by Shani Mootoo
The sedative wore off slowly. As the weight of induced sleep lifted, sobs escaped my new patient. By evening she tried to turn but was too weak to fight the restraints. She had opened her eyes and seemed now to be almost afraid to close them again. Tears rolled from her face. I began to talk to her, to tell her where she was and who I was, but on hearing my voice she began a deep, fearful moaning. It did not take me long to realize that my movements, no matter how slight, terrified her. I sat still on a chair by her bed, and for an hour she watched as I tried to remain still, even as the room filled with attacking mosquitoes. The light outside faded and through the window I could see electric light bulbs shining in the valley. Still I did not move. Eventually I became dizzy from hunger and started to get up. She began to moan and pulled back into the bed, as though afraid that I might hurt her. I had no choice; she had to eat and it was clear that no one was going to bring her food. I inched out of the room. Her eyes followed me to the door and her breathing became heavy. I could not tell if she wanted me to stay or leave.
The other residents had already been fed and the nurses were finishing their meals in the dining room of the house we share. Sister regarded me coldly as I went toward the kitchen.
“It’s past the residents’ meal hour. And past the staff’s meal hour also. Exactly what are you up to?”
“I was in Miss Ramchandin’s room, Sister. She woke up and I detected what I think are symptoms of trauma so I did not want to leave her alone.”
“Mr. Tyler, I know that you had formal training and it was abroad and all of that kind of thing, but that does not give you the authority to make up rules for yourself. You will always find troublesome residents but in the end, at their age, they are all like children. And when children misbehave, you have to discipline them. Not so? don’t get too thoughtful over that Mala Ramchandin. She committed—”
“Sister, I beg your pardon, but there was no trial and no concrete evidence that she ever did anything. She has not eaten for several hours. If she does not eat something now, she will surely slip away.”
I heard a sigh of exasperation from one of the nurses at the table. Sister remained silent for a moment to confirm her agreement with the sigh, and then she continued.
“She is old and may well slip away whether she eat or not. That is the nature of working in a home for old people, Mr. Tyler. It have dasheen soup and egg sandwiches for the residents. See if she will eat that. If she doesn’t, there is nothing else you can do. She will eat if and when she is good and ready. But if you go and make too much fuss of her, she will be no end of trouble for all of us. Is best not to start them off with bad habits. You understand me, Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“You are assigned to her room tonight. Do not take the straps off until I take a look at her tomorrow morning. You understand me? I will judge when she is not a danger to herself or to any of us.”
Before going back to Miss Ramchandin’s bungalow, I went to my room to regain my composure. I could hear the nurses’ scandalous laughter and their chatter through the floorboards. I combed my hair back and tied a ’kerchief around my neck to ward off a chill from the night air. On my way out, I had to pass the nurses again in the dining room. Sister had already retired for the evening. The chatter fell silent and all eyes turned on me. One of the women spoke up.
“But, eh-heh, Mr. Tyler! Where you going dress up so?”
“You are referring to the addition of my neckerchief?”
“Eh-heh!” And she turned to the others and said, “But it nice, eh? You really know how to look good. What material it is?”
“It is nothing fancy, just a light cotton ’kerchief against the cold.”
“But it suit you well. Is a nice colour! I will have to consult you sometime, yes!” They nodded among themselves, making additional comments, all in the same condescending tone. It was the kind of notice one might shower on a child. But I am not a child and I knew there to be malice in their words. Behind the flattery, the edge of mockery was plain to anyone who must, as a matter of survival, learn to detect it. I could detail for you the number of times I have come across that same tone. I am aware of the subtleties and incremental degrees in a hostility—from the tight smile to the seemingly accidental shove—and I have known the gamut. But what would be the value of laying it all out before you? The temptation is strong, I will admit, to be the romantic victim. There is in me a performer dying for the part, but I must be strict with myself and stay with my intention to relate Mala Ramchandin’s story.
I will add this and nothing more: I employed then the one strategy of survival that has saved me time and time again, here and in the Shivering Wetlands. Since I couldn’t hide and knew better than to flaunt, I was quietly proud and did not enter into a façade of denial. I smiled at the nurse and said, “Yes, I would be happy to give you a pointer or two. I would quite enjoy that. Sorry I have to run now, though. Enjoy your evening.” I picked up the food before another word could be spoken, and considered the encounter a relative success.
From outside Miss Ramchandin’s bungalow I could hear nothing but squealing crickets and frogs. I knocked on her door, not expecting an invitation to enter, but to announce that I was back. When I entered, her eyes were already alert and on me.
I began a quiet chatter. “It’s soup. It smells good. I brought a cup for me, too. I thought we could eat together.” I did not watch her but could feel she had not taken her eyes off me. She made no sounds, even her breathing seemed consciously regulated.
“It’s cool outside. The frogs and the crickets like it when it is like this. Can you hear them? They sound like they are making music together. May I rest the tray here?” I set the tray with two cups of soup and some slices of bread (no eggs) on her bed and pulled up a chair. I noticed her eyes, wide open and expressionless, glued to my movements. I was afraid to look directly at her for fear that the spell might be broken. Without meeting her stare I looked at her hair.
“I’ll just smooth back your hair a little.” I stroked her forehead twice. There was no hair on her forehead to smooth back but I wanted her to feel in my touch that I would not harm her. Happily, she was no longer damp, though she was still rather cool.
“Miss Ramchandin, are you cold?”
No response.
“Well, I’ll just throw this sheet over your feet. If you get too hot, you can push it off. You know, just give it a little kick.” I felt awkward, not meaning to bring attention to the restraints. There was still no recognition that she heard me. I became acutely conscious of my movements and the subtleties of my tone, which may have been all that communicated with her.
“Mmmm, this smells so good. It’s dasheen soup. Only fresh dasheen leaves, water and salt. Nothing else. Just try a little.” I put a half-filled spoon to her lips, then realized her head needed to be propped up to avoid a mess. She did not make a move or even look at the spoon. She just continued to stare at me. Then I detected a slight change in her face, the slightest frown, perhaps perplexity or wonder. I put the bowl on the tray, found her towel and made it into a little roll that I placed under her head.
“How does that feel? If it’s uncomfortable, let me know and I will fix it for you.” When I brought the spoon to her mouth again, she turned her head away slightly and muscles around her mouth twitched. Still her eyes were locked on mine. Even though her actions suggested she did not want the food, I was overjoyed to have been given an indication of her will.
“All right. If you don’t want the soup, that’s all right. But it’s too bad to let it waste. It tastes good and clean. Just eat a little piece of bread. You must eat something. Look, I’ll just make it nice and soft for you.” I broke off a piece, the size one would give a baby who had just gotten its first tooth. I dipped it in the soup and mashed it against my finger. Balancing the morsel on the tip of my finger, I put it to her closed lips. She did not protest. The bread lay i
n her motionless mouth. I held my breath and busied myself preparing another piece, giving the impression that I trusted she would swallow and be ready for another. I made no notice when her mouth moved, but I took the opportunity to make the next piece a little bigger. She parted her lips this time, only barely. I prepared a piece similarly for myself. As we both chewed I looked up at the ceiling, aware that she was still watching me. Then I looked out the window, at the food on the plate, at my nails, and tried to come up with something to say that might elicit a response or at least help the trust building between us. Suddenly, however, the only things that came to mind were the very things I knew better than to bring up. Her father. The prison. The rumours. The thickness and quality of the leather straps that still held her firmly. Fowl. Salted cod.
My actions spoke more eloquently than any words. She ate a full slice of soup-soaked bread and took some sips of water. Then her eyes, still fixed on me, fluttered until they closed and she slept. Filled with a sense of success, I pulled the sheet up around her neck and quietly left.
I lay wide awake for more than an hour. My eyes ached with a gritty tiredness but my brain was giddy, joyous with constant recitations of the events with Miss Ramchandin. While they played in my head, I imagined further successes, immeasurable feats that I might accomplish with my great understanding and magnanimity. Finally, nausea at my own ballooning sense of self wore me down and I slept.
* * *
—
It seemed I had been sleeping for hours when I awakened to find Sister over me, a flashlight in her hand, shaking my shoulder.
“Something the matter with Miss Ramchandin. Listen! Come quick, quick.”
I heard a mournful wailing. How could I have slept through such an eerie and agonizing din? I threw on my dressing gown, even though I was well aware it would be commented on later. I hurried, fearful that Miss Ramchandin had become ill, and disappointed that this might be a major setback to the evening’s progress.
When I reached the bungalow, I found several night-shift nurses milling around outside. Residents had pushed their windows ajar and were peeping out. It was a frightful sound Miss Ramchandin made. Without knocking, I entered the bungalow. Sister, attired also in her dressing gown (plainer than mine), stayed at the door. I switched on a lamp. The wailing halted abruptly, only to be replaced with breathless gasps of fright. Miss Ramchandin’s hair was damp, pasted to her face and neck. Strands were in her mouth. I wiped away the wetness. Her head resisted my touch. She stared ahead, past me.
“Miss Ramchandin, what’s happened? What’s happened?” I whispered. The sweet smell of an old person’s urine was strong.
Now that she was certain the straps had not come undone, Sister tentatively approached. “What is all that noise about? You all right? What happen to you?” The loudness of her voice, as if Miss Ramchandin were hard of hearing, did not mask Sister’s nervousness. “You keeping everybody awake. You not feeling well or what? You want to see a doctor?”
Miss Ramchandin shifted her stare even farther away. I wanted to offer her an antidote to Sister’s harshness but I knew better than to oppose Sister. To convey my concern, I felt Miss Ramchandin’s neck and cheek, as though checking her temperature. Then I drew back the sheet. I gave her damp shoulder a quick and gentle rub. There was nothing to be alarmed about but I noticed her clenched fists and recognized in them a fighting spirit.
Under her breath, Sister muttered, “Hmm! This is not a place for crazy people. Hmm! I don’t know why they send her here, na!”
I jumped in quickly. “Sister, I think the straps might be uncomfortable. You know, lying for so many hours in one—” Sister glared at me and then I saw an idea crawl across her face. She spoke loudly and clearly to Miss Ramchandin.
“Miss Ramchandin, you can hear me? Listen to me. I will remove the straps tomorrow if you behave yourself tonight. You hear? You go to sleep now and don’t make no more noise. And tomorrow morning I will make sure they take them off, and that Doctor come to see you. But if you make any more noise they will stay on for another day. You hear me? Then Doctor will have to give you something to make you sleep. There are other people here trying to sleep, you know. Now you go to sleep and behave yourself nicely.”
Miss Ramchandin’s breathing deepened to a low growl.
One thing still troubled me. “Sister, one of the nurses must come and clean her up.” Not to offend, I made sure my tone was one of concern only. Sister inhaled deeply and let out a sigh. She stared at the wood floor as if waiting for me to solve this problem. I had no qualms about doing the job, but out of respect for the woman on the bed, and not wanting to bend house rules, I remained quiet.
Sister sucked her teeth. “I will never get any nurse to come in here.”
Still I offered nothing. Sister stormed out. I watched her speak at length with two nurses outside, awaiting, no doubt, further morsels of gossip. Although I could not hear their words, the nurses’ gestures were loud enough. They recoiled several paces. Sister returned.
“Please. If you don’t mind, I know you are not on night shift, and I realize that you are a man…but since you…well, what I mean is…the other nurses—” She paused, clearly hoping I would simply offer my services. It worried me that Miss Ramchandin could hear such a conversation. In the struggle of wills between Sister and me, my self-preserving prudence prevailed. I nodded my head in agreement to the unstated question. Relieved, Sister exited hastily.
Miss Ramchandin did not help me turn her body. I understood and did the job quietly, trying to be as invisible as is possible when working on her private parts. She was beginning to perturb me, not because I feared her but rather because I felt an empathy for her clenched fists, defiant stare, pursed lips and deep, slow, calculated breathing—an empathy that words alone cannot describe.
She was unlike the other residents, whom, in all fairness, I had been given the opportunity to know only from a distance. Since her arrival Miss Ramchandin had been lying strapped, except for the brief moments when I carried her, yet I detected a glint of stubborn independence quite different from the easy reliance and uncontested compliance the other residents seemed to thrive on. My training in the Wetlands dealt with general nursing and palliative care of the elderly, not medical or psychiatric nursing, so I have no authority in these matters. But my intuition was that the woman on the bed was going to prove herself to be neither crazy nor failing in health, and that she would fare better given more freedom. On the other hand, perhaps my intuition was nothing more than recalcitrant yearning, for I did fancy that she and I shared a common reception from the rest of the world.
I paced Miss Ramchandin’s room. I desperately wanted to unstrap her but when, for a moment, I came close to defying orders and removing them, I found myself afraid. What if I removed them and then in anger—not pure craziness, but reasonable anger—she were to hurt herself or someone else?
I brought my face inches away from hers and whispered, “If I were strapped like that, I would hate it, too.” And then I felt foolish, for what was the point of empathizing without taking more positive action? I wanted to touch her again but I left and returned to my room feeling impoverished and weak.
I had not even taken off my dressing gown when the wailing started again, this time low and less frenzied. I jumped up and was heading out my door when Sister stopped me and told me flatly to let Miss Ramchandin cry until she fell asleep. She promised to call the doctor to get sedatives for the following night and to discuss getting Miss Ramchandin committed to the crazy house. Sister went back into her room and closed the door firmly, leaving me standing in the corridor.
The wailing continued. I waited long minutes until the light under Sister’s door went out, and then I slipped away and headed for Miss Ramchandin’s room. This time when I entered she did not stop crying. Tears streamed down her face and her body was contorted.
Fuelled by outrage I undid the straps a
round her feet. Then I unfastened the ones around her thighs and across her chest. She continued to cry as if unaware of my presence, and her body slowly tightened even more into the contortion the straps had temporarily curtailed. I sat by her head, slipped my arm under her back and pulled her into my arms. I held her against my chest, rocking her until the first streaks of morning light broke through the pitch-black sky. She had by this time fallen asleep, her head leaning on my chest. I continued to rock her and stroke her hands quietly. As much as I wanted to doze, I stayed alert. When I heard the sounds of the nurses awakening, I slid from behind Miss Ramchandin and lowered her on the bed. I shook her shoulders. She opened her eyes with fear. I held her face in both my hands.
“Shhh, shhhh, shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right,” I whispered inches from her face. “Everything is all right. I have to go now. But I will come back a little later and I will stay with you all day. I have to put the straps back on, but I promise you, I promise you, it won’t be for long. Please forgive me for doing this, but trust me. You must, you must trust me! Try to go back to sleep and when you awaken I will be here.” She looked at me blankly, more fatigued than frightened, and she remained still as I tied the three straps around her again. She stayed quiet and watched my eyes, the fire of life beginning to burn in hers again, until the door closed between us.
