by Paul Lederer
Watching her, Don was sure that she missed not a single fold in the far hills; no rocky outcropping with its network of weather cracks; no single tree escaped her observation or careful scrutiny. Her expression was one of total absorption and endless fascination. It was the same expression she had worn when studying the photographs on the wall or the crabs beneath the pier. He wondered what sort of eye she would have for photography. It would be interesting to find out. Watching her, he was reminded of a line from some forgotten poem, ‘A child … accosting wonder in the smallest places.’
Swinging off the highway near Braxton, he began looking for a place to stop and eat; neither of them had had a bite all day. Driving east now, the foothills rose before them, dark, convoluted, nearly purple in the light the sun cast through the high broken clouds at this hour.
Spotting a modern-looking, blue-roofed coffee shop, Don pulled into the parking lot where several cars with out-of-state license plates were parked. Three big rigs of different colors sat side by side in their own parking area to the south, half hidden by a row of dusty cypress trees.
He parked in front of the building. Behind the large tinted windows, they could see people eating in comfortable booths and a waitress in a green dress walking hurriedly by, carrying an overloaded tray. Don turned off the engine.
‘OK, let’s get you something to eat, Sarah.’
She started to get out and Don touched her arm, ‘Leave the jacket in the car, Sarah. It’s not exactly pretty, and you won’t need it inside.’
Obediently, she took off the checked hunting jacket and folded it carefully on the seat as Don watched her. Then they went into the restaurant which smelled of hotcakes and eggs, coffee and bacon. A woman in a black dress wearing a fixed smile approached them with mock pertness and led them to a back table.
Sarah slid into the leather-covered booth and sat with her hands clasped, watching Don expectantly. The hostess handed them each a plastic covered menu and bustled away, her smile vanishing.
Don studied the menu, knowing he had $22 in his pocket and could not return Jake’s station wagon with an empty gas tank. He frowned at the prices, glanced at Sarah who was tracing the large red letters of the restaurant’s name on the top of her menu with her finger, her lips moving silently.
‘What’ll it be, Sarah? A late breakfast or an early dinner? They’re serving both.’
A middle-aged waitress with bleached hair and order pad in hand, arrived introducing herself. She offered Sarah a practiced smile.
‘Ready to order yet?’ she asked.
Don said, ‘Two cheeseburgers, two orders of fries.’ He handed back his menu and slipped Sarah’s from under her hand.
‘Yes, sir. Anything to drink?’
She was still smiling, looking at Sarah. Sarah smiled back.
‘Two cokes,’ Don said.
‘Yes, sir.’ The waitress watched Sarah a moment longer, before drawing back slightly. Scribbling on her pad, she placed the menus under her arm and walked away on thick-soled shoes.
‘It’ll only be a minute, Sarah.’
It was a little longer than that, but not much. The cheeseburgers were greasy, the french fries very dry, but Sarah ate with such complete relish that Don forgave the restaurant for its lapses and left a decent tip on the table before they went out.
They were onto the curb and pulling from the parking lot onto the boulevard before Don noticed that Sarah had half of her cheeseburger and some french fries wrapped in a napkin on her lap.
‘You weren’t that hungry after all, huh?’
Yes, she had been hungry, very hungry. This was for Poppsy. Poppsy would be hungry, too, and no one would take Poppsy out to a restaurant. Well, maybe the young man would if he knew Poppsy. Maybe. He was a very nice young man.
Dr Walter Manzel was still a young man, but his manner was lugubrious, as if he had been jilted by life. He had a round face and very pale blue eyes that blinked excessively. His pale hair was so thin that his scalp glowed through it, tinting it pink. It was to his office at the Northshore Medical and Convalescent Center that they were escorted, having been warned at the front desk where Don – to Sarah’s obvious surprise – had introduced himself as Edward Tucker, that today was Dr Gerard’s day off.
Dr Walter Manzel half-rose from behind his desk where every paper was neatly stacked and squared; Don had the feeling that the man had been doing nothing more than looking out the window that faced the low hills beyond the convalescent center. He shook Don’s hand weakly, seated himself again and gestured toward two padded red chairs. He made a shaky attempt at a smile and flipped open the folder before him.
‘So … and this is Sarah.’ He offered her one of his faltering smiles as well, ‘We didn’t expect her for a few days, Mr Tucker.’
Sarah looked at Don, wondering why in the world he was using Edward’s name.
‘We just came by so that Sarah could look the place over. It might make for an easier transition. Of course,’ Don said, crossing his legs, ‘I did want to talk to Dr Gerard further concerning prognosis. We do want Sarah to get well.’
‘Of course. Dr Gerard is much more familiar with voluntary mutism than I am. As far as prognosis … yes, you would have to talk to him personally. I’m sorry he is not here today. Without an appointment….’
‘I understand. I’m sorry. My schedule….’
‘Yes, yes.’ Manzel turned over a few pages in Sarah’s file and said, ‘I’m afraid … this is not Dr Gerard’s day in. He goes sailing, you know…’ he added irrelevantly, ‘I have his notes, of course … but,’ he paused, ‘it might be better to discuss this outside of your sister’s hearing, Mr Tucker. You indicated she wished to be shown around? I can have one of the nurses do that while we talk?’ Each sentence seemed to end with a question mark.
‘Fine,’ Don said after a moment’s thought, ‘maybe that would be better.’ He told Sarah, ‘They want to show you what their hospital looks like, all right? Go ahead, doctor, call your nurse.’
Dr Manzel spoke briefly into his intercom, and shortly a bulky Italian woman with a benign smile entered and introduced herself as Mrs Stanzione. Without hesitation, Sarah rose and went out with the nurse at her invitation.
‘Is she always like that? Always does what she’s told to do?’ Manzel asked.
‘Always,’ Don answered.
‘She’ll do very well here then. It’s almost a shame.…’
‘That what?’
‘Well … that she’ll have to be in the psychiatric wing. We are a dual-use facility, surely Dr Gerard explained that?’
‘He has spoken mostly to my mother. I live out of the area.’
‘Yes,’ Manzel’s eyes drifted away toward the window, perhaps enviously imagining Dr Gerard sailing across the bay, white shorts, captain’s cap. His sad gaze returned. ‘We are a hospital and convalescent center combined. We have quite a number of the elderly, people recovering from major surgery: amputations, organ transplants.… Then we have our rather renowned psychiatric rehabilitation facility. Of which, of course, Dr Gerard and I are staff chiefs.’
‘But you were saying, as to Sarah?’ Don tried to hurry the man toward clarification of what she would be facing.
‘Well, Sarah has obvious psychiatric problems, the mutism being the most evident symptom. The two sections of this institution are kept totally separate and distinct. The state mandates this, for rather obvious reasons.’
‘I understand. And in the psychiatric wing?’
‘What do you mean … oh, what sorts of patients do we have there?’ Dr Manzel’s eyes swiveled as if he wished he could look out the window behind him while explaining. He turned a palm up and said, ‘Paranoid-schizophrenics. Some psychotic cases. A few catatonics…. I want you to understand, Mr Tucker, that we have a remarkable success rate here in stabilizing some of these people with medication. They are then transferred to our outpatient programs. We look at no individual as being irretrievable. That is one of the cornerstones of our philo
sophy.’
‘The outpatient programs – Sarah would not be a candidate?’
‘I understood that the family … I’m sorry,’ he looked briefly at her folder again. ‘It has been our understanding that no one in the family felt capable of taking care of her at home.’
‘The question was hypothetical,’ Don said dryly. A bad taste was building in the back of his mouth. It was bitter, tasting of mercury and bile. He recognized it as rising anger.
‘Well, hypothetically…’, the psychiatrist spread his hands, ‘surely Dr Gerard has been through all of this with the family.’
‘I’ve told you….’
‘Yes, I’d forgotten. Your mother has chiefly consulted him.’
‘That’s right.’
A hint of suspicion had developed in the psychiatrist’s eyes, but Manzel seemed to mentally shrug it off, and he continued.
‘I assume you mean that if she were able to regain her power of speech suddenly and was able to enter standard therapy, allowing us to assess her actual psychiatric wellness….’
‘That’s exactly what I mean, yes.’
Dr Manzel appeared puzzled, then apparently decided he was simply talking to someone without any understanding of psychiatry and went on, further secularizing his vocabulary, ‘If she were to recover her speech, sir, no one – not even her family – could continue to cause her to remain in this facility unless some other problem manifested itself. There would be an evaluation preceding her release, of course, but I must say, having only briefly seen the girl myself and having studied her file, there have never been any other problems. So long as it was felt she could function in society on her own or with a minimum amount of supervised help, she would be transferred to a more flexible program. There is absolutely no violence in her background,’ the doctor said, again studying the file, ‘no bizarre behavior of any kind.’ He tilted back in his chair, hands behind his head, ‘She is of legal age, and if one day she should walk up to me and say, “I would like to be released” I would be compelled to honor her wishes – after a period of reassessment, as I have indicated.’
‘Then she could….’
‘Hypothetically,’ Manzel said, returning Don’s word to him. The doctor rolled his head from side to side, ‘Such a recovery from hysterical trauma is not unheard of, but it is very rare and recovery usually has been the result of fairly unpleasant shock treatments which sometimes burden the patient with new trauma. After all, your sister has been mute since…’ he glanced again at Sarah’s file, ‘since the age of four. It is Dr Gerard’s opinion – and it would be mine as well – that she will never recover her speech. That, quite simply, she does not wish to.’
‘But why wouldn’t she?’ Don asked almost desperately, ‘What could have happened to her?’
Dr Manzel closed the folder deliberately. The suspicion had returned to his eyes.
‘As you must know, Mr Tucker,’ he said with slighting emphasis, ‘none of your family admits to having any idea what trauma or series of traumas might have precipitated Sarah’s hysteria – or none has been made available to us. Therefore Dr Gerard and I have no starting point to begin a therapeutic program. As to your hypothetical question: can you imagine how impossible it is to attempt to psychoanalyze or even frame therapeutics for a mute patient? It is my understanding that she cannot even write since this episode – whatever it was – occurred before Sarah was even of school age.’
‘She can write her name,’ Don said heavily.
‘So you see, Mr Tucker,’ the doctor said, spreading his hands, ‘any discussion of treatment and future release is unfortunately moot at this point. I can tell you nothing else. Perhaps you wish to continue this conversation with Dr Gerard? He will be in the office tomorrow.’
Don rose. He looked down at the thin rust-colored carpet for a moment, shaking his head.
The doctor had also risen. ‘I’m sorry if I have disappointed you,’ Manzel said, not unkindly, ‘I’m sure your family must have been told all of this before.’
‘We don’t communicate real well,’ Don muttered.
‘I understand.’
Dr Manzel walked Don to the door.
‘I understand your feelings,’ Manzel said, ‘it’s terribly frustrating to have someone you love injured or ill and find there is nothing to be done about it.’ He opened the door and they paused there for a moment, ‘Perhaps you – someone in the family – can devise some plan for keeping Sarah at home? She’s such a pretty girl. And looking at her, watching her eyes, one cannot help but feel that she is very bright behind her eternal silence.’
‘Yes.’ Don took the doctor’s weak hand in parting. ‘Maybe we can figure out a way to keep her at home. I’ll talk it over again with the family.’
‘I wish you luck, Mr Tucker,’ Manzel said sadly, ‘I sincerely do. I don’t believe myself that Sarah is a good candidate for our programs. I do believe you … you so seem to have her best interests at heart.’
Manzel retreated to his office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Don took a deep breath, swearing softly. A damned mess: was what this was. Then he went looking for Sarah.
He found her in a small recreation room where a group of elderly people stared at a banal television show flickering on the wall, or paced aimlessly, supported by canes or walkers. One man sat alone, staring out the window, into his past.
‘She’s right over there,’ Mrs Stanzione told Don. ‘Will you be able to find your way out all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll get back to my duties.’
‘Wait. Did you show her the psychiatric ward?’
The nurse hesitated. ‘Why, no. Dr Manzel didn’t ask me to … it’s not really wholesome always.’
‘I understand,’ Don said, and the nurse erased her briefly nervous apprehension, smiled and walked away down the corridor.
Don leaned his back against the wall and stood watching Sarah for a long while. She was crouched behind a woman in a wheelchair. The old lady’s face was pallid, hollowed and scoured by time. Sarah was gently stroking the woman’s straight, square-cropped, lifeless hair – dirty gray – a yellow-steel color. The old woman stared straight ahead with sunken eyes, apparently unaware of Sarah’s attention, her incredibly wrinkled hands, with prominent knuckles and a network of deep blue veins, resting on the arm of the wheelchair.
Don walked slowly toward them. The room smelled of age and urine and only vaguely of some ineffective disinfectant.
‘It’s time to go, Sarah. Are you ready?’
She nodded and rose. Then, Sarah bent and kissed the stranger on the forehead and patted her arm. The old lady’s fingers lifted and then her hand raised and fastened itself briefly to Sarah’s and her cloudy eyes lifted to hers. The hand fell away again and her gaze dropped.
Sarah kissed her again and smiled as if they had communicated in some secret way only they knew. And perhaps they had.
Perhaps there was no secret to it at all. Sarah had touched the woman in the wheelchair and with those touches let the woman know that she was not just a last flickering glow of dying intelligence, but still a human being worthy of respect and love.
‘All right, Sarah. Let’s go now.’
In the corridor Don had another thought. He took Sarah to the central waiting room and left her sitting on one of a row of chrome-legged chairs.
‘I’ll be just a minute,’ he told her, ‘then we’ll go.’
He walked down the corridor, passing the nurses’ station where three white-clad women hovered around filing cabinets and a computer, and walked on, following the pointing sign reading: ‘Psychiatric Wing’.
Reaching the end of the carpeted hallway, he came to a set of green double doors. A sign read: ‘No unescorted persons beyond this point’ and so he backtracked to a side corridor toward another nurses’ station. He could hear yelling beyond the walls somewhere, someone crying fitfully; a man’s voice screaming curses in cadence. Meaningless curse
s against a meaningless world.
No one paid any attention to Don as he entered a small waiting area much like the one in which he had left Sarah.
A black orderly was leading a man in a plaid bathrobe somewhere. The orderly called to a male nurse, ‘He’s at it again, Kelly.’
‘Painting on the walls?’
‘Yeah. A big old handful of shit smeared everywhere. I got to throw him in the shower. Have one of the janitors get up to the rec room to clean it up before someone eats it.’
The nurse laughed, ‘OK, Billy.’
Don March continued up the corridor, following the orderly and his charge, the muralist.
The moaning and shrieking continued behind the walls, emanating from unseen chambers. He watched as the orderly guided the hunched man in the plaid bathrobe into a room marked ‘showers’.
The ceilings seemed too low, thick and oppressive. The air circulating through the air-conditioning system did not smell fresher, only altered. Finding a small balcony where a female nurse sat smoking a cigarette, legs crossed, her puffy eyes lifeless and tired, he opened the sliding glass door and went out.
It was cool; the air smelled of the sea even this far inland. The remnant clouds left behind by the storm drifted silently by. Below him, Don could see a small yard with a single tilting cypress tree, a few concrete benches scattered around in its shade. A tall chain-link fence topped with concertina wire enclosed the area where a dozen patients in bathrobes or ill-fitting clothes wandered around. One young woman was kneeling, looking skyward; she seemed to be praying. A man wearing a stocking cap sat on one of the benches, methodically slamming his fist against his own knee.
‘Exercise yard?’ Don asked the nurse. Startled from her private thoughts, she looked up. Ash from her cigarette fell onto the lap of her white dress. Don repeated the question.
‘Yeah,’ she answered tiredly, jabbing her fingers at her tinted hair, ‘for the “nons”.’
‘For the…?’
‘Non-violent patients. Not all of our patients get to come outside. Some of ’em like to fight. One of ’em tried to climb that fence. Got all snarled up in that razor wire. They had to cut him out of it. All the time he was up there dangling, he was calling, “Mommy, Mommy!”’
