“Yes, it is, and yes, you do.”
“Very well, you may read it into the record.”
“Dear Mr. Hastings,
“I was very glad to have news of Etna Bliss Van Tassel, but saddened to learn that she is now involved in a custody dispute over her son. I have the utmost admiration for Mrs. Van Tassel, and I hope the courts will see fit to allow the woman to be mother to her child. She certainly has earned the right.
“I knew Mrs. Van Tassel as Stella Bain. This was not a pseudonym or an alias, but rather a name that came to her when she woke from unconsciousness in Marne, France, in March of 1916. In late October of 1916, the woman made her way, against great odds, to London, because she believed something at the Admiralty in London to be the key to retrieving her memory. She arrived, in a destitute state after her long journey, at the square in which my wife and I lived. We took her in, as anyone would an indigent. Because I was a cranial surgeon with a growing interest in psychological matters, Mrs. Van Tassel and I quickly discerned that my help might be useful to her. She had lost her memory, she said, and wanted it back.
“She became a guest in our household as well as a quasi-patient of mine.
“It is my opinion, based on what I observed during her stay and the study I have pursued since, that Mrs. Van Tassel was suffering from shell shock when she came to us.”
Etna flinches at the diagnosis. Though she thought it might be true when she met with Dr. Bridge in the orangery, neither he nor she ever said the words.
“Though I was at first reluctant to compare Mrs. Van Tassel to those whose minds have been shattered in the trenches, I have reached the conclusion that she suffered from a like illness.
“To my knowledge, Mrs. Van Tassel may be the first diagnosed case of female shell shock in my country. I have no doubt that there are other women with this condition who have not come forward. Logically, it must be possible. Nursing sisters and their aides abroad see nightmarish injuries and death all around them. Worse, they not only see the injuries repeatedly, they must touch them in the most unpleasant ways, and then watch most of the men die. These women must be plagued by the same physical and emotional symptoms as male soldiers.
“Although Mrs. Van Tassel’s shell shock took the form of memory loss, which my colleagues in this country are discovering is not an uncommon symptom in men who have returned from the front, Mrs. Van Tassel also suffered from intermittent seizures, a deafness that came upon her from time to time, and severe, not to say ghastly, pains in her legs, which rendered her incapable of moving for five minutes or so. To my knowledge, Mrs. Van Tassel no longer suffers from seizures or deafness, and I am quite sure that after all this time, the pains in her legs have gone away.
“Mrs. Van Tassel worked tremendously hard while under our roof to unlock her memory. She did this, with my help, by way of talk therapy, therapeutic drawing, and a strong hunch on her part that led to the place where she finally heard her true name spoken aloud by Captain Samuel Asher of the Royal Navy. He was a man who had known her when she lived in America. At the moment she heard her true name, she recovered her memory.
“The very first words Mrs. Van Tassel spoke when she realized who she was were I have children.
“I believe a subconscious urgency to be reunited with her children led her, under desperate circumstances, from France to London to the Admiralty. It is my understanding from Captain Asher that Mrs. Van Tassel was able to leave London almost immediately after regaining her memory and travel by ship to America. I have had several letters from Mrs. Van Tassel since that time and have learned that she and her children have been reunited.
“In England, we struggle to understand shell-shocked victims. At the beginning of the war, such men were accused of malingering and sent straight back to the very arena they were incapable of enduring. Today, we have hospitals set up for these men, where they receive various forms of treatment. Memory loss is not an uncommon symptom of shell shock; indeed, these hospitals report memory loss for up to two years and possibly longer, since the men they refer to have not yet recovered their memories.
“It is my private belief that Mrs. Van Tassel’s shell shock was brought on not by a physical injury to the brain but rather by a previous trauma in America that was exacerbated by the trauma of her wartime activities and then sharply crystallized by the sight of Phillip Asher’s horrific wounds to his face. Mrs. Van Tassel lost her autobiographical memory at that moment, or shortly thereafter. And that was a rather good thing for her. I have no doubt that had she not lost her memory, she would have had an irreversible breakdown in her mental health. As far as I can tell, there is no known case of memory loss reappearing in a shell-shocked victim. In other words, there is little to no likelihood of Mrs. Van Tassel’s losing her memory again.
“Mrs. Van Tassel is a woman of exceptionally strong character, stamina, and determination. She is graceful in her bearing and in her interactions with others. In addition, I believe she has a great capacity for love. I should think any child of this woman would consider himself among the luckiest persons on earth.
“Please give Mrs. Van Tassel my regards. I wish you both a speedy conclusion to what must be for her a painful proceeding.
“Very sincerely yours,
“Dr. August Bridge”
A hush extends over the court. Even Mr. Bates is, for the moment, silenced. The solemnity and horror of the war has, perhaps for the first time, entered the chill courtroom.
Etna weeps quietly for the war’s victims, for August, for mothers who must see their boys off to war, and for herself. Mr. Hastings, beside her, covers her hand with his own. Although August has written with the best of intentions, and perhaps with great affection for her, he has unwittingly provided the one piece of information that will sink her case. The average person in America, Etna guesses, knows little about shell shock except that it is a terrifying diagnosis.
Judge Kornitzer gathers himself together and speaks into the silence.
“Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning, after which time I shall deliver my opinion in this case. Mr. Bates, make sure your client is present in the courtroom.”
The Honorable Judge Warren Kornitzer requests silence in the courtroom.
“Mrs. Van Tassel, I will direct my comments to you, since it is you and your lawyer who have brought the case to the attention of this court. You do not have to stand.
“I am convinced of your many excellent qualities. Your steadiness, your reliability, your good effect on your child, your ability to be an able mother, and your excellent character. In addition, I personally would like to thank you for your extraordinary service during this war, even though it took place before America entered the hostilities. Compassionate service to any soldier of any country is among the highest ideals of mankind. At the very least, your example must have given your British counterparts a good impression of an American volunteer.
“But being a good mother entails more than being of good character.
“I am minorly concerned that you left your children with no explanation as to how or where they could find you. I say minorly because I have no doubt that you would never, under any circumstances, do that again.
“I am disturbed that you would remove your boy from the only school he has ever known—one that is superior, moreover, to the one you would have him enter.
“I am very worried that you might not take your children to church. Society, and by that I mean the general body of citizens in this state, believes that regardless of the private beliefs of either the mother or the father, it is the parent’s sacred duty to provide religious instruction for the child.
“Mrs. Van Tassel, the information this court received yesterday as to your diagnosis of shell shock and the physical health matters that attended it are deeply troublesome. The state cannot release a young child into the care of a mother who might, for any amount of time, become physically incapacitated.
“If you wish to pursue this matter further, I am
going to require you to undergo a course of therapy for six months, after which I will request your appearance in this court with affidavits of your complete cure from a physician recommended by the court. At that point, if you wish, we will continue with our proceedings. No parent or relative of Nicodemus Van Tassel may remove the child from the state at any time for any purpose. I will bring charges of kidnapping against any person accused of doing so. When we reconvene, I shall expect both Nicodemus and Clara Van Tassel to be present in the courthouse.
“Note, Mrs. Van Tassel, that I am not forbidding you to see your son in the manner in which you have been doing, nor can the father forbid you to do so.
“The court wishes you well in your treatments.
“Court is dismissed.”
Etna lies atop her quilt, staring at the ceiling. Supine is the only position she can manage. Never has she felt so exhausted, defeated, unable to stand. Once again, she is amazed at the power of the mind over the body. Just a few words spoken in court have rendered her as helpless as she was after three days traveling from France to London under impossible conditions.
Averill Hastings apologized as he walked Etna to her motorcar, Etna upright, determined not to show any weakness while others might be watching.
“Mrs. Van Tassel, I thought Dr. Bridge’s very powerful recommendation of you to the court outweighed any comments about your previous illness, which he seemed convinced was cured,” her lawyer said. “I did not expect that his use of the term shell shock would go so hard on you. I was wrong, and I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am. But I still have hope. In six short months, you will have done as the court has asked and will be reunited with your son forever.”
“Mr. Hastings, you are very young.”
Just as Etna was about to enter her motorcar, a large figure appeared beside her.
“Etna.”
She turned to look at the man who was once her husband. “Nicholas.”
“I am sorry you had such a difficult experience in Europe.”
Etna was astonished. And yet she remembered that empathetic face.
“And I am also sorry for the misunderstanding that made you flee my house.”
Misunderstanding.
My house.
“Nicholas, it was no misunderstanding.”
His eyes instantly filled with tears. She had seen this before, too.
Van Tassel sniffed the tears away. He did something with his chin that altered his appearance and closed a door that had, for a few seconds, been left open.
“Indeed. I shall pretend that this never happened,” he said and turned. She watched her husband, who was no husband, walk away.
Dr. Bridge, the unwitting source of her demise. She understands his letter in a way the judge did not. In England, people are encouraged to get on with life: a son has died, a man has shell shock, do your best. But here, where the war is only a year and a half old, the words shell shock must seem both foreign and terrifying. She worries about the judge’s recommendations. How will she find a physician in New Hampshire who will understand the nature of the diagnosis?
She hopes Dr. Gile can help her in this matter. A teaching hospital might have physicians who have studied the phenomenon. Or he will advise her to visit a military base. But what military doctor would have time to treat a woman?
She lies with her arms loosely at her sides, her feet slightly apart, as vulnerable as she has ever felt. A new thought enters her mind. She will have to tell Clara of her ailments; they are public knowledge now. Etna has no doubt that her daughter will love her just the same, but might the young woman begin to worry, to believe she must now be parent to the parent?
August…if only Etna could go to him, work with him again, and have him write a letter definitively stating that she is cured of all possible manifestations of shell shock. But then again Judge Kornitzer might not accept August’s letter. He seems to want an independent, American physician to pronounce her well.
“Nicky,” she says aloud, sitting up. She must go to see the boy today. Mr. Price will still be in his office, and possibly he will allow Etna, given the circumstances, to see her son for just an hour after classes. A glass of root beer in the hotel dining room will help Etna enormously, and it might, with any luck, lift Nicky’s spirits, too.
6 June 1918
Dear Etna,
I have just received Mr. Averill Hastings’s letter of 25 May informing me of the unhappy judgment rendered by the court in your custody case. Although he did not say it in so many words, I gather that his decision to read my letter out loud was the very thing that did you in. Since it was my intention that the letter be read out on your behalf, I have only myself to blame. Such a stupid, foolish, and unforgivable thing I have done to you! I thought that a clear statement of what you had been through and what you had overcome would weigh heavily in your favor. I should have realized that a diagnosis of shell shock would disturb the judge.
Etna, forgive me. No, don’t forgive me. I don’t deserve it.
August
June 30, 1918
Dear August,
I am allowed to see my children as before. Clara, as you may know, has come north prior to starting secretarial school in Boston. It is tremendously healing to know that both children are now within my geographical grasp.
August, I do not forgive you for the letter because there is nothing to forgive. I understood it as intended. Though I might blame my young lawyer for not better imagining the consequences of the letter, I can in no way blame you. In fact, I am grateful to you for trying to help me, as you always have done.
Etna
July 5, 1918
Dearest Phillip,
I hope that you are well. I have written several letters to you with no reply. It is not that I have expected a reply; it is just that I would like to hear from you. I wish for your good health in every way.
Your brother, in his brief notes to me, informs me from time to time of your progress. I understand that you are now living in Kent in a rather grand house with lovely grounds—an estate that is a rehabilitation hospital for men with your sort of injury. I was happy to learn that, because I would not like to think of you in a London hospital just now.
I am still living in New Hampshire and am in the process of seeking custody of my son, Nicky. I have had a minor setback, and will have to try again in six months’ time.
I found a thing of beauty the day before yesterday. I traveled to the seashore with Nicky for an outing. We stood on a rocky promontory and watched the navy blue water crash against the rocks of an island not far from shore. As we stood there, a red motorboat crossed the white spume of the waves. I imagined the vessel making its way to you.
Fondly,
Etna
As Etna contemplates the view outside her doctor’s office near the top of Beacon Hill in Boston, she winces at the lack of progress she and Dr. Ambrose Little have made. It took six sessions to explain all that happened to her abroad and another six to talk at length about her mother and father, whom she has not seen since their deaths in the late 1800s. The greatest insight to emerge from those sessions was that Etna seems to have patterned herself after her teacher-father, not her cold mother, leaving Etna in a woman’s body with womanly desires but an emotional state of mind that mimics that of a man: she is exceptionally rigorous in her draftsmanship, wants to learn more about medicine, and, most important, has spent most of her life desiring independence.
None of this does Etna know to be true, since Dr. Little seldom speaks during her time with him. He will neither confirm nor deny her insights, a practice that invariably makes her more anxious when she leaves his office than when she walked in the door. Sometimes, in his oak-paneled room with the two large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Mount Vernon Street, Etna feels adrift, not sure when to speak or what to say. She has written to Mr. Hastings twice to request another therapist, but Mr. Hastings has reassured her that a clean bill of health from Dr. Little is as good as a win in
her custody battle.
She understands Dr. Little to be engaging in Freudian therapy. He has insisted that Etna lie upon a chaise while he sits slightly out of sight. She is glad for that, since he has a peculiar aspect and a porcupine beard. The quills stick out evenly and have been cut in the round.
The office is old, heavy with must. If she were to blow upon the tops of the many books on the shelves, she would produce billows of ancient matter. Someone routinely runs a carpet sweeper over the Turkish rug, but no one has recently swept under the tables or in the corners. She doubts that Dr. Little even notices. His universe seems to consist of the immediate environs of his desk and chair; it barely incorporates the chaise upon which she reclines. She wonders if he is married. Cannot be. That porcupine beard!
Etna sees the psychoanalyst only once a week because the train to Boston takes four hours. She spends the night in a hotel not far from Clara’s school, and the two often have supper together after Etna’s appointments.
Etna has discussed the war, the battles and the tents, her memory loss, and her symptoms with her therapist. She has at length gone over her marriage, her children, her time with Dr. Bridge, her love affair with Samuel, her friendship with Phillip. Dr. Little almost never breaks the silence.
Today she has been talking about her time as Stella Bain. It is material she has already covered at least twice, but she has run out of new topics. The pains in her legs are still a mystery to her. They seem a thing apart, an affliction that will be with her always. Perversely, they have only grown worse and more frequent. Before Mr. Hastings read the words of August’s letter, Etna would have said she had the pains every six weeks or so. She had even gone as long as two months without them. But now they seem to come more and more often—three weeks between episodes—increasing the likelihood that she will experience them at a highly inopportune moment: while driving, for example, or while walking with Nicky, or at dinner with Clara, or while sketching a surgical procedure. Etna believes that only her extreme willpower has kept such scenarios from occurring.