straight down and brought me back.”
“But you’re all right now.” I made it a statement.
Joan considered me with her bright, pebble-gray eyes. “I guess so,” she said. “ Aren’t you?”
I had fallen asleep after the evening meal.
I was awakened by a loud voice. Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister. As I pulled out of sleep, I found I was beating on the bedpost with my hands and calling. The sharp, wry figure of Mrs. Bannister, the night nurse, scurried into view.
“Here, we don’t want you to break this.” She unfastened the band of my watch. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Mrs. Bannister’s face twisted into a quick smile. “You’ve had a
reaction.”
“A reaction?”
“Yes, how do you feel?” “Funny. Sort of light and airy.” Mrs. Bannister helped me sit up.
“You’ll be better now. You’ll be better in no time. Would you
like some hot milk?”
“Yes.”
When Mrs. Bannister brought the cup to my lips, I savored the hot milk, letting it spread across my tongue, tasting it indulgently, the way a baby might savor its mother’s milk.
“Mrs. Bannister says you had a reaction,” Doctor Nolan said as she settled into the armchair by the window. She took out a tiny box of matches, which looked exactly like the one I had hidden in the hem of my bathrobe. For a moment, I wondered if a nurse had found it and quietly returned it to Doctor Nolan.
Doctor Nolan struck a match, and a hot yellow flame flared to life. I watched as she drew the flame into her cigarette.
“Mrs. B. says you felt better.”
“I did, for a while. Now I’m the same again.”
“I have news for you.”
I waited. For what felt like countless days, I had spent my mornings, afternoons, and evenings wrapped in my white blanket on the deck chair in the alcove, pretending to read. I had a vague feeling that Doctor Nolan was giving me a certain number of days before she’d say what Doctor Gordon had: “I’m sorry, you don’t seem to have improved. I think you’d better have some shock treatments.”
“Well, don’t you want to know what it is?”
“What?” I asked, dull and resigned.
“You’re not to have any more visitors for a while.”
I stared at Doctor Nolan in surprise. “Why, that’s wonderful.”
“I thought you’d be pleased,” she smiled.
Then both Doctor Nolan and I glanced at the wastebasket beside my bureau, where the blood-red buds of a dozen long-stemmed roses poked out.
That afternoon, my mother had come to visit me.
My mother was just one in a long line of visitors—my former employer, the lady Christian Scientist who walked with me on the lawn, talking about the mist rising from the earth in the Bible, how it symbolized error, and how my problem was that I believed in the mist. She said the moment I stopped believing in it, it would vanish, and I’d realize I had always been well. Then there was my high school English teacher, who tried to rekindle my love of words by teaching me Scrabble, and Philomena Guinea herself, who wasn’t at all satisfied with what the doctors were doing and kept telling them so.
I despised these visits.
I’d be sitting in my alcove or room when a smiling nurse would pop in to announce another visitor. Once, they even brought the minister from the Unitarian church, whom I’d never liked. He was terribly nervous, and I could tell he thought I was as crazy as a loon because I told him I believed in hell and that some people, like me, had to live in hell before they died to make up for not experiencing it after death. I explained that each person’s belief determined what happened to them when they died.
I hated these visits because I could feel the visitors measuring my stringy hair and sagging skin against what I had been and what they hoped I would be. I knew they left utterly baffled.
I thought if they would just leave me alone, I might find some peace.
My mother was the worst. She never scolded me but kept pleading with a sorrowful expression, asking what she had done wrong. She was sure the doctors thought she had done something wrong because they asked her so many questions about my toilet training, which she insisted had been perfectly fine—I had been trained at an early age with no trouble at all.
That afternoon, my mother had brought me the roses. “Save them for my funeral,” I’d told her.
Her face crumpled as if she might cry. “But Esther, don’t you remember what day it is?”
“No,” I replied, thinking it might be Saint Valentine’s Day.
“It’s your birthday.”
That’s when I threw the roses in the wastebasket.
“That was a silly thing for her to do,” I said to Doctor Nolan.
Doctor Nolan nodded as if she understood.
“I hate her,” I confessed, bracing for a reprimand.
But Doctor Nolan only smiled at me, as if something had pleased her immensely, and said, “I suppose you do.”
