How to Be a Good Wife

by Emma Chapman

  He starts writing again. ‘How long did the hallucinations last?’

  ‘They weren’t hallucinations,’ I say.

  ‘OK,’ he says, smiling tightly. ‘How long did you see these things for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It varies.’

  ‘And were they triggered by anything in your surroundings?’

  I try to think back. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But the more they come back, the more I know they really happened. I remember them.’

  ‘And they’re still coming back now?’

  I nod.

  He writes something else in his notes and then he looks at his watch. ‘Our time is up, unfortunately, Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says, standing. ‘If you could wait here for a second, I’ll be right back.’

  I stand up. He walks across the room, and through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

  He has left my file on the table. I walk across the room and open it. His writing is slanty, hard to read, but I make out some of what he has written.

  Experienced serious depressive symptoms and attempted suicide after traumatic event (parents’ death) at age 18, prescribed medication (check previous medical notes for diagnosis?). Since ceasing to take medication, frequent and increasing hallucinations. Believes these to be a reliving of true events. Developed to paranoid delusions that husband is threat to her wellbeing. Believes husband, Hector Bjornstad, abducted her, and that previously she was Elise Sandvik. Perhaps early misdiagnosis of depression – depressive and psychotic symptoms could suggest schizoaffective disorder?

  I read on to the end of the page. Under the section marked THREAT TO HERSELF OR OTHERS? he has written: Yes, keep in for observation.

  I walk out of the room and down the corridor. The doctor is standing in the reception area speaking to Hector and Kylan in a low voice. Kylan’s eyes are red. Hector’s face is blank but I can see a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

  I step forward. ‘I won’t stay here,’ I say.

  The doctor turns around. ‘Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says. ‘I said I would come back in a moment.’

  ‘I know what you’re planning on doing, and I won’t stay here. I want to stay with my son.’

  ‘Mum, please,’ Kylan says, a tear rolling down his cheek. ‘Just do what the doctor asks.’

  ‘You promised me we’d go to the house,’ I say. ‘I need to show you so you will believe me. I need to go to the police.’

  Kylan puts his warm hands over my cold ones. ‘Mum,’ he says. ‘You need to stop this. It’s really upsetting.’

  ‘Please, Kylan,’ I say. ‘I know you don’t want to believe it, but go to the house and look under the front step. Promise me.’

  Kylan doesn’t take his eyes off me. He nods.

  Hector steps forward. ‘Can you give us a moment?’ he says to the doctor.

  The doctor begins to move away, back towards his office. ‘I’ll come back.’

  We stand together, Kylan, Hector and I, close to the door, within a few metres of the reception desk. The girl concentrates on typing at her computer.

  Hector takes a step towards me. I feel myself begin to shake.

  ‘Get away from me,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry this has to happen, Marta,’ he says. ‘But really you have left us no choice. I don’t feel I can give you the care you need any more.’

  I stare at him. ‘My name is Elise!’ I shout.

  ‘I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.’

  My palms are sweating and my chest is tight.

  ‘I don’t know what you thought was under the house,’ he says. ‘But I assure you there isn’t anything there now.’ He looks straight at me then.

  I launch myself at him, kicking and hitting him. He doesn’t fight back: he stands there and lets me pummel him, my blows rebounding from his soft jumpered chest.

  ‘Tell them the truth,’ I scream.

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ he says.

  People appear out of nowhere, pulling me backwards, and the doctor is there again. Someone holds on to my arms and a needle appears. The last thing I see before everything goes black is Kylan’s little-boy face, his eyes wide, the tears running down his cheeks. I want to reach my hands out to him, to tell him I will make it all better. But everything starts to slip away.

  25

  I wake up in a small square room. I am lying in a low bed with a narrow metal frame, tucked in tight, under the clean white covers.

  There is an electric strip light running across the ceiling which is not turned on.

  The room is in semi-darkness, and when I sit up, I think I see the shadow of a man sitting on the end of my bed, waiting for me to wake up. I kick out with my legs, and the man disappears.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness. There’s a door with a small glass window: shatterproof, which throws a warm yellow square of light on the linoleum floor. The walls are white and smooth, and in the corner of the room is a sink. There is a box with the fingers of gloves protruding from it, and a large canister of hand sanitizer. There’s no mirror above the sink. A toilet to my right, plumbed into the wall.

  I get out of bed. I am wearing a hospital gown, tight across the chest and open at the back. I turn the door handle, but it’s locked.

  I start to shout then. Help me, please. Open the door. Anybody. Please.

  I bang on the glass until it rattles. I look around for something I can use to break it, but everything in the room is secured to the ground.

  A woman’s face appears at the door. She has red hair in a neat bun, and a warm, round face. She puts her finger to her lips.

  I step back from the door and she unlocks it.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ I say.

  ‘It’s only for the night,’ she says.

  ‘I want to see my son,’ I say.

  ‘Your son is at home,’ she says. ‘He’s coming for you in the morning. It’s best you try and get some rest now.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ I say. ‘Not on my own.’

  ‘It’s only for one night, Mrs Bjornstad,’ she says. ‘They’re making plans to move you tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ I say. ‘I can stay with my son.’

  ‘The doctor wanted to keep you in,’ she says. ‘Just for tonight.’ Her face softens. ‘Do you want anything to eat? I think the kitchen is closed but I can try and get you something?’

  ‘Can I call my son?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t let you use the phone,’ she says. ‘But he’s coming in the morning.’

  ‘Alone?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

  ‘Can we put the lights on?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘If you need anything else, just press the button on the wall.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the noise,’ I say. ‘I just wasn’t sure where I was.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she says. ‘I hope you get some sleep.’

  As she leaves, I hear the click of the lock behind her.

  26

  All night, I pace from one end of the room to the other.

  I was out there, driving through the vast valleys, and I came to the city, only to end up here.

  I tell myself not to be, but I am angry with Kylan for not believing me. I came to him because I needed help.

  There’s no clock in the room, so it is hard to tell what time it is. The only window is the one in the door which leads to the corridor. For some reason, they have removed the watch from my wrist.

  Outside in the corridor, the other lights start to go on, and I know it must be nearly morning.

  When breakfast arrives, two powdery eggs and toast, I try to ask the new nurse.

  ‘Is my son coming?’ I ask.

  She barely looks at me, putting the tray on the cabinet by the bed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘can you please tell me if I am leaving here today?’

  ‘Someone will be here to see you sho
rtly,’ she says. ‘I just deliver the breakfasts.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ she says, as she shuts and locks the door behind her.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting.

  * * *

  A young doctor with a clipboard comes into the room.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says, reading the name from his chart. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Just gone eleven,’ he says. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say. ‘When is my son coming?’

  ‘Visiting hours are between four and nine p.m.’

  ‘I thought I was being moved today.’

  The doctor smiles at me as if I am a child. ‘It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid, Mrs Bjornstad. You won’t be moved until you are referred elsewhere,’ he says. ‘We need to determine your diagnosis.’

  ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘A mixture of group and one-on-one therapy sessions. You’ll have one group session every morning, and one evaluation every afternoon.’

  ‘And the rest of the time?’

  ‘Free time, for contemplation in your room.’

  My chest tightens. ‘How long will I be here for?’

  ‘Until we can decide what is wrong with you, and then you will be sent to a different facility for treatment.’

  ‘But, Doctor,’ I say, sitting up straighter and pulling my gown around me, ‘there is nothing wrong with me.’

  The doctor smiles again. ‘That is what we are here to determine.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s been a mistake. I need to speak to the police.’

  ‘For now,’ he says, ‘we just need to focus on making you feel better.’

  ‘But you need to investigate,’ I say. ‘I am the victim of a crime.’

  ‘Everything you say will be kept on file, Mrs Bjornstad.’ He sounds bored.

  I grab his hand. ‘I need to speak to someone,’ I say. ‘My name is Elise Sandvik. We need to find proof that I am a missing person.’

  ‘I don’t think that should be the priority at the moment,’ the doctor says, shaking himself free of me and rising to his feet. ‘We need to focus on your recovery.’ He picks a small white cup of pills from the breakfast tray and hands it to me. ‘Starting with your medication.’

  I take the cup, nodding my head.

  ‘Please can I have my watch back?’ I ask.

  ‘We can’t let you have anything with glass in it, I’m afraid,’ he says.

  ‘Can I have a clock, then?’ I ask. ‘I need to know the time.’

  He half smiles, writing something on my chart. ‘I’ll mention it to the nurse,’ he says.

  When he is gone, I tip the pills into the sink.

  The hot anger rises. Why won’t they listen to me? Even though it happened over twenty years ago, there must be files on my disappearance. It shouldn’t be hard to trace.

  I feel like throwing things against the wall, like shouting and screaming, but I know that will only prove them right.

  * * *

  Shortly after I have eaten dinner, Kylan comes to see me. Despite me asking, they still haven’t given me a clock, so I can’t say what time it is. Though he smiles when he enters the room, his eyes are a little bloodshot and he looks exhausted.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ he says, sitting next to me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  He looks around the room. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘How do you think I’m feeling?’ I say. I don’t want to be, but I am annoyed with him. I have spent the whole day in this room, and I am sick of it.

  ‘Look, Mum,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. I couldn’t sleep at all last night.’

  ‘Neither could I,’ I say.

  He looks at the narrow bed, the sink, the locked door. ‘I don’t like thinking about you in here.’

  ‘Take me home with you, then,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘The doctors say it’s the best place for you.’

  I can’t believe he is going to leave me in here.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he says. ‘When I couldn’t sleep last night, I looked up the name you mentioned on the Internet, to see if I could find anything out.’

  ‘Oh, Kylan,’ I say. ‘What did you find? If we can prove it, I can get out of here …’

  He puts his hand over mine. ‘I couldn’t find anything, Mum,’ he says.

  I feel my mouth fall open. ‘Where did you look?’

  ‘I searched the Internet for the name, and nothing relevant came up.’

  ‘Did you call the police?’ I say. ‘The police must have records of it.’

  ‘No,’ Kylan says. ‘If it were true, there would be something on the Internet about it.’

  ‘Maybe you were looking in the wrong places,’ I say. ‘We need to ask the police.’

  ‘Mum,’ Kylan says, his voice raw, ‘you need to stop this now. I looked, and I couldn’t find anything. I think you need to accept it.’

  I stare at him: his red eyes, and messy hair, and grey skin. I have done this to him, I think. But I know he would have found something if he looked hard enough, if he spelt the name correctly.

  Then I think that maybe he doesn’t want to, maybe he didn’t even look. If he did, he would have to admit that his father did those terrible things. Hector, who, despite everything, has been a good father. He would have to report him, or help me to. And then Hector would go to jail, and Kylan would be visiting him instead of me, locked in a room worse than this.

  If I push this, I will ruin Kylan’s life, and I don’t want to do that. I would rather stay here for ever than make him unhappy.

  I swallow, and nod my head.

  Kylan squeezes my hand. ‘I know it can’t be easy,’ he says, ‘and we’re going to get you all the help you need. It would just be a lot easier if you stop fighting us on it.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll speak to the doctor and see if we can’t get you moved from here.’

  He gets up then.

  ‘Will you come back soon?’ I ask him as he reaches the door.

  ‘I’ll be back at the weekend. Look after yourself, Mum.’

  ‘Kylan,’ I say when he is at the door, ‘can you ask them again if I can have a clock? They’ve taken my watch away.’

  He looks so sad. I feel something shift in my chest.

  When he is gone, the tears rise up in my eyes. And I know then what I need to do.

  27

  The light flashes brightly into the room, and I open my eyes. Laura is at the window, pulling back the thick blue curtains so I can see the garden. She turns and smiles at me.

  ‘Today’s the day,’ she says.

  I sit up in the big comfortable bed with its blue sheets and solid white headboard. There is a picture of Kylan and me on the bedside table, beside a lamp with an ugly flowered lampshade.

  All the rooms are like this: homely, so it seems like we are safe.

  There’s a large alarm clock which glows all through the night. I’m not allowed to set the alarm for fear of disturbing the other residents. It reads 9:00: the time they always wake us.

  Laura comes over with a tray and rests it on my knees. I’m glad I don’t have to iron her crisp white uniform.

  Cereal with milk: something I chose myself. They tell us we have lots of choices. Toast, cereal, eggs at the weekends. I had never had breakfast in bed before I came here, and now I have it every day.

  There are two bowls on the tray, and Laura slides one off onto her own knee.

  ‘You’re eating with me?’ I ask.

  ‘I told you we would do everything together today.’

  We eat in silence, and when we are finished, Laura clears our bowls away.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get ready,’ she says. ‘We need to be out by eleven.’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby,’ I say.

  I get out of bed and go ov
er to the window. Outside, the lawn stretches over a little hill and towards the lake. There are trees around the edges, weeping willows, their branches trembling along the surface of the water. Everything is bright and green; the sun is shining. It is spring now.

  In the bathroom, my navy suit is hanging on the back of the door. After my shower, I dry myself and pull it on. I sit at the dressing table, covered with the framed pictures of Kylan. They asked me if I wanted anything brought here from the old house, and I made a list. These photographs from the hallway, my remaining clothes, and my book: How To Be a Good Wife. These are the only things in the room that are really mine. Sometimes, I imagine that this is my room, but it isn’t really. I know it could be taken away if the fees stop being paid. I don’t have any of my own money to keep paying them, and sometimes I wonder how long it will last.

  I take out the hairdryer. The warmth is pleasant, and I shut my eyes. When I open them, I see my mother behind me in the mirror. Gently, she pulls my hair back and dries it. Her fingers are deft and gentle on my scalp, reminding me of long car journeys as a child when she would play with my hair until I fell asleep.

  This is what it’s like now. They come and they go, without warning. I hold on to them while they are here but it becomes harder and harder to let them go.

  And there are the bad moments too, the black flashes that come so forcefully and vividly, it is as if I am there again. I don’t see the girl any more: it is me that is trapped in that room, with my aching body and empty stomach. Sometimes, I wake up screaming: I hate to make the nurses come running. The flashes mostly come at night, or from something unexpected: the smell of a cleaning product, or the creaking of a bed spring. I am learning what to avoid. Hector is always there: even when I cannot see him.

  At 10:55, before I leave the room, I pick up the present from the table by the door. I wrapped it myself, in the paper they gave me when I asked. It is brown and plain, not what I would have chosen, but it is better than nothing.

  In the lobby, Laura is waiting for me. She has changed out of her uniform into a pretty pink dress. I have never seen her dark hair down before: out of her regulation bun, it reaches her shoulders.