by Sylvia True
“Perhaps you do have some sort of insect bite,” Inga said. “Maybe a mite, or a bedbug. Sometimes when we have those, they feel as if they are moving from one place to another.”
“No, it’s a maggot.” Rigmor shuddered. “I can feel it.” “Come,” Inga said. “We will wash your arm, and it will go away. We’ll drown it.”
Rigmor walked with her sister to the sink, and Inga lathered the soap and cleaned the wound, grateful that it was quite small. It could have been much worse.
After the cut was dried and bandaged, Rigmor changed into a long-sleeved cotton dress, and Inga buttoned the back.
“Tea?” Inga asked as Rigmor sat next to the window.
Just then, Frieda appeared with a cup of hot bullion. “Cook prepared this. It will be good for your nerves.”
Rigmor smiled obediently. For a woman of twenty-three, well-read and talented in music and art, she sometimes behaved like a young girl in front of their mother. That Frieda elicited this docile response, purposefully or not, irritated Inga. If she stayed, it would only be a matter of seconds until she bickered with Frieda about the windows or the light. Or Rigmor needing to go out more and get some exercise. And so Inga kissed her sister’s forehead and took her leave.
Soon after, as Inga walked to the library at the University of Frankfurt, she imagined Frieda sitting next to Rigmor, coaxing her to have one more spoonful of bullion. Frieda had always doted, sullenly. The rare times she looked happy were when she listened to Rigmor play the piano. Then Frieda’s face would take on an air of giddy intoxication, as she would talk about the suppleness of Rigmor’s fingers and the grace of her body. Inga admired her sister, but she could not tolerate Frieda’s fawning. Some might say Inga was jealous, but she would disagree. Her mother’s attention was not something she sought.
Inga climbed the steps to the library. She was a regular on the second floor, where they housed the books and journals on psychology. Helmut, the young librarian, with bright blue eyes and white blond hair, kept a stack of readings he thought Inga would find interesting. He smiled brightly at her and seemed to find the need to walk past her numerous times as she read. Inga would glance up at him, tilt her head, and shift in her chair so that her legs were visible. Never ashamed to flirt, Inga knew she was attractive, with high cheekbones, a slim figure, and fine features. More than once she had been compared to Katharine Hepburn.
Today she scanned through an article about the recent developments of the Health Courts; Hamburg and Berlin had already assembled a number of them. Professor Rudin was leading the cause. Very soon, those courts would make determinations on who was to be sterilized.
Had Inga come from a middle-class family, she might have gone to medical school herself. But she was bred to be an aristocrat, a hostess, and a good wife; all things she could do, though none interested her.
She took a small notebook from her handbag and turned to the second-to-last page, where she kept a list of illnesses. Inga crossed out schizophrenia, feeblemindedness, and mania, things she was sure Rigmor did not have.
It still wasn’t clear what Rigmor had; most doctors categorized her as a hysteric, and although Inga found that word vague, she also found it reassuring. A touch of hysteria could be treated at home; it would not get Rigmor institutionalized or sterilized.
When she was finished, Inga gathered her things and walked to Helmut’s desk.
“I know it’s strictly forbidden to take home these journals,” she began, tucking back a few strands of her wavy hair. “But I would like so much to show this article to someone.”
Helmut looked down at the article, then glanced at Inga, who had set her elbows on the desk and was leaning in. His face turned bright red.
“It is against our policies,” he said. Then, without another word, he produced a pair of scissors and cut out the article. Inga folded the paper and patted Helmut’s hand.
She waited until nine that night, when Frieda took her two whiskeys in the drawing room. Inga sat across from her mother and explained her idea of finding a doctor, someone who could keep an educated, watchful eye on Rigmor.
“No more doctors,” Frieda said, slamming her glass on the end table. “We have seen five in the last six months. It has done nothing.” She looked like a bull ready to charge. “And you have a husband to take care of. I will look after Rigmor.”
Klaus was likely reading in bed, immune to the turbulence.
“My husband is perfectly fine,” Inga said. She paused. “The man we would hire for Rigmor would not be acting as a doctor. He would be a friend. Someone we could trust, who could take her to a museum or café, watch her for a longer period of time, make a more accurate diagnosis. A correct diagnosis is the clearest path to successful treatment.” Inga unfolded the paper in her hand. “I can phone Dr. Rudin.” She handed the article to her mother. “You have met him. He came to a dinner party here once.”
Frieda waved the paper. “I have no idea who he is.”
“He is one of the most famous psychiatrists in the world. He can make a recommendation. I’m sure it will be excellent. What could it hurt?”
Frieda paused, appearing to consider Inga’s suggestion. “If we do find someone, I will conduct the interview,” Frieda said.
A small concession, Inga thought, pleased she had won.
Chapter Three
Confessions
Belmont, Massachusetts 1984
Strips of morning light streaming through the locked window played on the floor. Sabine lay in bed watching the shadows and felt relief that she had managed a few hours’ sleep.
She pulled aside the thin cotton blanket. As her feet hit the floor, the door opened. She didn’t bother looking up. She knew it was only the checks person.
“Room change,” a man said.
Now she looked. The man was Paul, the aide who had let her in the night she arrived.
“Why?” Sabine asked.
She was just getting used to this room. It had its advantages. It was next to the lounge with the piano and orange shag carpet, where people gathered and smoked. It was bigger than most rooms, and the ceiling cracks were in the shape of a dolphin. Its main disadvantage was that it was on the five-minute check hall, which meant that every five minutes, the door opened, and a staff member peered in. Although at night Sabine felt oddly comforted by the intrusions.
Paul had zero interest in the patients he served. “Just doing what I’m told,” he said.
“Is it only me who’s moving?” Sabine asked.
“Nope. You and Cecelia. Ten minute check hallway.” He looked at his watch.
“Can we just wait a little, until she wakes up?”
Sabine needed to call Tanner. Now. Before she had coffee, before she went to the bathroom, before she gathered any of her things, she needed to know that she would see her baby today.
“I’m up,” Cece grunted.
She’d had another difficult night. At around two in the morning, she’d screamed that there was a man wearing a red bandanna around his neck, trying to kill her. Staff came when they heard her yell, and made her stand up and count backwards from one hundred. After she calmed down, she returned to bed and cried quietly as Sabine whispered that she was so sorry.
Cece gathered her black hair into a ponytail, rubbed her eyes, and stuck a cassette into her boom box. Prince belted Purple Rain.
In their new, smaller room, Sabine once again took the bed near the window. The bad spirits, Cece said, came through windows at night. After Sabine finished moving her clothes and toiletries, she walked to the phone booth and called Tanner collect.
“Can you and Mia visit today?” She bit her lip. She should have started differently. Asked him how he was. How Mia slept.
“Uh….” He yawned. “Haven’t had my coffee yet.”
Her throat tightened. “Can you?” she whispered, as she read some of the graffiti etched in the wooden walls of the phone booth. You’re OK. They’re fucked.
He yawned again. “Liste
n, Sabine. I’m exhausted. Mia got me up twice during the night.”
“Please.” She traced a finger along the word HELL. “Today will be the fifth day.”
“The thing is, my mom said she would pick her up from daycare later so I could stay in the city. You know, maybe meet a friend. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to do anything for myself.”
Somewhere under the shame that she was weak and needy, there was a spark of anger, of wanting to tell him he was a selfish bastard. Yes, he’d had to set up the daycare, and work, and help his father fix the roof, and yes, on the second day he’d brought Sabine all of her things in a garbage bag. But five nights had gone by.
“Sabine,” her husband said. “Are you there?”
The spark drowned. “Tomorrow?” She tried not to cry and reminded herself that it was difficult for him to have a wife like her.
“Yeah, tomorrow is good.”
“Thank you.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. As she dressed, she thought again about signing a three-day, which considering it was almost the weekend would mean she would be out by next week. But then she remembered everything she’d tried pre-McLean: relaxation tapes, advice from the La Leche League, walks around the neighborhood, phone calls to her mother, herbal teas from her best friend, and in one of her lowest moments, an evangelical television program, which flashed a phone number across the screen. For only $9.99, she could be prayed for.
In the dining room with the large wooden-framed windows that rattled on windy days, Sabine sat and stared at the snow-covered lawn.
Helen approached. “May I?” she asked. “You look like you could use some company.”
Sabine nodded. Helen was poised and articulate, the kind of woman, Omama, Sabine’s Swiss grandmother, would approve of—upper class with shiny dark hair, understated makeup, defined cheekbones, and impeccable manners.
“Coffee?” Helen asked.
“Sure.”
Something about Helen, about her surety of convictions, about the way she observed everyone and everything, comforted Sabine, at least a little. Helen would help. She would have answers.
As Helen poured coffee from the urn, Sabine glanced at the slab of plywood covering an old fireplace.
Helen set a yellow cup in front of Sabine. “What’s wrong?” She reached across the table, but stopped just short of touching Sabine. No physical contact, PC, was allowed. But Sabine didn’t believe it was the rule that stopped Helen. It was that she was too professional, even if she was a patient.
“Tanner can’t bring Mia,” she said. The coffee had a strange gasoline aftertaste.
“Sorry,” Helen said.
Tears welled. “I need to figure out how to get better fast.”
Helen picked up her cup the correct way, at least correct according to Omama, without her pinky sticking out.
“Let me know if you figure it out.” Her large brown eyes shined with a mixture of laughter and cynicism. This was her thirteenth hospitalization.
“What’s helped you?” Sabine asked, as the general din, the whooshing of the swinging door to the kitchen, patients asking staff for matches, and an argument about protocol for signing out, surrounded her.
Helen paused long enough to make clear she wasn’t going to answer that question. “What are the three things you would never tell your therapist?”
Sabine considered the question, understanding both its merit and difficulty. “Have you done that?”
Helen chuckled. “God, no.”
Frank barreled in, pulled a chair right up to Sabine, and crossed his long, spindly legs. He put an elbow on the table and stared at Helen.
“Frank,” she said. “We’re busy.”
“She wants to operate on your brain,” he told Sabine, who rubbed his arm gently, ignoring the PC rule.
“No, she doesn’t. I swear I’m OK. She’s a friend.” It was strange how quickly Sabine felt comfortable around most of her fellow patients. It was easier than making friends on the outside. Once you reached the bottom of the social strata, there was no point in pretending.
Paul walked toward the table. “Frank, time for a shower,” he said.
Frank dashed out of the room. Showers, he believed, could kill you.
“So why wouldn’t you tell your therapist the three things?” Sabine asked. “I mean, if it would help?”
Helen tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m not here to get help.”
She’d told this to Sabine before, but it was hard to fathom. Everything about Helen was hard to fathom. The first time they met, Helen had asked Sabine if she voted for Reagan. When Sabine said no, Helen smiled and asked Sabine to sit.
A cool veil glided down Helen’s face now, and Sabine knew she was crossing the line. No more questions about Helen.
“So, three things,” Sabine began, taking a deep breath. “There was this period of time when I was growing up”—she ran her finger along the cup—“when I took plates from the cupboard.” She pictured herself quietly opening the glass cabinet. “They were expensive plates. From Europe. I took one each day, and I’d walk to the end of our street and then drop it.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine. I wasn’t a destructive kid. I didn’t break things or steal. It was weird.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“And no one saw?”
“My next door neighbor did. Mrs. Zandichek. She made me come to her yard one day. I remember how perfectly green her lawn was. She told me that she had seen me break the plates. I lied and said it wasn’t me. Then she told me that if I was lying my tongue would turn black, and if I didn’t show her my tongue, it was proof that I was guilty. I knew tongues didn’t work that way, so I showed her mine.”
Helen laughed. “So she lied to try to catch you lying. And your mother? Didn’t she miss her plates?”
“I don’t think so.” Sabine looked at her hands, feeling the shame now that she hadn’t felt then.
“You needed some attention,” Helen said. “Maybe from your parents. But it sounds as if they weren’t able to give it.”
“My mother was busy,” she said, and bounced her knee. “There were three of us, and she was also teaching skating.”
Sabine remembered something her mother had said a couple of years after the plates disappeared. She told Sabine about a child in her village—a strange child, who had stolen his mother’s gold bracelet and stomped on it at the bottom of the street where everyone could see. The neighbors thought the boy was mad, but the mother of the boy was wise. She pretended it didn’t happen, and because she did that, the boy had to pretend as well, and he pretended so hard for so long that he ended up being perfectly fine.
“Want to move on to the next thing?” Helen asked.
Sabine took a sip of the coffee—now cold. “I had a psychotic episode,” she whispered.
“Just one?”
Sabine shrugged, not wanting to answer that. “I lied when Dr. Baron asked me when I was being admitted.”
“Everyone lies at those screenings. We have to.”
Sabine felt relieved, although she wasn’t sure why it was that people had to lie.
“I was at home, cooking spaghetti,” she said. “Mia was in a bassinet sleeping in the living room. When I dumped the spaghetti into the colander, and looked at it, it was this huge bowl of squirming maggots.”
Helen let out a gasp. “What did you do?”
“I screamed. Thankfully no one was home. I reached for a broom.” Sabine forced a laugh. “I don’t know what I thought a broom would do.”
Helen covered her mouth. Her face blanched. “You could have run.”
“I guess,” Sabine said. “But I remembered something I had read about maggots cleaning wounds, so I decided they weren’t really that bad; all I had to do was put them in the trash. I stuck my hand in the bowl, and as soon as I did, it was spaghetti again. So maybe it wasn’t really a psychotic episode.”
“You stuck your hand
in a bowl you thought was full of maggots?” Helen’s eyes were wide and watery.
“I guess. But not really, because there weren’t actually any maggots in there.”
Helen shivered. “I would rather die than put my hand in a bowl of maggots.”
“Oh.” Cold air streamed through the window. Maybe she shouldn’t have been talking about psychosis. Maybe that was the line between a little crazy and really crazy.
Helen pulled at a few of her eyelashes. Her shoulders rounded as she seemed to withdraw. “Once,” she said, her gaze fixed on the wall behind Sabine. “A maggot crawled on my face. It curled up and rested in the crook of my eye.”
“You didn’t move it away?” Sabine asked.
“I was tied to a chair,” Helen answered flatly.
This was the first crack Sabine had seen in Helen, the first inkling that something had gone terribly wrong.
“Why?” Sabine asked, softly.
“I was in Texas.”
Sabine nodded as if that made some sort of sense. “Is that where you’re from?”
“No. I hate Texas.” Helen had a small spot on the side of her nose where she had no melanin. It brightened like a white star when she got emotional.
“Right,” Sabine said.
Helen waved a hand. “We’re not talking about me. My stories are not interesting.” The star dimmed.
“What is the third thing?” Helen asked.
“I’m in love with Dr. Lincoln,” Sabine blurted, which was by far the most embarrassing of the three confessions.
“Oh,” Helen replied. “That’s just transference. It means therapy is working.”
“No, I really feel like I’m in love with him,” Sabine said.
“Of course you do. You transfer your feelings of the love you might have felt for your parents onto him, hoping that this time someone might actually listen and understand.”
“My parents listened.” Although as soon as she said that, she thought about her father, how he would stomp around the house yelling that he needed his peace and quiet even when Sabine and her brothers were playing silently in the basement.
