Chapter Twenty-Seven
The shadows looked different in that place. They seemed to reach at contrasting angles, crawl across the walls in patterns different from in our Greenwood home. They seemed ever present, shifting as the hours changed but always looming, like the buzz of the overhead lights.
The lights that hummed loudest were in Dr. Ruthledge’s office. Perhaps that was on purpose, a way to keep his patients talking so they could drown out that electric thrum.
“Please sit,” the short doctor said to me that morning. The room wasn’t the doctor’s office I had expected. There was no exam table. There was a couch, where I sat, with an armchair across from it. As he took his seat, I could see his bald spot. I wondered if he knew it was there since it was in a spot that a man like him probably didn’t even know about. At least, he didn’t try to hide it with a sweep of hair across his shiny scalp.
“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Mayfield.” Of course he had. While I was locked away in a room, they had talked about me as if I were a child. “He’s very concerned about you. As we all are. But let’s see how we can help you.
What is it that you’d like?”
“Please, I’d just like to go home.”
“We’d all like that for you, but we can’t do that, not yet. You understand why, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But I’d like to hear you say it. Why is it that your husband brought you here?”
“I haven’t been feeling well,” I said as I watched the plant behind him, a fern like the ones that grew in the woods behind our home. “For weeks now, I haven’t been feeling well. I’ve had headaches nearly every day. My hands and legs have hurt. I’ve been exhausted.”
“Yes, well, that’s pretty common after an event like you experienced. But I’m not asking how you’re feeling. I am asking why you’re here.”
I shifted on the couch and crossed my ankles. “That’s what I’m getting at.
I’ve been so tired that I can barely get out of bed. I haven’t felt like myself.”
The doctor looked at the notepad on his lap as he continued to write.
“Yes”—his voice sounded impatient—“and how long has this been going on?”
I paused for a moment and tried to count. It had been weeks. It had started back when I got home, though even during the pregnancy I suppose I had my moments.
“Maybe a few months?”
“Yes”—he kept his focus on the paper—“so, as I previously stated, since the event.” He emphasized both syllables and landed hard on the final letter.
I had never thought of Esther’s birth as an event, but I knew that’s what he meant. He wanted me to say it, didn’t he? He wanted me to confess. He wanted me to tell him that I knew what I had done wrong, to prove that I was aware. I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want to admit that Esther had never come home. That Esther had never cried out for me in the night. That she had never even taken a breath. That my body had failed at the one job it was supposed to do: grow, protect, and birth her into life.
“So let me ask again, Mrs. Mayfield.” He used his middle finger to push the glasses up the bridge of his nose, his weasel eyes squinting at me as he repeated himself. “Why is it that your husband brought you here?”
I felt a cool breeze blow across my arms. I gathered them around myself and wished I had brought her blanket with me. I closed my eyes. As my fingers rubbed the rash on the backs of my arms, I tried to imagine that they were feeling the satin edging of her blanket. I took a deep breath. I apologized to Esther, afraid that if I said the words aloud, I would be releasing her.
But I had no choice. I saw the lollipop lady and all the others around that place. I knew Bitsy. I was not going to become like any of them, so I took a deep breath and I said, “Because of my baby.”
“What about your baby?”
I looked him in his beady eyes. I knew who he was in that moment. He had one task: to get my admission. He didn’t care how much it hurt me. He needed me to do my job so we could do his. So I said the words he wanted me to say.
“My baby’s dead.”
“Have you always believed that?”
I should’ve cried. I should’ve mourned. Maybe that’s what my body had been doing, mourning the loss of my girl. But I couldn’t give him that satisfaction. And if I melted then, what would that mean for my prognosis?
So I played at being the good girl, the one who followed instructions, the one who did what was expected of her, and I said, “No.” Forgive me, Esther.
For the next few minutes, I continued playing the part as he explained that grief can do strange things to us, especially to mothers. To women. I kept quiet and nodded as he monologued, but I watched the plant. The fronds in front drooped and pointed to the floor, but the ones in the back reached toward the sunlight that peeked through the window. I wondered where the plant had come from. Had it been plucked from the forest floor, potted, and placed inside this asylum, only to reach for the freedom it once had?
“We’re going to start psychoanalysis, try some drug therapy, and go from
there,” he said.
“Miltown?” I asked.
“No. It’s fine for some, but clearly it isn’t strong enough for you. I’ve got something else in mind.” I looked at him, a sob about to escape me. “And if we need more, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“Please, Doctor, I don’t want a lobotomy.”
He closed the file in his lap and crossed his hands over it. “Let’s not get into specifics just yet, Mrs. Mayfield.”
Let’s not get into specifics.
Those words pinned me to the couch as if a lead weight had landed on my chest, wrapped around my arms, and held my feet to the floor. I wanted to scream. Cry. Flee. But I needed to remain stoic, save the tears for the dark hours when I knew I’d be awake, when I would hear her cries whether she existed or not. For now, I needed to look him in the eyes and appear as normal as I could. For now, I needed to smile the smile he wanted from me so he could save me. I just hoped that when he got around to it, there would still be someone worth saving.
