I nodded and smiled. I decided he was a very nice young doctor, someone I could probably trust, only at the moment I had nothing to trust him with except my immediate feelings. He took me out to his secretary.
"Mrs. Broadhaven didn't get to show you some of our facilities yesterday, Laura. She wants to do that now, okay?"
I nodded and the pretty woman rose and led me out.
"We have a very nice arts and crafts studio here," she explained. "It's just down the hall from the lounge."
I gazed through the door at some patients watching television, playing chess, and reading. In the rear, a young man was playing Ping-Pong with an attendant.
"Here's the studio," she said, pausing at another door farther down the corridor. I looked in and saw Megan wearing a frock and dabbing roughly at a soft clay figure she was forming. Lulu and Mary Beth were painting with watercolors at a table in the corner. A tall woman with beautiful red hair and a milky white complexion approached us.
"This is Laura," Mrs. Broadhaven said. "I'm showing her around, but she might come right back here," she added, seeing the interest on my face. "Laura, this is Miss Dungan, our art therapist."
"Hi, Laura," she said, offering her hand. "You can choose any format to work with: clay, oils, watercolors, wood. We can make ceramics, too."
I sensed something familiar. I know an artist, I thought, but I couldn't remember his name. Miss Dungan saw how hard I was staring at Megan's sculpture.
"Do you want to try that today?" she asked.
"It might help you remember things," Mrs. Broadhaven suggested.
I nodded.
"I'll bring her right back," Mrs. Broadhaven told Miss Dungan.
She then showed me the library, where I saw Lawrence sitting at the table, poring over a book. He had a small pile of other books beside it. As soon as he saw us, he blushed.
"We're very proud of our library facilities here, Laura," Mrs. Broadhaven said. "It's as good as many small college libraries. Isn't it, Lawrence?" she asked him.
"What? Oh . . . yes," he said. He looked frightened, I thought, and I wondered why. His eyes shifted quickly and I saw that his hand was shaking.
"Well, Laura. What would you like to do? Go back to the studio?" Mrs. Broadhaven asked. Either she didn't see what I noticed about Lawrence or she chose to ignore it.
I nodded, looked back once more at Lawrence, who now had his hands over his eyes, and then we left to return to the art studio. Miss Dungan set me up with a smock and then placed me at a table with a mound of clay. After showing me how to use some of the tools, she went to attend to other patients. Megan, who had been working intently on her piece, paused and came over to sit beside me. She looked at my formless mound and then at me.
"They're hoping you'll do something revealing. You know, something they can analyze. They like to get into your head, dissect you like a frog." She laughed. "I know what Doctor Thomas expects me to say every time I do a piece. He sits back and nods and nods and then asks me what do I think I've made. Without hesitating, I say, 'A phallic symbol.' You know," she added when I didn't respond, "a penis." She laughed. "I don't. I try to make something else, but just because everything I make has some vaguely similar shape . . ."
She paused and shook her head at me.
"How long are you going to be dumb? I talk to myself enough as it is. Can't you talk to me and pretend to be dumb with the others? Forget it," she added quickly. "Do your own thing. Everyone else does."
She looked away and when she turned back, the crazy look in her eyes startled me.
"Today's visitors' day, you know. They'll be around to see their precious children working and playing in therapy. My mother probably won't come. You know my father won't. No, you don't know that, but I'm telling you he won't. Maybe my mother will come," she added. She looked at me. "I wonder if anyone will come for you," she said.
And suddenly, that became the most intriguing idea of all
Visitors came throughout the remainder of the day. Some spent the time with their children in the lobby or rec room, but most went outside and walked in the gardens. I saw that Lawrence's mother and father came to visit him. They were an elegantlooking couple. His father was tall, easily six feet two or three, with graying hair. When he turned my way, I saw he had a strong, handsome face, his features chiseled much like Lawrence's. His mother was an attractive woman who wore her light brown hair in a stylish bob. She wore a pretty flowered dress and shiny black heels. From where I watched, it looked like Lawrence's parents were doing all the talking. Occasionally, Lawrence nodded and then he turned and saw me staring at him and his parents through the window of the art studio. He looked embarrassed, but smiled nevertheless and then moved his hands to wave hello. I waved back and smiled. Both his parents looked my way and Lawrence quickly turned and continued to walk. His mother's gaze lingered on me a moment before she joined him and his father.
After that, I caught a glimpse of Mary Beth walking with her mother. Mary Beth had her head down and her mother was talking so quickly it looked like she was giving a lecturing. Her mother was a very pretty woman, tall and thin with shoulder-length blond hair that curled slightly around her face. She looked like a model or an actress. They disappeared around the corner, Mary Beth never raising her head and her mother never stopping her lecture.
Megan, Lulu, and I remained in the studio working throughout the afternoon. No one came to see Lulu, and Megan let me know that her own mother had sent word she couldn't be here today.
"It's not hard to figure out why she hates seeing me," Megan muttered, sitting at my side again as I worked on my sculpture. "She blames me for what my father did to me. Can you imagine that? She gets a divorce and she blames me for her life now? I know it's true. You don't have to look at me like that. The doctor agrees with me. Oh, he won't come right out and say it, but he's met my mother and he agrees.
"So what? So let her blame me. Who needs her?" she said.
"What did your father do to you?" I signed.
"What?" she said, as if suddenly realizing she had been talking to me. "What are you saying? I can't understand all those stupid hand movements. I don't know why you suddenly can't talk. I thought finally, finally I would have someone with some brains to talk to and then you go and lose your voice and start doing this. What are you saying?"
"She's asking you about your father," Miss Dungan said as she passed us with an armful of colored paper.
"My father?" She turned to me. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden? You think I'm making things up? Is that it?"
I shook my head vigorously.
"Just mind your own business," she snapped and returned to her clay figure. Suddenly, she began pounding it madly.
Miss Dungan came rushing over.
"Megan, what are you doing! Please honey, stop that," she said calmly. Megan continued to batter the clay until it lost all shape. Then she sat down hard in her chair and started to laugh.
"Sorry," she said, "I guess there's nothing to analyze this week."
She laughed again and then began to cry; but strangely, although there were tears flowing from her eyes, her face remained still, her lips unmoving.
"You better take a little rest, honey," Miss Dungan said and put her arm around Megan's shoulders. "Come on," she urged. Megan stood and let herself be led out of the studio.
I returned to my own sculpture for a while and then gazed out the window and saw that Lawrence's parents had gone. He was alone, sitting on a bench, staring in at me.
When Miss Dungan returned, I asked her if I could go outside now.
"I suppose so, sure," she said. "We'll leave your piece just as it is and you can return to it tomorrow, okay?"
I nodded and left the studio. Lawrence looked up and smiled warmly as I came down the pathway.
"Hi," he said. "How's your artwork coming along?" I shook my head.
"I wouldn't exactly call it a work of art," I signed. He seemed to understand and nodded. I liked the fact
that he didn't try to convince me otherwise and fill my head with false ideas about being talented.
"You want to take a walk? If we go down the path there, we can get a view of the ocean."
I turned and gazed in the direction he indicated.
"It's still pretty nice out," he continued. "My parents had to leave early. They had a social function to attend. They usually do."
I turned back to him, hearing his note of displeasure.
"They're not crazy about coming here in the first place. It's an embarrassment. I'm the only member of my family to end up in a loony bin. Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said quickly. "I mean, I don't think of you as loony. I'm loony, Megan's a real loon, but you're not."
"Something's wrong with me," I signed. I pointed to my head and shook it.
"Whatever's wrong with you will be easily cured. You won't be here anywhere near as long as I've been, I'm sure. Want to walk?"
I was reluctant, but I finally agreed and we started down the path.
"My father's a stockbroker," he said. "Very successful one, too. He's got some high-profile clients, big portfolios. I don't know exactly how rich we are, but I know we're really rich. My mother usually buys whatever she wants. You should see her closet. It's as big as some people's bedrooms. She even has a vanity table in there.
I smiled.
"I'm not exaggerating," he said. "When I was a little boy, I hid out in that closet. She always yelled at me for it. She's got clothes hanging in there with the tags still on them. I don't think she even remembers half the things she buys.
"And you should see her jewelry. She's got enough to stock a small store. What about your mother? Have you tried remembering her? Did you live in a big house?"
I thought and shook my head.
"No? That's strange. I bet your mother is probably the first person you're going to remember. Well, there it is," he said, stopping. I looked up.
Through the tall maple trees, I could see the ocean, its blue sheen glimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.
I stepped back.
"What?" he said.
I shook my head.
"You're afraid of the ocean?" He thought a moment. "It has something to do with what happened to you then. I was reading about your problem. I looked it up in our library. That's what I was doing when you came in with Mrs. Broadhaven. The only way you're going to get well is for you to confront what happened," he said. "That's Doctor Southerby's job, to get you to do that."
He looked at the sea and then at me.
"You want to try to get closer? Maybe it will revive your memory and--"
I shook my head emphatically.
"Okay," he said. "We'll go back, huh?"
I nodded, but chanced another glimpse of the water. Images began to parade through my mind: faces, lobster traps, boats, the beach, a cranberry bog, someone singing, and then someone calling my name, whispering at first, and then calling me louder, louder. It seemed like . . . I was calling myself.
I felt my throat tighten with the effort to pronounce someone else's name.
Lawrence's eyes widened as I brought my hands to my neck and shook my head.
"Is something wrong? Are you all right? Laura?" Impulsively, I threw myself into his arms and buried my face against his shoulder as I sobbed, cried for reasons I couldn't explain. All I wanted to do was cry and keep crying until my well of tears went dry.
At first, Lawrence just stood there with his arms at his sides, not knowing what to do. Then he embraced me slowly and held me closely, kissed my hair, my temples, stroked my back and kept repeating my name.
"Laura. . Laura..?'
Finally, my sobbing ended and I pulled back slowly. He looked happy, but very concerned.
"Are you all right now?"
I nodded and he wiped the tears from my cheeks with his handkerchief.
"I better get you back before they come looking for us," he said.
He turned me around and reached for my hand. We started along the path again. This time, I didn't look back at the ocean, not even for a second. I was happy when it disappeared behind us, but I knew that soon, very soon, I would have to return, perhaps by myself, and stare at the water until the truth and my memory broke free of the chains I had thrown around it.
Only then would I get those chains off myself.
13
Close Call
.
I had three sessions with Doctor Southerby the
following week. He was happy to see I was following his advice and filling my journal with thoughts and feelings. He spent the first ten minutes reading them and then asking me questions about the things I had written, never insisting I try to answer if I showed any reluctance. I performed my sign language so spontaneously and gracefully, he joked about my having once been deaf. Then he grew serious and returned to the idea that I talked to someone who was deaf on a daily basis.
"That seems logical, doesn't it, Laura?" he asked.
I nodded, even though I felt I'd rather not answer. He had a way of holding his kind eyes on me firmly, but not with intimidation. I felt so captured by that gaze, a gaze filled with sincerity and compassion, that I could barely turn away. His eyes were mesmerizing. In fact, during our third session, he decided he would try hypnosis. I had no idea if he learned anything. One moment, I was staring ahead and the next, I was blinking and wondering how long I had been in his office. Did he get me to speak under hypnosis? If he did, he didn't mention it afterward.
"It's very good that you feel less and less anxious, Laura, especially about being here," he explained after I had agreed to be hypnotized. "Trust is essential if we are to make any progress with your problems."
I smiled and nodded. I did trust him more and more, and I even looked forward to our sessions. Some of the others, especially Megan, thought that was strange.
"It's like enjoying someone putting his fingers through your skull and feeling around in your brain," she said after she had asked me a little about our sessions and saw I was happy talking and listening to Doctor Southerby.
When she heard I had permitted him to hypnotize me, she went bookers.
"Are you really crazy? When you're out of it like that, you have no idea what he's doing to you. Maybe he took your clothes off," she suggested. I started to laugh and her face crumbled not with anger, but with sadness.
I tried to sign an explanation, tried to tell her how good Doctor Southerby was and how he would never do something like that, but the tears were filling her eyes quickly.
"I thought you were different. I thought you believed me and understood. Everyone else laughs at me."
I shook my head.
"I'm not laughing at you," I signed.
However, the tears were already streaming down her cheeks. She had her hands clenched into tiny fists and for a moment, I was afraid she might hit me.
"You mark my words," she flared. "You'll be sorry you didn't listen to me someday. You will," she concluded, her voice strong and hateful, as if she were pronouncing my death. Then she marched away, her body straight, her arms extended and stiffly swinging like a toy soldier's. Lately, she was doing more and more of that, leaving us all and going off by herself, closing her door in her room or wandering about outside, avoiding people.
My own periods of depression, my feelings of nervousness, had diminished, but not the inner voices and the flashbacks. Doctor Southerby made me think as much as I could about those I had described in my journal. He probed my mind, his suggestions and questions resembling a scalpel in the hands of a skilled and graceful surgeon, knowing just when to push forward, when to pull back. If something became too sensitive, my lips would begin to tremble. In fact, my whole body would start to shake and my heart would pound so hard and fast, I had trouble breathing.
He would stop, touch my shoulder, ask me to close my eyes and take deeper breaths. Then, he would change the subject, and soon, I would relax again. During our fourth session, he had Miss Dungan bring in the needlework
I had completed and we talked about the picture, why I was attracted to it and what I thought about when I looked at it.
Most of my free time was spent in the arts and crafts studio now. During my second visit there, I went from sculpture to needlework. That day, I saw another patient sewing quietly in the corner and I walked over and watched her for a while. My fingers felt as if I were doing the work along with her. Miss Dungan noticed my interest and suggested I try it. In minutes I was doing it comfortably.
"From the way you're at that," Miss Dungan said as she nodded gently, "I would safely say you've done it many times before. I guess your fingers don't have amnesia," she said, smiling.
She let me choose my own picture and I had selected one of a little girl playing on the beach. As I filled in her legs, her dress, and her face, the little girl became clearer and clearer in my mind, flashes of her smile, her eyes, and even the sound of her voice popping in and out of my memory. It was someone I knew and loved very much. But who? Her name was on the tip of my tongue and her voice tingled inside my head. All I had to do was think harder.
Yet, every time I started to open one of the secret doors holding the truths about my past, I found it locked up tight. Something in me knew that as soon as I remembered one thing clearly, it would all come tumbling out of the remaining dark places in my mind and with it, one terrible, terrible memory. Sometimes, the effort literally took my breath away and I had to stop, close my eyes, and wait for the trembling and the pain in my heart to pass.
"This is not unusual," Doctor Southerby told me when he saw how distressed I was after he read about this in my journal. "There's a tug-of-war going on inside you, Laura, and one day soon, the side of you that wants you to return to the world will win and it will be over. I promise," he said.
He really made me feel good; he gave me hope.
I discussed most of this with Lawrence, who was there waiting for me after every one of my sessions. He pretended he had just happened to be in the corridor on his way to the library or the rec room. I knew he was pretending, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed teaching him more sign language and then using what I taught him to explain and discuss things with him.