by Austin,Robin
Matilda’s eyelids flicker in unison as if struggling to close to these imaginary memories. These places she’s never been and can’t possibly know beyond pictures seemingly stored in her damaged mind.
“Sounds exciting. Did Eunice travel with you?”
Now we’re walking in silence. Her gait is slow and relaxed, shoulders back as if she’s on a runway, showing off the latest fashion. I write dismissive, boastful, pretentious.
“I’m sure Eunice appreciates your visits. It’s very generous of you to spend time with her. I may be wrong, but I don’t think she gets many visitors. I’m hoping to get to know her better. Do you have any suggestions for getting her to talk to me?” I’m rambling, creating more confusion than safety, striving to not lose Matilda to Eunice.
She stops and places her right hand on her bony hip. The leaf in her hair dangles, threatens to drop to the ground. She extends her left hand and slants it to the right, left, right, left.
“Rubies are red,” she says, as if this expression holds the magic key to access Eunice, or so I wish. Then she holds her hand down, fingers spread as if showing me a ring on one of her naked fingers.
“Does Eunice like rubies?”
“One ruby,” she says, then holds up her index finger. “One ruby red. One ruby dead.”
Chapter Four
§
Despite my various pleas, Eunice resurfaced and left me to ponder Matilda’s ruby riddle. It sounded more like she was retelling Perry Mason reruns or Evil Dead episodes than giving me insight to penetrate Eunice’s enigmatic barrier. But whatever portal I’d opened, it was slammed shut for now.
I head to Dr. Rodham’s office. Tops, I have two weeks to learn enough about Eunice and Matilda to create a heartfelt but factual story. One that will satisfy Palmer, and more so, her advertisers who are probably managed care groups or social reform activists. Maybe even the gun lobby wanting to get the crazies off the streets before another movie theater shooting threatens the second amendment.
I’m far more optimistic now than I was yesterday about writing the article they all want, but I have to stay focused. Matilda could run me in circles with tales of sipping mint juleps on some Greek terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
I wait a half-hour past our scheduled time for Rodham to finish with one of the patients– residents– he likes to remind me. I’m clenching my teeth, sitting in a long, narrow, faded green hallway on the third floor that leads nowhere other than Rodham’s office door. There are four plastic chairs that line one side of the hallway, leaving just enough room for a steady walker to pass by on the other.
The heavy door clicks open, and I hear Rodham’s voice soft and low. A young woman with arbitrarily chopped black hair steps out. Her face hangs towards the floor and what’s left of the stringy mess on her head forms an even stringier tunnel.
She’s wearing a long sleeved shirt, squeezing the cuffs in her fists, and mumbling what sounds like angry words to herself. When she sees me, her eyes throw grenades and she rushes by as if being chased by demons or perhaps rushing to catch up with some.
I wait another fifteen minutes, growing more irritated with each second. Rodham is well aware I’m here to see him. The man’s shallow kindness can’t mask his Ivy League arrogance. I’m ready to go pound on his door when it clicks open.
“Ms. Abbott. Nice to see you again. Please come in.”
“Hello, Doctor. Thank you for making time for me today. I have a couple of questions that won’t take long.”
Rodham’s calm and condescending attitude is like that of every psychology professor I had in my second career classes. One that commands, I’m so wise, let me analyze all your problems away. The possibility grates on my nerves.
The man’s quite tall and lanky with a painted-on smile. Rodham looks around my age, early fifties. Today, he’s wearing a sweater vest, navy to match his tie. He watches as I walk to his door then moves to his side chair, his back to me as I step inside.
He shares the third floor with the medical clinic– healing central. A large window overlooks the west wing grounds. It could be a bright and cheerful office, but he’s chosen subdued zen in muted olive.
His office has the standard equipment: oversized oak desk, high back side chair, sofa, bookshelf with all the right books, framed certificates, a lush green plant in the corner. A short burst of sickeningly sweet lemon from a diffuser masks the stale air at carefully clocked intervals. Rodham motions for me to sit on the sofa. I already feel analyzed.
“Please call me Jan, Doctor. I wanted to let you know that I just met Matilda—”
“Excellent, Jan.” He laces his fingers together, holds them under his narrow chin, still smiles.
“Yes. She introduced herself as Matilda Davenport. I didn’t find mention of the last name in the records. Can you tell me anything about it? Where she may have come up with it.”
He considers my question, makes a serious face, softly taps church steepled fingers. Wisdom awaits. “I’ll have to check her file. I don’t recall the name offhand. She may have made it up just for you.”
There’s a sarcastic chuckle when he says you. One I’m not sure is meant for me or Matilda. Either way, it convinces me not to share the one ruby dead comment, which I found both comical and disturbing.
Rodham previously said that Matilda is a bit of a tease. It was such an odd word choice that I cringed. He must have noticed because he went on to say that she can’t be trusted, more odd word choices.
“As we discussed, she makes things up. Just full of disjointed stories. A virtual sponge absorbing everything that goes on around her.”
I wonder what else he expects her to do living twenty-four-seven behind locked doors. “I’d appreciate your checking, if you have time that is. I’ll review the records again but as you’re well aware, the writings are mostly illegible. You may be able to decipher more than I can.”
He nods in agreement. “I’m curious as to why you think it’s important.”
“It may or may not be important. I’m just collecting as much information as possible. I don’t want to overlook anything.”
“Of course not. However…. Well, you’re the journalist, but I think the article should be far less complex than you seem to envision. There’s no need for a great deal of data collection.
“As I stated when we first met, Eunice endured severe abuse at the hands of her family. She came to Ashland at a young age and at a time when treatment for the mentally ill was, at best, lax. As she grew older, conditions improved. Of course, the damage was already done. Thus, the emergence of Matilda, who is simply Eunice minus the trauma. Together, there is harmony.”
“If you’re referring to improved conditions when Dr. Kaufman was the director, I hardly think a rapist improves anyone’s mental health.”
I get little more than a blink and a raised eyebrow from Rodham. His smile is slipping.
“I agree there was a brief overlap. However, and we’ve gone over this before, it’s my understanding that Dr. Kaufman had almost no contact with Eunice and none of it inappropriate.”
“Matilda is far more intelligent than I understood from your prior comments. Her language skills are quite sophisticated, and she has a very distinct personality. After spending time with Eunice, I’m at a loss to explain how this alter has developed to the extent it has.”
“All of our residents enjoy excellent care, support, and encouragement from the staff– nurses, attendants, myself. We have skilled and highly trained professionals working here. Ashland was and is blessed with people who care deeply about the residents.
“I anticipate that in the next few years, Eunice will become even stronger and more communicative without the help of Matilda. Although she will never be completely cured, Eunice represents what compassionate, expert institutionalized mental health care can and does provide.”
Rodham straightens in his chair. I get the impression he doesn’t know the Matilda I’ve met. I also get the feeling tha
t the lecture is over, but I’m not ready to leave. “I’m meeting with Roger Cohoon tomorrow. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Roger. Is that the brother?” he asks, and I nod. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never met the man, never spoken to him. He’s not visited her in my time here. Not that I’m aware of anyway.
“Jan, please spend more time with Eunice. See her two wonderful personalities as people, not as patients or residents, and especially not as an article to write.
“If Eunice hadn’t come to Ashland, anything could have happened to her and none of it good. Here she is safe and healthy and despite the early damage, her spirit has emerged in another delightful persona. Matilda’s ability to articulate what Eunice is feeling creates a pleasant union. I know Matilda completes Eunice, makes her happy. I think these facts are the truest and most convincing testament for institutionalization.”
I reach for my rose-colored glasses so I can wipe off the bullshit. Unfortunately, I’m not wearing glasses. Rodham’s at his bookshelf lined wall chatting about some book he wants me to read.
“Here it is. Dissociative Identity Disorder Diagnosis and Clinical Treatment by Dr. Alexander Markstone. Excellent analysis.” He hands me the book, which must be six inches thick.
“Thank you, Doctor, but I’ve completed my studies on the subject. I intend to write Eunice’s story just as Matrix Media requested. To do so requires that I understand her. So far, other than as Matilda, she isn’t talking. While I appreciate your approach, simply that Matilda exists isn’t the story. You’re right about spending more time with both women. They are the only ones who can help me, aren’t they?”
Rodham slips the book back on the shelf and turns to me. “Ms. Abbott, despite even the best intensions, you can only write the article for whatever objective you have in mind. You can write something scandalous, sensational, something to glorify yourself and others, or you can write an article that serves the best interest of all residents in the mental health community. As a student of psychology, you know your first duty is to do no harm.”
“I know writing anything but the truth is doing harm. As a student of psychology, I know the mental health community like all closely guarded institutions is replete with sugarcoated sentiments and justifications. My objective is to do the job I was hired to do without compromising the work it takes to get it right.”
Rodham is back to smiling, but it doesn’t hide a thin veneer of what I can only hope is skepticism. My hands are trembling and my mouth is dry. I’m overreacting, not only to his words and his pompous demeanor, but to a shadow I’m trying not to notice behind him. Pinpricks of perspiration wet my skin and a single iridescent orb blocks my vision, as well as my rationality.
“Well then, I look forward to reading your uncompromised article. I trust it will be sugar-free and completely justified.”
There’s an eerie chuckle that jerks me back. I’m not sure where it came from, Rodham isn’t sitting in his chair anymore. I think I missed some of what he was last saying. The door clicks open.
“Good day, Ms. Abbott.”
Chapter Five
§
After leaving Ashland, I went back to the hotel, took Imitrex, and waited for the migraine that rarely ever came. I take the medication my doctors prescribe and dutifully accept the treatment that I keep hoping will work.
“It’s not uncommon to see orbs, patterns, and flashing lights years after a head injury. Your lab work and MRI are normal. Test results are negative for seizure.” My current doctor reads me this reassuring list. “Rest more, take the medication, and control your stress levels,” he’d said.
Palmer left a voice message shortly after I’d left Ashland ordering me to call her asap. Asap she’d said in her commando voice. I didn’t call. Instead, after waiting for the migraine that never materialized, I headed to the Ruston Library.
The scent of ink, old paper, cracked leather, and thousands of dirty hands that have turned the pages of hundreds of books slow my step inside the hallowed walls. The librarian is right out of a storybook with her tasteful flower print dress, quiet sole shoes, and gray hair neatly pinned. The location of every book, every magazine, every single carefully preserved piece of paper is stored in her organized brain. She stops immediately when I ask for help. I request anything they have on the Cohoon family. She looks at me with a sad resign or maybe she’s just tired.
I follow her to the back of the one story building and wait while she thumbs through a small wooden drawer labeled A-D. She motions for me to sit and brings me three news articles in plastic binding covers; the old-fashioned kind with sharp edges and non-scratch resistant surfaces.
“That’s all there is,” she says, and leaves me with no time for questions or comments.
The first article is dated March 3, 1907. The headline is Cohoon Pig Farm Makes Tasty Sausage Deal. Calvin Cohoon had scored big with the state’s largest slaughterhouse. Calvin, a short, squatty man in well-worn work clothes, is pictured holding up the carcass of a pig while standing next to a tall man in an ill-fitting suit. Neither man is smiling. The back drop is a muddy field bordered by wooden pens of fat pigs– future tasty deal making sausages.
The second news clipping, dated July 5, 1949, is barely three sentences: Late last night, a fire ripped through the Cohoon Pig Farm, killing over half the livestock. Fireworks in the area are suspected. No arrests have been made.
The final story is dated December 29, 1973. The body of sixteen year old John Cohoon was found hanging in his jail cell following his arrest for drug possession. An anonymous source said he was also distraught after being caught violating his kin. The coroner has ruled the death a suicide.
I check my notes for the date Eunice was delivered by her mother to Ashland: January 3, 1974. Perhaps they’d let Eunice enjoy one last holiday with the family, though I doubt it. They were probably just busy with John’s funeral.
The rain wakes me at three in the morning and the first thing that pops in my head is a message from the gods or a quote I can’t quite remember: Don’t let the past form your future.
I slip out of bed and sit by the window for a good hour watching the downpour soak the streets below, listen to the thunder, and wait for the lightning strikes. My brain races madly, trying to pull answers from the inky clouds. How can I expect to know someone who doesn’t even know herself?
I’m groggy and confused when I wake hours later. My meeting with Roger Cohoon, the lone survivor of the Cohoon Pig Farm dynasty, is at two o’clock. I’m off to a slow start.
At the diner, I order a sandwich to go. Kasey’s on duty again and anxious to know what I’m up to today. I tell her research and as before, she lingers waiting for more, pretending the counter needs repeated wiping.
“Going out to Ashland today?” She says this with a satisfied, nothing’s a secret in a small town smile.
“Client confidentiality,” I say. Her smile fades as her stare intensifies. “Have you ever been to Stratton? You just look so familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen you—”
“Nah,” she grunts, and walks away.
I’m making a reluctant trip to the Ruston Cemetery before the forty minute drive to the pig farm. Visiting the Cohoons’ graves isn’t mere morbid curiosity. I’m adding to my timeline in the hopes of not missing the obvious, even though I doubt anything about this assignment will turn out to be obvious.
The Cohoon family, Jasper, Marie, and John, are side-by-side for all the good times and despite probably many more bad ones. Small grave markers provide no more than their names and dates, both into and out of this world. I didn’t really expect more.
I sit on a log next to the graves; a bottle of water in one hand, a container of Tylenol in my pocket, a few orbs and shadows dancing in the distance. I suspect that Eunice was at least one of the kin who John violated. Just the type of trauma that would cause a dissociation.
That offense probably wasn’t the family’s biggest concern though. They’d lost an able-bodied farm h
and. Perhaps Eunice’s deposit at Ashland was revenge for their loss. It appears that sometime after Calvin Cohoon’s lucrative financial deal with the state’s largest slaughterhouse, the family had fallen on hard times. Survival sometimes puts a damper on doing what’s right.
I go back to my car. I’m stalling. I don’t feel safe or even sane going out to the pig farm by myself. Reporter’s instinct, the Cohoon family history– either or both are reason enough. Roger made it perfectly clear he’s not eager to meet with me. He informed me that he’ll be working while we talk. “Can’t take time away from the pigs,” he’d explained. Even over the phone, his few words made me shudder.
Last night’s rain storm has cleared the dusty roads. The first cool nips of autumn quell summer’s last warmth. I turn on the heater and roll down the window, letting the sweet country air fill the car.
Before returning to bed last night, I’d left Palmer a short message telling her of my meeting today. I halfway hope I’m not fired.
A dilapidated road sign announces the pig farm– Half Mile Ahead on the Left. Fresh Sausages and Pigs Feet by the Jar.
I haven’t seen another car for the past twenty minutes and even then, I saw only an old truck with a precariously stacked load of hay. Way out on this quiet country road, there’s no one to hear the pigs screaming, even when they’re getting their feet chopped off.
I slow down when I see a side road on my left. A narrow board points down a muddy dirt road. The few remaining letters suggest it once read Cohoon. I take my time, try to avoid the potholes, but my tires slip and spin. Another five minutes and I see the farm. It’s in much worse shape than in the photo of old Calvin and the tall man. It’s worse than I expected, and I hadn’t held high hopes for the place.
There are two buildings about fifty feet apart, both painted rust red. One has windows and a front porch, the other barn doors and an attached pig pen. Otherwise, they’re indistinguishable. Roger wanted me to know that he lives alone; why he wanted this, I didn’t ask and don’t care to find out.
