Anna, who sat in the backseat, regally silent for most of the drive, spoke up when Diane mentioned Parrish.
“He’s the one I have to see,” she said. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw her jaw thrust forward and her eyes narrow in the proscribed, Shockley combat face, and I watched her eyes move, reading each word, as Diane explained why Parrish would be unavailable.
“Well, I’ve got to see him,” Anna repeated, and then she turned, hunkered down into leaden silence and pressed her forehead against the car window. Diane looked at me. I smiled a what-are-you-gonna-do-with-the-girl smile, and we shrugged in unison. The day was gloriously bright, autumn-burnished. In contrast, the emergency room lobby was washed in yellow light and had the funky, bad-luck feel of a bus station in the low rent district. I had another stomach-clenching jolt of uncertainty.
Diane knew the admissions clerk and told her that we were there to see Dr. Moore, who was expecting us. Dr. Moore was paged. Handsome, blond-haired and boyish, Dr. Moore arrived and took the ungracious, glowering Anna (“I didn’t come to see you”) off to talk with him.
He came out later to tell us that he thought it would be best if they admitted Anna for a few days.
I left, disquiet flickering in my heart like a faulty light bulb about to settle into darkness.
6
Richard Parrish watched them shuffle forward with the massive rosewood desk. There were six of them, big men, but they were still having trouble wrestling this shiny status symbol out the door.
“Careful,” Parrish said, and a broad face looked up to scowl at him from under a sweat-boiled brow.
“Motherfucker says be careful,” the man said. He was a stocky, dark man, sinewy arms netted in a filigree of blue tatoos.
Parrish turned away. No sense in calling the man on that remark. This sullen bravado was all the man had. The poor and the dispossessed have their insolence, and that is all they have.
Anyway, this was supposed to be a good day. Richard was moving his office to the new wing where he would look out over the lake and the trees beyond. The new office was large and airy, and it spoke eloquently of his position.
Too bad his mother had not lived to see it. Grace would have loved the new office. He could see her, moving around the room, taking her shoes off to wade in the deep carpet, beaming, nodding her head, saying, “Yes. Oh, yes.”
She had died three years ago and the first year after her death had been bad for him. He hadn’t handled her death well at all, and he still didn’t like to think about it. He had flown down to see her, and she had scared him badly, lying there in the hospital bed, dying fiercely, a pathetic, terrified monster. He had left, knowing she was dying, and he had flown back home, back to Jane and his hospital, and he had prayed that the phone would ring and a doctor would say she was dead, and he wouldn’t have to go see her again, but that hadn’t happened. So he waited and stalled. He was busy. As director of Romner, he was a slave to the place. That, at least, is what he told his mother, and he didn’t fly down again. But, as the weeks went by and she didn’t die, Jane began to wonder aloud how a son couldn’t find time for his own mother. He wrote in his diary, “I wish poor Grace would just die. It would be best for everyone.”
When he could no longer ignore his wife’s disdain, he booked a flight down to Atlanta. He intended to go see his mother, but found that he couldn’t. He couldn’t confront what was no longer his mother, what was now a tireless narrator of blood counts and drugs. Instead, he drove a rented car through the labyrinth of the city, circled the hospital, checked into a motel, and watched television until he fell asleep. The next morning, he caught an airplane back to Charlotte where Jane picked him up for the drive back to Newburg.
“How is she?” Jane asked.
He had shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“Aren’t you glad you went to see her?”
“Yeah,” he said.
There had been a beat then, a dreadful second of silence, and he had turned and looked at his wife, and she had smiled, the coldest smile.
“Your mother called me right before I left for the airport.”
He had wanted to kill Jane then. “You don’t understand,” he had said. Jane had laughed, a sharp bark, derogatory and irrefutable. They had driven home without exchanging another word.
“She thinks I’m weak,” he told his diary. “If I were really weak, I would break her neck, I would smash every bone in her body. She is fortunate I am not weak.”
His mother had finally died, three weeks later, and Jane and Richard had flown down for the funeral. The funeral was a rainy, dirty business that filled him with shame. Why couldn’t his mother have died earlier? All his life women had sought to humiliate him, to rob him of his self-worth.
He still kept a diary, but recently the effort had become mechanical, joyless. The walls of his privacy now seemed paper thin, and it was only the habit of a lifetime that kept him writing. He felt that he might be unraveling. In continuing the diary, he hoped to prevent a headlong dash toward the edge.
He couldn’t pinpoint the source of this recent dissatisfaction. Jane certainly contributed to his sense of oppressiveness and panic, but it was something internal, prowling within him, that was the real problem.
The phone rang, and he had to hunt for it amid the clutter of the dissembled room. He found it behind the wastebasket. It was Jane, calling, ostensibly, to find out if he was going to be home for dinner, calling, in truth, to berate him for last night’s failure in the bedroom. She didn’t say so, of course, but there was that in her voice, that vulgar triumph in discerning another weakness, this one physical. He had been tired and unable to perform. Oh, she had been all contrived gentleness, all phony solicitude. And he had wanted to shout, “You disgust me!”
They were engaged in a battle, and they both knew it. He fought to gain control of Romner, and she fought to emasculate him, to have him whimpering beneath her heel. But he would win. He had been making great strides toward freedom over the years. Old Solomon had been infuriatingly slow to acknowledge his son-in-law’s competence, but Parrish had been unrelenting in his efforts. He had made friends, solidified his position.
There would come a time, in the near future—and this move to the new wing, while insignificant in itself, was part of the new regime—when neither Jane nor her powerful daddy could dislodge him. Old Solomon was a realist. He would see that Romner Psychiatric’s future was inextricably linked to Richard Parrish, and even if he took it into his head to divorce Jane, blood wouldn’t prove thicker than the financial waters. The next stockholders’ meeting would solidify his position. He had been careful, over the years, to pay close attention to the political winds. There wasn’t a significant stockholder that he hadn’t done at least one favor for.
So he ignored Jane’s attempt to humiliate him, pretending to be oblivious to her taunts. He told her that he would be home in time for dinner. He hung up and discovered that the movers had returned and were hauling his leather armchair out the door.
Feeling besieged, he walked out of his office and, with no destination in mind, wandered the hospital corridors. He enjoyed the stir he caused as he moved through the various wards. He was amused by the reactions of the staff. The true, born-to-kiss-ass sycophants would bounce along beside him, head-bobbing, fast-talking, fearing reprisal for some failing they were sure had come to light. Others would appear openly hostile. This group saw Parrish as the professional administrator, the enemy of the worker. Still others accosted him with demands, showed him failing equipment, complained of fellow workers. Every one of them had an axe to grind. This last bunch kept him from touring the hospital more, since he savored the privilege of power but found its obligations distasteful.
Some of the nurses were obviously attracted to him. He could recognize their interest, was flattered by it, but he didn’t intend to do anything about it—for the moment. He was aware that he was good-looking. The years had given him a distinguished air, an assurance, the viri
lity of power.
He was joking with a nurse on 3B, a pretty black-haired girl, indelibly Irish, saucy, quick-witted. He was standing at the nurses’ station with his back to the hall corridor when he heard his name spoken.
“Richard!” A girl’s voice, not loud, but urgent, it stirred a sediment of thoughts, so that, even as he turned, he felt a tremor of unease.
“Anna!” he said. Her name burst out of him, an exclamation. But there was no mistaking her for someone else; she was wearing jeans and a white, starched blouse with lace at the sleeves and neck. She was standing, as she had stood in front of him so often, with her arms at her sides, waiting for him to do something, her mouth slightly open, her eyes shining with joy. She was leaning forward, gravity dismissed, time sent away. Richard always felt that this waiting posture, this supernatural stillness, was a kind of condemnation. She was waiting for him to fall short of her expectations, waiting for him to fail.
“Hi, Richard,” she said. “I guess I had to come. Are you glad to see me?”
She was gone, dead. He had removed her years ago, and he hadn’t thought of her since then. She was an incident in his past, and she had been swallowed in his history, his diary, but she was not a presence in his conscience. He had lost no sleep because of her.
Now she was back. His mind crowded with emotions. There were too many emotions, a strange stew of bewilderment, guilt, horror, fear, and a surprisingly shrill note of yearning. He had forgotten how beautiful she was, how striking. No wonder he had loved her.
Panic set in, set the other emotions spinning. He was leaning against the admissions desk, backed against it, trapped. She had come to destroy him.
The nurse was coming around the desk. “Miss Shockley,” she was saying, “I’m afraid patients aren’t allowed in the halls at this time. I will have to ask you to go back to your room until your session with Dr. Moore at three.”
Control was essential. Anna was going to speak again, say something fatal, damning.
“I’ll take her back to her room,” Parrish said. And he pushed himself forward, caught Anna by the shoulder, and turned her, pointed her back down the hall.
“Hey,” Anna said, confused but coming along.
“We can’t talk here,” Parrish hissed. His voice was an imperious whisper. Amazing how quickly the melodrama resurfaced, he thought. The thought came from a cool, observing portion of his mind and reassured him. He was still in control.
Anna said nothing else until they reached her room. “Here,” she said, and he followed her in.
There were two beds, two dressers. “Do you have a roommate?” he asked, still speaking urgently.
“No,” Anna said. “I’m supposed to get one, though.”
Parrish turned. There was no lock on the inside of the door, of course. Crazy people had no privacy. That was a price you paid for walking out on reality.
“You could be happier to see me,” Anna said. Her expression was shifting, moving toward resentment, and Parrish realized he had to keep her from anger.
He reached forward, caught her shoulders. “Oh Anna,” he said. “I thought you were dead. All these years. Where have you been?”
Anna laughed. “Right here, Richard. Out at The Home, with Walker. I know you never liked Walker, but you don’t know him. He’s not a fraud. He’s a true holy man.”
“Why didn’t you let me know that you were alive?”
“I’ve been meaning to. I’m doing it now. Earlier, it would have been harder.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears as a fierce, tidal emotion surged over her, shaking her body. “I lost the baby.” She grabbed him, sobbing wildly. “I lost your baby.” She began to speak rapidly, words bobbing on a sea of grief, shoulders convulsing. “I thought I was going to die, and then I wasn’t, and then it was worse, because I knew the baby was dead and I couldn’t look at you and see our dead baby in your eyes, so I stayed away. But I knew I would have to come, and I thought about it a lot, and then the time came, and I realized it was going to be all right.”
Parrish held her, and her shaking body threatened him. Her face was blurred with tears and canted sideways. Strands of her hair stuck to a wet cheek. She smelled the same clean, wildflower smell that he remembered.
Her speech began to settle into slower rhythms as she calmed, and Parrish thought furiously. He didn’t know what to do, what to feel. She looked up at him, and she held him with her eyes and said, “We can have another, Richard. I’ve thought about it.”
“Another?”
“Yes. A child. I’m still young enough. I’m healthy. I think we have to. There’s a lost soul that’s waiting. Our love can bring it back.”
“A child,” he said, nodding vacantly. “Yes, we will have to talk about all this.” He blinked at her, smiled, and said, “Wait right here, Anna. I have to do something. I’ll be right back.”
He backed to the door, smiling fixedly. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
He walked quickly down the hall. He nodded at the nurse, wondering what his face looked like. Like wood, like lead, no doubt. He couldn’t get anything from the nurse; it would be logged in. He’d take a large order to the pharmacy, walk it through.
He walked to the elevator, pushed the button for the fourth floor, and waited. “Anna,” he muttered. She had come back to murder his fortunes. No. Think rationally here. The girl was deranged, not malicious. Still, she had come for him. Goddam her.
He couldn’t afford his anger now. Later. He had to think. What was he so damned afraid of? A crazy girl—obviously her schizophrenia had progressed—was not a threat to him. So what if she said she was pregnant by him years ago? Who would believe her?
Jane might, he thought. Jane was willing to believe the worst, to ruin him.
Well, let the bastards believe whatever suited them. That was long ago, there was no proof. There were no other accusations she could make. She had no more idea than anyone else that Bobby Starne had been sent by him.
He got off at the fourth floor and walked down to the pharmacy where a Japanese man in white greeted him with an enormous smile.
In half an hour, he was back on the elevator with a carton of disposable syringes and a variety of drugs and the realization that the arguments he was playing out in his head were unimportant. She had been a threat years ago, and she was a threat now, more so now when he had to move so carefully, had to solidify his position. She was back. She would have to go away again.
He couldn’t help feeling some anger, some frustration. He had closed the door on her; she was buried in his diary, in the past. She had crawled out of the grave, like a vampire, to feed on him again. Okay. He would damn well put a stake through her heart this time, the bitch.
He fished a key out of his pocket and inserted it in the emergency keyhole and stopped the elevator between floors. Then he sat down on the floor, popped a syringe out of its sterile wrapper, and rummaged amid the various vials. He lifted up a clear blue vial and jabbed the needle into its membrane mouth and drained the liquid. He hummed tunelessly, smiling. It wasn’t as though she was his equal. He would commit no crime against her that nature hadn’t committed years ago. He had diagnosed her as borderline schizophrenic back then, a diagnosis that hedged all bets. She was obviously less in touch now, but living out on that freak’s farm all these years might warp the soundest mind. It was hard to tell how much of the girl’s disorientation was her own private mental decline and how much was a gift from the guru and his tribe.
Parrish stood up. He squinted at the filled syringe. Borderline schizophrenic. Okay. Here was her ticket across the border.
He started the elevator again and rode it down to the basement. He got out, walked down the hall and out to the enclosed parking lot, and put the drugs and syringes in the trunk of his car. Then he went back inside, the filled syringe making a reassuring weight in his coat pocket, and rode the elevator to ward 3B and Anna.
She was sitting on the bed, and she smiled when he entered, an extraordinary, childlike
smile. Such trust, such fearless joy was another face of her illness, the siren side that had lured him to begin with. This brightness could turn black in an instant. No, he thought, You don’t fool me.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” he said. “I had some errands to attend to.”
Anna laughed and reached for him. He sat down on the bed next to her and held her. He looked at his watch. It was two-forty and he remembered the nurse saying something about Anna’s having an appointment with Dr. Moore at three.
“Oh Richard,” Anna said. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you.” He kissed her and stroked her cheek. He pushed her unruly hair away from her face and wondered what was in her dark, solemn eyes. Anything a man dreamed, he supposed. And then you’d pay the price. As he had.
“You must be very tired,” he said. “The stress of coming here. Hospitals aren’t restful, I know.” He caught her shoulders and pushed her backwards. “Lie down, Anna. That’s right.”
“I’m not tired,” Anna said, but she obeyed him, swinging her legs up onto the bed, giggling. “I don’t think we should do anything here. I mean, even if we are going to be married.”
“No,” Parrish said. “It would be most unseemly to do anything here.” He chuckled.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Anna said. He was rolling her sleeve up.
“I’m going to give you a shot. Just something to relax you. I’m the doctor, remember. Don’t you trust me?”
Anna had started to sit up. She lay back down under the gentle pressure of his arms. “I just don’t like needles, and I’m fine.”
“For me,” Parrish said. “Do it for me.”
“Okay.”
Maybe I'll Call Anna Page 18
