by Anne Rice
But he knew the garden was impossible, even far away from the reek of the pool. The thorny bougainvillea burst in clumps from beneath the wild cherry laurel. Fat little cherubs, streaked with slime, peered out of overgrown lantana like ghosts.
Yet once children had played here.
Some boy or girl had carved the word Lasher into the thick trunk of the giant crepe myrtle that grew against the far fence. The deep gashes had weathered so that they gleamed white against the waxy bark. Strange word that. And a wooden swing was still hanging from the branch of the distant oak.
He’d walked back to that lonely tree, and sat down on the swing for a moment, felt the rusted chains creak, then move as he pushed his foot into the crushed grass.
The southern flank of the house looked mammoth and overwhelmingly beautiful to him from this perspective, the flowering vines climbing together all the way up past the green shuttered windows to the twin chimneys above the third floor. The dark bamboo rattled in the breeze against the plastered masonry. The glossy banana trees grew so high and dense they made a jungle clear back to the brick wall.
It was like his patient, this old place—beautiful yet forgotten by time, by urgency.
Her face might be pretty still if it were not so utterly lifeless. Did she see the delicate purple clusters of wisteria, shivering against the screens, the writhing tangle of other blooms? Could she see all the way through the trees to the white columned house across the street?
Once he had ridden upstairs with her and her nurse in the quaint yet powerful little elevator with its brass gate and worn carpet. No change in Deirdre’s expression as the little car began to rise. It made him anxious to hear the churning machinery. He could not imagine the motor except as something blackened and sticky and ancient, coated with dust.
Of course he had questioned the old doctor at the sanitarium.
“I remember when I was your age,” said the old doctor. “I was going to cure all of them. I was going to reason with the paranoiacs, and bring the schizophrenics back to reality, and make the catatonics wake up. You give her that shot every day, son. There’s nothing there anymore. We just do our best to keep her from getting worked up now and then, you know, the agitation.”
Agitation? That was the reason for these powerful drugs? Even if the shots were stopped tomorrow it would be a month before the effects had fully worn off. And the levels used were so high they might have killed another patient. You had to build up to a dosage like that.
How could anyone know the true state of the woman when the medication had gone on for so long? If only he could run an electroencephalogram….
He’d been on the case about a month when he sent for the records. It was a routine request. No one noticed. He sat at his desk at the sanitarium all afternoon struggling with the scrawl of dozens of other physicians, the vague and contradictory diagnoses—mania, paranoia, complete exhaustion, delusions, psychotic break, depression, attempted suicide. It went all the way back to the girl’s teens apparently. No, even before. Someone had seen her for “dementia” when she was ten years old.
What were the specifics behind these abstractions? Somewhere in the mountain of scribble he found that she had borne a girl child at eighteen, given it up, suffered “severe paranoia.”
Is that why they had given her shock treatments in one place and insulin shock in another? What had she done to the nurses who over and over again quit on account of “physical attacks”?
She had “run away” at one point, been “forcibly committed” again. Then pages were missing, whole years uncharted. “Irreversible brain damage” was noted in 1976. “Patient sent home, Thorazine prescribed to prevent palsy, mania.”
It was an ugly document, telling no story, revealing no truth. And it discouraged him, finally. Had a legion of other doctors talked to her the way he did now when he sat beside her on the side porch?
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Deirdre?” Ah, the breeze here, so fragrant. The scent of the gardenias was suddenly overpowering, yet he loved it. Just for a moment, he closed his eyes.
Did she loathe him, laugh at him, even know he was there? There were a few streaks of gray in her hair, he saw that now. Her hand was cold, unpleasant to touch.
The nurse came out with a blue envelope in her hand, a snapshot.
“It’s from your daughter, Deirdre. See? She’s twenty-four years old now, Deirdre.” She held the snapshot out for the doctor to see too. A blond girl on the deck of a big white yacht, hair blowing in the wind. Pretty, very pretty. “On San Francisco Bay, 1983.”
Nothing changed in the woman’s face. The nurse brushed the black hair back from her forehead. She thrust the picture at the doctor. “See that girl? That girl’s a doctor, too!” She gave him a great superior nod. “She’s an intern, going to be a medical doctor just like you someday, that’s the truth.”
Was it possible? Had the young woman never come home to see to her own mother? He disliked her suddenly. Going to be a medical doctor, indeed.
How long had it been since his patient had worn a dress or a real pair of shoes? He longed to play a radio for her. Maybe she would like music. The nurse had her television soap operas on all afternoon in the back kitchen.
He came to distrust the nurses as he distrusted the aunts.
The tall one who wrote the checks for him—“Miss Carl”—was a lawyer still though she must have been in her seventies. She came and went from her offices on Carondelet Street in a taxicab because she could no longer climb up on the high wooden step of the St. Charles car. For fifty years, she had told him once when he had met her at the gate, she had ridden the St. Charles car.
“Oh, yes,” the nurse said one afternoon as she was brushing Deirdre’s hair very slowly, very gently. “Miss Carl’s the smart one. Works for Judge Fleming. One of the first women ever to graduate from the Loyola School of Law. She was seventeen years old when she went to Loyola. Her father was old Judge McIntyre, and she was ever so proud of him.”
Miss Carl never spoke to the patient, not that the doctor had ever seen. It was the portly one, “Miss Nancy,” who was mean to her, or so the doctor thought.
“They say Miss Nancy never had much chance for an education,” the nurse gossiped. “Always home taking care of the others. There used to be old Miss Belle here too.”
There was something sullen and almost common about “Miss Nancy.” Dumpy, neglected, always wearing her apron yet speaking to the nurse in that patronizing artificial voice. Miss Nancy had a faint sneer on her lips when she looked at Deirdre.
And then there was Miss Millie, the eldest of them all, who was actually some sort of cousin—a classic in old lady black silk and string shoes. She came and went, never without her worn gloves and her small black straw hat with its veil. She had a cheery smile for the doctor, and a kiss for Deirdre. “That’s my poor dear sweetheart,” she would say in a tremulous voice.
One afternoon, he had come upon Miss Millie standing on the broken flags by the pool.
“Nowhere to begin anymore, Doctor,” she had said sadly.
It was not his place to challenge her, yet something quickened in him to hear this tragedy acknowledged.
“And how Stella loved to swim here,” the old woman said. “It was Stella who built it, Stella who had so many plans and dreams. Stella put in the elevator, you know. That’s just the sort of thing that Stella would do. Stella gave such parties. Why, I remember hundreds in the house, tables over the whole lawn, and the bands that would play. You’re too young, Doctor, to remember that lively music. Stella had those draperies made in the double parlor, and now they’re too old to be cleaned anymore. That’s what they said. They’d fall apart if we tried to clean them now. And it was Stella who had paths of flagstones laid here, all along the pool. You see, like the old flags in the front and along the side …” She broke off, pointing down the long side of the house at the distant patio so crowded by weeds. It was as if she couldn’t speak anymore. Slowly she looked up
at the high attic window.
He had wanted to ask, But who is Stella?
“Poor darling Stella.”
He had envisioned paper lanterns strung through the trees.
Maybe they were simply too old, these women. And that young one, the intern or whatever she was, two thousand miles away….
Miss Nancy bullied the silent Deirdre. She’d watch the nurse walking the patient, then shout in the patient’s ear.
“Pick up your feet. You know damn good and well you could walk on your own if you wanted to.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Miss Deirdre’s hearing,” the nurse would interrupt her. “Doctor says she can hear and see just fine.”
Once he tried to question Miss Nancy as she swept the upstairs hallway, thinking, well, maybe out of anger she’ll shed a little light.
“Is there ever the slightest change in her? Does she ever speak … even a single word?”
The woman squinted at him for a long moment, the sweat gleaming on her round face, her nose painfully red at the bridge from the weight of her glasses.
“I’ll tell you what I want to know!” she said. “Who’s going to take care of her when we’re no longer here! You think that spoilt daughter out in California is going to take care of her? That girl doesn’t even know her mother’s name. It’s Ellie Mayfair who sends those pictures.” She snorted. “Ellie Mayfair hasn’t set foot in this house since the day that baby was born and she came to take that baby out of here. All she wanted was that baby because she couldn’t have a baby of her own, and she was scared to death her husband would leave her. He’s some big lawyer out there. You know what Carl paid Ellie to take that baby? To see to it that girl never came home? Oh, just get her out of here, that was the idea. Made Ellie sign a paper.” She gave a bitter smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “Send her to California with Ellie and Graham to live in a fancy house on San Francisco Bay with a big boat and all, that’s what happened to Deirdre’s daughter.”
Ah, so the young woman did not know, he thought, but he said nothing.
“Let Carl and Nancy stay here and take care of things!” The woman went on. “That’s the song in this family. Let Carl write the checks and let Nancy cook and scrub. And what the hell has Millie ever done? Millie just goes to church, and prays for us all. Isn’t that grand? Aunt Millie’s more useless than Aunt Belle ever was. I’ll tell you what Aunt Millie can do best. Cut flowers. Aunt Millie cuts those roses now and then, those roses growing wild out there.”
She gave a deep ugly laugh, and went past him into the patient’s bedroom, gripping the broom by its greasy handle.
“You know you can’t ask a nurse to sweep a floor! Oh, no, they wouldn’t stoop to that, now, would they? Would you care to tell me why a nurse cannot sweep a floor?”
The bedroom was clean all right, the master bedroom of the house it appeared to be, a large airy northern room. Ashes in the marble fireplace. And what a bed his patient slept in, one of those massive things made at the end of the last century, with the towering half tester of walnut and tufted silk.
He was glad of the smell of floor wax and fresh linen. But the room was full of dreadful religious artifacts. On the marble dresser stood a statue of the Virgin with the naked red heart on her breast, lurid, and disgusting to look at. A crucifix lay beside it, with a twisting, writhing body of Christ in natural colors even to the dark blood flowing from the nails in his hands. Candles burned in red glasses, beside a bit of withered palm.
“Does she notice these religious things?” the doctor asked.
“Hell, no,” Miss Nancy said. Whiffs of camphor rose from the dresser drawers as she straightened their contents. “Lot of good they do under this roof!”
There were rosaries hung about the carved brass lamps, even through their faded satin shades. And it seemed nothing had been changed here for decades. The yellow lace curtains were stiff and rotted in places. Catching the sun they seemed to hold it, casting their own burnt and somber light.
There was the jewel box on the marble-top bedside table. Open. As if the contents weren’t priceless, which of course they were. Even the doctor, with his scant knowledge of such things, knew those jewels were real.
Beside the jewel box stood the snapshot of the pretty blond-haired daughter. And beneath it a much older and faded picture of the same girl, small but even then quite pretty. Scribble at the bottom. He could only make out: “Pacific Heights School, 1966.”
When he touched the velvet cover of the jewel box, Miss Nancy had turned and all but screamed at him.
“Don’t you touch that, Doctor!”
“Good Lord, woman, you don’t think I’m a thief.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about this house and this patient. Why do you think the shutters are all broken, Doctor? Almost fallen off their hinges? Why do you think the plaster’s peeling off the brick?” She shook her head, the soft flesh of her cheeks wobbling, her colorless mouth set. “Just let somebody try to fix those shutters. Just let someone climb a ladder and try to paint this house.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the doctor.
“Don’t ever touch her jewels, Doctor, that’s what I’m saying. Don’t touch a thing around here you don’t have to. That swimming pool out there, for instance. All choked with leaves and filth like it is, but those old fountains run into it still, you ever think about that? Just try to turn off those faucets, Doctor!”
“But who—?”
“Leave her jewels alone, Doctor. That’s my advice to you.”
“Would changing things make her speak?” he asked boldly, impatient with all this, and not afraid of this aunt the way he was of Miss Carl.
The woman laughed. “No, it wouldn’t make her do anything,” Nancy answered with a sneer. She slammed the drawer into the bureau. Glass rosary beads tinkled against a small statue of Jesus. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to clean out the bathroom, too.”
He looked at the bearded Jesus, the finger pointing to the crown of thorns around his heart.
Maybe they were all crazy. Maybe he would go crazy himself if he didn’t get out of this house.
Once, when he was alone in the dining room, he’d seen that word again—Lasher—written in the thick dust on the table. It was done as if by fingertip. Great fancy capital L. Now, what could it possibly mean? It was dusted away when he came the following afternoon, the only time in fact that he had ever seen the dust disturbed there, where the silver tea service on the sideboard was tarnished black. Faded the murals on these walls, yet he could see a plantation scene if he studied them, yes, that same house that was in the painting in the hall. Only after he had studied the chandelier for a long time did he realize it had never been wired for electricity. There was wax still on the candle holders. Ah, such a sadness, the whole place.
At night at home in his modern apartment overlooking the lake, he couldn’t stop brooding on his patient. He wondered if her eyes were open as she lay in bed.
“Maybe I have an obligation—” But then what obligation? Her doctor was a reputable psychiatrist. Wouldn’t do to question his judgment. Wouldn’t do to try anything foolish—like taking her out for a ride in the country, or bringing a radio to the porch. Or stopping the sedatives to see what would happen?
Or picking up a phone and contacting that daughter, the intern. Made Ellie sign a paper. Twenty-four years old was plenty old enough to be told a few things about one’s own mother.
And surely common sense dictated a break in Deirdre’s medication once in a while. And what about a complete reevaluation? He had to at least suggest it.
“You just give her the shots,” said the old doctor. “Visit with her an hour a day. That’s what you’re asked to do.” Slight coldness this time around. Old fool!
No wonder he was so glad the afternoon he had first seen the man visiting her.
It was early September, and still warm. And as he turned in the gate, he saw the man on the screen porch beside her, obviously t
alking to her, his arm resting on the back of her chair.
A tall, brown-haired man, rather slender.
The doctor felt a curious possessive feeling. A man he didn’t know with his patient. But he was eager to meet him actually. Maybe the man would explain things that the women would not. And surely he was a good friend. There was something intimate in the way he stood so close, the way he inclined toward the silent Deirdre.
But when the doctor came out on the porch there was no visitor. And he could find no one in the front rooms.
“You know, I saw a man here a while ago,” he said to the nurse when she came in. “He was talking to Miss Deirdre.”
“I didn’t see him,” the nurse had said offhandedly.
Miss Nancy, shelling peas in the kitchen when he found her, stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head, her chin jutting. “I didn’t hear anybody come in.”
Well, isn’t that the damnedest thing! But he had to confess, it had only been for an instant—a glimpse through screens. No, but he saw the man there.
“If only you could speak to me,” he said to Deirdre when they were alone. He was preparing the injection. “If only you could tell me if you want to have visitors, if it matters …” Her arm was so thin. When he glanced at her, the needle ready, she was staring at him!
“Deirdre?”
His heart pounded.
The eyes rolled to the left, and she stared forward, mute and listless as before. And the heat, which the doctor had come to like, seemed suddenly oppressive. The doctor felt light-headed in fact, as though he was about to faint. Beyond the blackened, dusty screen, the lawn seemed to move.
Now, he’d never fainted in his life, and as he thought that over, as he tried to think it over, he realized he’d been talking with the man, yes, the man was here, no, not here now, but just had been. They had been in the middle of a conversation, and now he’d lost the thread, or no, that wasn’t it, it was that he suddenly couldn’t remember how long they’d been talking, and it was so strange to have been talking all this time together, and not recall how it started!
