They danced with vigor on the soiled Aubusson rug and so were not aware immediately that Ellen was standing, smiling with love and tenderness, on the threshold of the room. She was thinking how beautiful they were, her darlings, and how full of life and brimming with the wine of youth, and her heart so throbbed with devotion that it also was full of pain. They finally saw her, and stopped their wild dancing. She clapped a little and said, “How lovely. And what a wonderful surprise this is, to see you when I wasn’t expecting you.”
The room was not only dusky but had a smell of mold and dust, newly aroused from the unclean rug. Gabrielle ran to her mother and took her in her slender arms, which were covered with ruby velvet, and kissed her affectionately. Christian approached his mother also, and kissed her cheek, regarding her with very visible concern. “You don’t look at all well, Mama. Does she, Gaby?”
“No, she doesn’t,” Gabrielle said, and studied Ellen with overly solicitous apprehension. She wrinkled her nose as the keen and acrid stench of bootleg whiskey assailed her nostrils. “You haven’t looked well for a long time, Mama. And that’s why we’re here. To talk to you. How selfish of us that we didn’t come to you like this sooner.”
Ellen was a little bewildered. She smoothed down her drab brown wool bathrobe with trembling hands. Her hair clustered over her head in lusterless folds and loops. Her face was flabby and colorless, her lips burned and dry, her eyes swollen and reddened and without light. She was not yet old, but she appeared many years older than she was, shapeless and fallen of body, and bloated. She bemusedly let Gabrielle lead her to a chair and gently push her down into it. “I’m really very well,” she said, and her once sonorously musical voice was faint and rusty. “You mustn’t worry about me, dears.” She paused. “You will stay for dinner?”
Gabrielle glanced at her brother, then shook a lovingly admonishing finger in Ellen’s face. “Only if you will listen to us, and promise to take our advice.”
Ellen was delighted. “I was so lonely,” she said. After a pause she added, “Francis is in Washington for a few days. At least, I think that is where he is.” Her eyes became momentarily vacant. “What is your advice, my darlings?”
Gabrielle dropped to her knees before her mother, and took her hands firmly in her own. They were hot and feeble. “You know how we love you, Mama, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said Ellen, and her scorched eyes filled with tears and her lips shook. “You are all I live for.” She looked up at Christian, for he had moved closer to her. “All I live for,” she repeated. Only her children and her servants would have remained unmoved by her aspect, by her piteous attempts to smile.
“Well, then, live for us, and stop making us unhappy,” said Gabrielle in a brisk tone.
“Unhappy?”
“Yes, you are making us very unhappy. We know you are sick and need a good doctor.”
“But I have a good doctor, Gabrielle. I see him at least once a week.” She began to be filled with a delicious warmth, and her extinguished face suddenly became pearly and translucent again with love.
“Oh, old Dr. Brighton! He’s just a general practitioner. You need a special man, Mama, someone with far more medical knowledge, and younger, too. Someone who has studied in Europe as well as America. A specialist. You’ve heard me talk of Annabelle Lubish, haven’t you? Well, Dr. Lubish is her father, and a brilliant-specialist. Please, Mama”—and Gabrielle’s voice grew fervent, and she moved on her knees—“please see him—for us. Do something for us, just this one time, won’t you? Think of us, just once, and not yourself.”
For just an instant Ellen thought: But I’ve heard that before! I’ve heard that all my life! The warmth left her; guilt mixed with her grief, but she was confused again. In some way she had failed her children—as she had failed her aunt, and probably many others. She gazed at Gabrielle pleadingly.
“I—I’ll have to talk to Francis about it—”
“But we’ve already talked to him, Mama, and he agrees with us. He is very worried about you. But we are the most important to you, aren’t we, dearest?”
Never had Ellen heard her daughter speak so tenderly, so urgently, to her; Christian’s hand was lovingly pressing her shoulder. All at once tears were sliding down her cheeks, and the warmth was returning in a flood of rapture. Still, she shrank a little at the thought of meeting a stranger, even if he was a doctor. She began to speak, then fell silent. Gabrielle kissed her; Christian bent and touched his lips to her hot forehead. God, that stink of bootleg! It would kill her in time, without any interference, but he had no time to lose. With distaste, he saw his mother blow her nose on a grimy handkerchief, she who was once so meticulous and wonderfully gowned. Didn’t she ever give her servants orders?
Ellen said, her voice barely audible, “Yes. For you, my darlings. I’ll do anything for you.” She paused. “You may tell him to call on me. I’ll see him any afternoon.”
This was not in the plans. “Mama,” said Gabrielle, “you must go to his office, where he has all the modern equipment. He couldn’t examine you thoroughly here. Medicine is much more sophisticated and elaborate these days. I’ll call for you tomorrow afternoon, at two, Mama? You will do this for us, won’t you?”
The thought of leaving her house, which was now a cave to her, made Ellen shrink. But she looked into Gabrielle’s brilliant eyes, so dilated, so insistent, and she nodded.
“I don’t go out very much any more,” she said. “But if it will relieve you and Christian, I will go with you tomorrow, Gabrielle.”
Gabrielle pretended to be overcome. She wiped perfectly dry eyes. She kissed her mother. Christian kissed her also. Brother and sister exchanged triumphant and elated glances. Christian thought: Even one of those monstrous dinners she has now won’t be too much to pay for this. What an old hag she’s become. I’m convinced myself that she’s mad.
Gabrielle and Christian waited in the luxurious sitting room adjoining Dr. Lubish’s office and examining rooms. Gabrielle restlessly paced the room under the admiring eyes of the nurse-receptionist. Christian stood at a snow-streaked window, tense with expectation. Dr. Lubish had introduced brother and sister to “my associate, Dr. Enright. I’d like him present—for corroboration.” Christian understood at once. Then Gabrielle had solicitously taken her mother’s arm and had left her on the threshold of the office. “Be good, now, Mama dearest,” she had murmured, and Ellen, stiff with fear, had nodded dumbly. ‘Tell the doctors everything, won’t you?” Ellen had nodded again. The door had closed behind her.
Dr. Enright was a tall, youngish, and very fleshy man with huge spectacles, a round full face, and a relentless mouth. He was dark and nervous. He did not enter the examining room with Dr. Lubish and his new patient. He waited as tensely as Christian had waited. He knew the role he would have to play. He had played it a number of times.
Alone with Ellen, Dr. Lubish examined his new patient, for he was an expert and thorough physician as well as a psychiatrist. He wanted to make no errors, on which he could be challenged by other, and unfriendly, physicians. He made careful notes during the examination, which would be typed up later. “Not an alcoholic, but is becoming addicted. Release from mental stress. Patient dull, unresponsive, vague, confused. Apparently of only average intelligence which has declined. Blood pressure 185/110. Bloated. Attrition of the large muscles, due to lack of exercise and poor diet. Heart palpitations. Some kidney dysfunction. Lungs—conspicuous rales. Forty-three, but physical condition is so deteriorated that she appears about sixty. Eyes without life; voice low, uncertain. Gives the impression that she is only existing and not living. Skin dry, face flaccid, hands hot though she has no fever. History…”
He continued to list physical symptoms. But he knew that these were only functional and not organic. It was his patient’s mind that was sick, and this was reflected in her body. He felt his own elation. Still, he must be very careful. Ceremoniously, he suggested she dress and join him and Dr. Enright in his office. There he
sat, murmuring in short sentences with the other doctor.
Ellen came timidly into the office and the two doctors rose, and she took the chair facing both of them. Her dark-blue suit was untidy and old; her black round hat sat wearily on her thick rough hair. Her face expressed apprehension. “I am not sick,” she said with a stammer. “I—I am only tired.”
Dr. Lubish regarded her mournfully. “We shall see,” he said in an ominous but concerned voice. “Now, tell us something about yourself, Mrs. Porter. Your children have already told me about your marriages, the first to a gentleman of considerable fame, the second to Congressman Porter.”
Ellen moistened her cracked lips. What had this to do with her need for good medical attention? Then she saw that Dr. Lubish was beaming at her as affectionately as a brother, and she was touched. Tears filled her eyes; she dabbed at them futilely. She said, “There is nothing to say. Nothing. But—but I will never forget Jeremy, my first husband. He was my life—” Her voice faded.
“He died a long time ago, didn’t he, Mrs. Porter?”
Ellen was silent. She fixed her wet eyes on the lamp which was turned fully on her quivering face. Both doctors leaned alertly towards her. She said, “He never died, he never really died. I feel him closer to me every day. I feel him with me. He often tries to tell me—something—but I can’t hear him—yet. He—he sounds afraid for me.”
The doctors quickly made notes. “Hallucinations. Refuses to accept her first husband’s death. Delusions that she sees and hears him. Suspect schizophrenic reactions. Progressive withdrawal from reality; avoids friends. Loss of adaptive power.”
The gentle and insidious questions persisted. Ellen replied with faltering hesitations. But they were so kind to her, so anxious to help her. She began to relax. She became confiding. They questioned her about her childhood and girlhood, and they saw the raw pain on her exhausted face. They made more copious notes.
“Heavily preoccupied. Speaks in a dreamlike voice, as if repeating nightmares. Ideas of reference. Ruminations. Fantasizes. Introversion. Depersonalization. Flight of ideas. Stereotype affectations; grimaces. Apathetic, even when speaking of painful past memories. From conversations with relatives, a close friend, and her husband, grave personality changes over the past ten years or so. Evidences of premature senility. Falls into short and stuporous states in the midst of answering questions. Speech incoherent. Emotional reactions shallow. Interest withdrawn. Poverty of ideas. Inaccessible. Blotchy skin. Inactivity. Repetition of words. Defense mechanisms against disavowed environment. Ambivalent attitude towards present husband, sometimes hostile, sometimes with guilty manifestations. Diminished response to social demands…”
The questioning went on and on, inexorably. The snowy day darkened. Dr. Enright, moving soundlessly, turned on more lamps. Ellen’s exhaustion increased. She knew she had been speaking as she never did these days, but she kept forgetting what she had said. She craved the solace of alcohol. At times she was extremely frightened by these men, and then admonished herself that they were so very kind and only wanted to help her, and she must assist them, if only to please her worried children. Besides, she felt a far-off sense of alleviation, as if an abscess had been opened. If only she didn’t feel so tired! Her legs ached with her tiredness, and spread.
Nearly two hours had passed. Then Dr. Lubish nodded to his colleague and they both rose and went into the waiting room. Ellen’s son and daughter stood up, eagerly searching the physicians’ faces.
Dr. Lubish was very grave. “It is too early yet to reach a definite prognosis, I am afraid. We will need an extended period of time—of treatment, for our conclusion. We should like to see Mrs. Porter every week—”
Dr. Enright studied the two young people shrewdly and knew them perfectly.
“We should also like to have a discussion with Mrs. Porter’s servants—”
Gabrielle’s eyes were very vivid when she turned to her brother, and she smiled, and Dr. Enright saw that smile and knew its wickedness. He nodded to himself.
“In the meantime I have written a prescription for Mrs. Porter. A light sedative. A quieting influence.”
“Should we try to persuade her to give up drinking?” asked Christian with bluntness.
Dr. Lubish appeared to hesitate. He delicately scratched his chin. “No,” he said at last. “She is not an alcoholic—as yet. She drinks because she is mentally ill, I am afraid. At least, that is what we suspect. We need more time.”
Time, time! thought Christian. He was disappointed. “How much time?” he demanded.
Dr. Lubish shrugged. “That is something I cannot tell you, Mr. Porter. It may be several months. But we must be certain—there may be conflicting interests—we must be certain.”
“Do you think you can help my mother, Doctor?” asked Gabrielle in a very sad and childish voice. He smiled at her broadly.
“Oh, I am sure we can help—everybody,” he said. “But it will take time. We—er—must have a firm foundation. I am sure you understand that?”
There began, for Ellen, chaotic months of concentrated probing, of tears, of bewildered terrors, of distorted nightmares, of despair, of induced stupefaction, of drugged yet unrefreshing sleep. She knew nothing of the way of psychiatrists and did not even know that she was “being treated” by them. They always pretended to give her a physical examination three times a week, and they talked of blood pressure, kidney disorders, liver dysfunction, anemia, menopause.
They suggested that she indulged in bizarre ideas and assumed unnatural attitudes, and when she protested they patted her arm or shoulder as if she was insane and needed humoring. They insisted on her confidences and listened critically, and sometimes brutally disputed with her and feigned anger at her replies. This frightened her more and more; she guiltily felt she ought to please them with “good” answers, but what those answers were she did not know. Sometimes she became hysterical when they chided her that she was not “helping them” to help her, and that her children were becoming extremely anxious. At this she would lapse into incoherences—which were duly recorded.
She expressed her instinctive fears to Kitty Wilder, and Kitty always listened with apparent sympathy—and Kitty always reported, with mendacious regret, to Dr. Lubish. “The poor girl is becoming more and more confused, I am afraid. Why, yesterday, she looked at me for a long time before recognizing me, her dearest and oldest friend! Then she could not remember my name at first! Later, she mumbled that she felt she was ‘living in a dream,’ and stared around her blankly. I don’t think she is improving at all; I know it isn’t your fault. She has been this way for a long time, though she is steadily getting much worse.”
Dr. Lubish asked Kitty to bring Ellen’s housekeeper with her the next time she had a secret conference with him. This Kitty did, in late November 1928. Dr. Lubish knew Mrs. Akins exactly for what she was—malevolent, envious, and hypocritically meek and “worried.” This long and sallow woman with the damp nose would make an excellent witness, and Dr. Lubish called in his secretary to take down her remarks, concerning Ellen, verbatim.
“The poor Madam,” she sniffled, wiping her blinking eyes, “she gets worse every day.” The woman clutched her purse, in which was hidden a fifty-dollar gold bill, discreetly pushed into her hand by Kitty. (“There will be more, later.”) She went on: “Only yesterday she said to Joey—he’s the handyman—‘Who are you?’ And he’s worked for her for years! When he reminded her that he was Joey, she asked about her ‘kitten.’ She never had a kitten. I keep having to remind her to take a bath or comb her hair or change her spotted dress. Really, the smell sometimes! And she prowls around the house at night and calling for her dead husband. It gives us all chills, and we lock our bedroom doors. Never can tell about people in her condition. If I didn’t really love the poor thing I’d leave, bag and baggage, I’m that scared sometimes. She creeps up behind me, without a sound—”
There was much more, all lies and distortions. Joey was called in, and gave his
own colorful interpretations, forgetting, of course, to mention that he pilfered regularly in Ellen’s house and had taken some of her lesser pieces of jewelry. He, too, had been properly bribed. “Honest to God, sir, she puts her arms around me and even asked me to marry her, her with a husband! And she called me Jeremy, many times. Her eyes look queer all the time. I’m scared.”
Ceremony of the Innocent Page 55
