Quiver (2 page)

“Mr. Foster.” I pick up my pen and look directly at him. His grey-blue eyes don’t blink. “Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

“But you know some of mine.” He motions towards my stack of materials. “It’s only fair you should share some of yours.”

I ache to take this bait, to see what I could win from his cat-and-mouse. But I’ve been trained well. “Please answer the following questions with a yes or no response...”

I lead him through the standard battery and check anger, violent thoughts, sleep patterns, mood. I’m on question seven before he deviates.

“Do you often feel anxious or concerned about day-to-day matters?” I ask.

“Well, that depends,” says Foster.

“It’s yes or no. Do you often feel anxious or concerned about day-to-day matters?”

“These questions, if you’ll forgive me, Dr. Winston, are rather dull.”

“I appreciate your patience in answering them, Mr. Foster. We’re almost through. So, do you often—”

“Feel anxious, yes, you’ve repeated the question once already. Well, I suppose it depends on what my day-to-day matters entail. And how you define
feel.
I believe most people say that they
feel
things right away. Like if something happens to make them upset, they’re upset right then. But I don’t see it like that.”

It’s a yes or no answer. I shouldn’t, but I indulge. “Oh?”

“It’s like I see the feelings first, and then I feel them later. Do you know what rage looks like? It’s exquisite. And love. They’re all beauties, radiant. I see them, like pictures.”

“And this is important to you?”

“Very. Imagine if you could see emotions without feelings, appreciate them with your eyes, with your mind. Feelings limit the senses.”

“But you feel at some point?”

“Yes, but later. Later.”

I circle “no” for question seven.

“And you?” he asks. “Do you feel anxious day-to-day? A lovely girl like you in here with us loons?” He smiles.

I try not to smile back. “As a professional, I object to the use of the term
loons.
”

“But seriously, Dr. Winston. It doesn’t rattle you? You don’t look over your shoulder when you leave at night?” He says this in a soft, cajoling voice.

This time, I bite. “Why would I do that? If the loons, as you put it, are in here.”

“Well, before we were in here, we were out there. You never know who may be about, Dr. Winston.” He grins, adjusts his glasses and presses his torso against the edge of the table.

“A risk we all take, Mr. Foster. Now, to finish...”

I insist that he stick to yes or no for the remaining three questions. When I finish, I stack my folder on top of his chart and stand to leave.

“What was your first name again?” Foster asks.

“I didn’t say. It’s not of any relevance.”

“Do you know someone wrote about me? In a psychology journal. Someone named Dr. Danica Winston. The library here gets all the journals. I ripped out the article. I keep it in my room.”

I grasp the back of the chair. “Oh? It has your name in it?”

“No. But I know it’s referring to me.”

I never thought he’d read the article.

“Well, there have been many things written about you,” I say. “Your case attracted a lot of attention in the papers.”

“The papers!” says Foster. “Oh, they love me! But they’ll print anything remotely sensational. This was an article in a psychology journal.” He lowers his voice and says in a mock-professorial tone, “It’s quite serious.”

Bill, the guard, raps on the door. “Everything okay?” he mouths through the small wire-reinforced window.

I nod to him, push in the chair and look at Foster. “You should be careful about ripping pages out of library material. Good afternoon.”

I knock on the door and Bill lets me out.

I walk down the hall to my office, careful to take even, measured footsteps even though I want to skip with excitement. My first solo interview with the infamous Martin Foster.

Back in my office I open Foster’s chart, place copies of the assessment questions inside and file it neatly under
F
in my increasingly full drawer. I’ve only been here a week and a half but already the patients’ assessments seem relentless, a steady onslaught of interviews and filing. I thought I would get a break from administrative drudgery after I finished the long string of paperwork to apply for this fellowship at Stowmoor. It seems as if the last six months of my life have been devoted completely to filling out forms and asking for letters of reference and writing a perfect statement of intent. And as Carl, my graduate supervisor, reminded me again and again, as prestigious as my fellowship is, it’s not a permanent position. Moving to England means I’ll have to log extensive, supervised clinical hours before I can become officially chartered here. And those hours won’t count towards certification if I move back home.

But still, I took the leap. And now I’m here, on Foster’s case. I slide his file into the cabinet. My fingertips quiver and not even the fluorescent office lights can mask my glow.

“So it went well, did it?”

Dr. Abbas steps into my office. He does this at the end of most afternoons. I haven’t figured out if he’s checking up on me or just trying to be friendly. “That look on your face—it’s a look of satisfaction. Brilliant,” he says.

“Oh, yes. The session went well,” I tell him.

“Very good. Heading out for the day now?”

“I’m on my way.” I log off my computer and tuck my notepad into my desk drawer. “Are you leaving too?” I ask.

“Not quite. I’ve got a late one.” He runs his hand over his short black hair, which hasn’t yet started to show any grey, even though his beard is salt and pepper. “Last-minute appeal tomorrow or something.” Dr. Abbas specializes in addictions, and he’s often called in to testify as an expert witness.

“Right, then,” he says, turning towards the hall, “if you hurry you’ll still catch the 5:45 train.”

I say goodnight to Kelly at the reception desk. James opens the iron gate, then shuts it behind me. The metal clang vibrates in my chest. I walk down the windowless grey stone hallway. The air is cool, mildewy; I button up my jacket. The hum of the florescent lights and the dull click of my footsteps echo as I walk towards another gate at the end of the corridor. Finally, I pass under a high, ornately sculpted archway. It is the main exit through the eighteen-foot brick, razor-wired walls that surround Stowmoor Psychiatric Hospital. I remember Foster’s words, but I don’t look over my shoulder.

I turn the deadbolt of our basement flat.

The room is humid and smells like melted crayons. There are puddles of red wax on newspaper and a Portishead album streaming from the stereo.

“Hey there,” says Henry. He stands up from behind the sculpture he’s working on, a throne made entirely out of wax and steel wire. It’s a deep wine colour and almost as tall as me. “You walked all the way from the tube without an umbrella?”

“Forgot again.” I hang up my soggy coat by the door and make my way over to him. I step lightly on the newsprint, dodge red puddles.

“Over two weeks here, think you’d remember by now.” He puts down the stainless steel carving pick he’s holding and smoothes back the damp frizzies that have sprung from my ponytail. “This,” he says, making a sweeping movement with his arm, “couldn’t be avoided.” Newsprint covers the floor from wall to wall, even in the kitchen. He’s pushed our bed into the corner and covered it with a black tarp. The throne is in the centre of the room.

“The rest of my tools came from Halifax today, and I just had to get started. It’s for the Fantasy and Disaster festival next month.” He gestures towards the sculpture with a wax-covered palm, as if it’s something I could possibly miss. “I called today, but they told me I won’t get my studio at the college until Tuesday. I couldn’t wait. You like?”

I shuffle through the newsprint and displaced furniture and look at the throne from the front. It’s over five feet tall, with two thick, black metal wires protruding from the wax at the top of the chair back. The wires spiral downward and support a lacy web of red droplets. Wires curl out of the ends of the arms as well, covered in the same lace of wax. The rest of the chair is solid red, smooth and polished to a dull shine. The seat is slightly concave, and the front curves out and down into a red claw on each front foot. Henry has begun to sculpt a pair of eyes on the back of the throne; they’re emerging from the wax, heavy lids, smooth like rocks you find at the bottom of a riverbed. The whole thing is fluid and sanguine, some large, distorted piece of flesh.

I look up at him. “You did all of this today?”

“Well, I only have a few weeks. And the wax had already come. So?”

“Interesting,” I say.

“Interesting?” mimics Henry. “You don’t mind if I keep it here indefinitely?”

“Well, how indefinitely?” When Henry cleaned out his studio in Halifax, he left a sculpture (inspired by sheep bowels, he said) in my living room for three weeks.

“Maybe it can be a new chair for the kitchen. I can make another one for you—matching thrones, king and queen of our basement studio suite?” He lifts my ponytail and kisses the back of my neck.

“No, no, no, kidding,” he laughs. “It will be out of here next week, when I get my studio space. I’ll get one of the keener undergrads to come by and give me a hand with it.”

“Thanks,” I say, putting my arm around his waist.

“So, how was your day with the crazies?”

I hop over his tools and clumps of newspaper and make my way to the kitchen table.

“Just kidding, cherry blossom.” He smiles at me and starts to clean the wax off his hands. “I know how you love them.”

“It was good,” I say. “Very good.”

“Ah—finally met your favourite subject?”

“I can’t discuss specifics.” I try to sit on one of the kitchen chairs, but there’s a foot of iron wire and some rags on the seat. I stand and fidget. I’m dying to share that I had time alone with Foster today. “You know, confiden—”

“Yeah, yeah. Confidentiality.” He pulls off his wax-streaked T-shirt, tosses it into the hamper and leans his tall frame against the bathroom door. “What do you want to do for supper?”

“Did you want me to go pick something up?”

“I can run out. I’ve been in here all day; I wouldn’t mind. Sit down, get dry.”

Everything except the kitchen table is covered with plastic and newspaper, or heaped with piles of magazines and boxes. “Is it okay to take the tarp off the bed now?”

He grabs his keys off the hook. Tosses them in the air and catches them, a metallic jingle as his palm snaps shut. “Most definitely take the tarp off the bed.” He takes an umbrella from the rack at the door. “Curry okay?”

“For sure.”

“Oh—you got some mail. It’s on the table. Back in a minute.”

Beneath an empty coffee cup on the kitchen table are two envelopes. I set aside the cup, pick up the letters, pull the tarp off a corner of the bed and sit down. One is from Stowmoor, confirming direct deposit of my paycheque in the bank. The second has a return address in the city, probably an office. Not junk mail. The envelope is maroon, and my name and address are handwritten in a yellow-gold ink. Inside, I find a card.

Danica,

You are hard to keep track of. I asked your supervisor, Carl, in Halifax, for your address—you do not mind? You know I am in London now? So you must meet me. Friday, September 27, at Tiger Tiger, 20:00. I have something new. My hair is blonde now, but you will still recognize me.

Maria

I reread it five times. The Portishead album ends, then starts again from the beginning, synthesizers and string instruments calling from the speakers. By the time Henry comes back with the food, I’ve tucked the card into the bottom of my purse.

On Friday night the tube is full of tourists with street maps; they’re headed for
Mamma Mia!, Dirty Dancing, Oleanna.
A group of schoolboys cluster in the middle of the car, their light blue dress shirts untucked and wrinkly. The train jerks to a stop, then roars on again, dirty underground air pushed into a wind. A tall teenage boy presses the length of his body against the pole I’m holding. There’s no place to sit down or shift to, so I shimmy my hand up the bar away from the crush of his blue-shirted stomach to the gap between his shoulder and his cheek. On the up side, standing means I won’t wrinkle my outfit. Taupe linen skirt and a navy halter, backless. Beige iridescent heels.

The train pulls into Leicester Square and I step into the human river that flows from the underground. A woman with a dark bob and a full-length leopard-print trench coat pokes my arm on the escalator. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight,” I tell her. She pushes past me.

“Show’s starting soon!” she calls out, stilettos clacking against the tile at the top.

Tiger Tiger is a short walk from Leicester Square. I’ll be early. The Soho streets are congested with theatregoers, grey and black jackets over dress shirts, designer shoes hitting the cobblestones.

I pass a pub and decide to pop in to use the bathroom, but instead I gravitate towards the warm oak of the bar. I risk wrinkling my skirt, sit on a stool and tell the bartender I’ll have a gin and tonic. I flip the beer mat over and over, take a big breath and consider staying here for the rest of the evening.

“It’s happy hour, love. Four quid. You here alone?” The bartender sets my drink down. He has shaggy brown hair and looks like Noel Gallagher.

“Meeting someone later.” I hand him a five-pound note. He smiles and says he’ll be back. I drink half the highball in two swallows, gin fizz buzzing my nose.

I walk into Tiger Tiger at ten past eight. Dance music plays, and even though the floor won’t be full until midnight I still have to pay a twelve-pound cover. It’s early, but the speakers are pumping out an M.I.A. song about BMWs and Ibiza, backed by heavy synthetic bass. I turn left into the lounge, past a waterfall fountain that cascades down the wall. A few couples are nestled in the little booths scattered at the edges of the room. Candles flicker on the tables. A group of five young women are seated at a table in the middle of the space. They are drinking Bellinis, their long acrylic nails clicking against the large, round glasses. Two men, thirtyish—I imagine they’re businessmen who just wrapped a huge merger in the city—are having Stellas and staring at the girls.