Remembering Me (18 page)

“Yes. She’ll be in far better control of herself—”

“That’s because she’ll be in a stupor!” Sarah nearly shouted. “For the rest of her life!” She knew she was being either courageous or extraordinarily stupid to speak to him that way. “Please, Dr. P., let me do some research into other methods that have been effective with patients like Julia.” Perhaps the word
research
would have an impact on him. “Please. Let me try before you do something as permanent as a lobotomy.”

“There are no other methods that are effective with someone like her,” he said. He leaned toward Sarah, looking at her as though she were slow-witted. “Deep in your heart, you know that, don’t you?”

“But a lobotomy is not a cure,” she said. “It’s simply a way to make her easier to take care of. To turn her into a docile, dim-witted, childlike—”

Palmiento stood up straight. “You need to read up on lobotomies, Sarah,” he said. “We can’t have you working here if you don’t understand the valuable place that procedure has in the treatment of the mentally ill.”

Sarah looked down at her hands where they lay folded in her lap. Her head throbbed.

“I’ve been in this business thirty years to your…ten, is it?”

“Thirteen.” Sarah straightened her spine with pride.

“And as you know,” Dr. Palmiento continued, “I’m considered one of the top psychiatrists in the country.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“So, it would behoove you to acknowledge the fact that I just may be better qualified than you are to decide what should be done in the case of Julia Nichols. She will have a lobotomy
at three o’clock Wednesday afternoon. And I want you to be there, since she’s your patient.”

“You want me to…?” The thought horrified her.

“You’ve had some surgical training, isn’t that right?”

“As a student, yes, but—”

“And I haven’t failed to notice that, although you are still unrealistic about what works and what doesn’t in the treatment of mental illness, you are one of our most skillful nurses. I want you to be able to assist me in the future with surgical procedures. We’ll start training you with Mrs. Nichols.”

She didn’t know what to say. This was her job. She had to do as she was told.

That night, she snuggled with Joe in bed. She’d told him what had happened and her horror at the thought of her patient being lobotomized.

“Maybe he’s right,” Joe said, stroking her hair. “Maybe there are people whose lives are so tortured and unbearable that destroying the hurtful part of their brain is the only way to help them. There must be some good reason the procedure won a Nobel Prize.”

“I refuse to believe it’s the only solution,” Sarah said. “Julia is so…she’s beautiful, Joe. She’s young. She has such spirit.”

Joe lightly touched the bandage on her temple. “She has spirit, all right.” He laughed.

“It’s going to be horrid,” Sarah said. “At least Dr. P. agreed not to shave her head, after I pleaded with him. Her hair is extraordinary, and it’s the one thing she truly cares about.”

“She’s lucky she has you,” Joe said, leaning over to kiss her. “And so am I.”

The orderly wheeled Julia into the operating room on a gurney. She was wearing a hospital gown and had been given only
mild sedation, just enough to take the fight out of her. Her eyes were open, and she smiled at Sarah when she spotted her in the room, recognizing her in spite of Sarah’s surgical cap and mask.

“Hello, Julia,” Sarah said through the mask. She helped the orderly transfer Julia from the gurney to the operating table. Joyce Love was also in the room, ready to assist in the surgery.

Julia reached for Sarah’s hand. Surprised by the gesture, Sarah held the young woman’s hand tightly, knowing she must sense that something dreadful was about to happen to her. Sarah was now glad to be there. It would be an ordeal for her, but Julia needed someone she knew cared about her in that room.

Dr. Palmiento entered the OR dressed in a surgical gown, his mask in place. “How are you feeling, Julia?” he asked in that fatherly tone he was so good at employing. He squeezed Julia’s shoulder.

“Fine,” she replied.

“Now, I’m just going to slip this eye mask over your eyes,” he said. “Then this bright light won’t bother you. It’s annoying, isn’t it? The light?”

He put the mask in place, then reached for the razor. He couldn’t be preparing to shave her head, Sarah thought, but sure enough, he began to do exactly that.

Sarah looked at him across the operating table. “You promised,” she said.

“This—” he held up a long, loose tress of auburn hair“—won’t mean a thing to her in half an hour.” He sounded annoyed, and Sarah said no more, although inside she was seething.

“Syringe,” he said, and Joyce Love handed him the syringe she had filled with a local anesthetic. He injected the anesthetic around the area of Julia’s scalp to be incised.

Sarah hated that patients undergoing lobotomies only
received local anesthetic, but Dr. P. said it was necessary for him to be able to know when he had “destroyed the offending portion of her brain.”

Although she was not usually squeamish, the sound of the drill and the spray of bone shavings into the air turned Sarah’s stomach. She stared at the wall instead of watching the surgery, hoping no one would notice.

Dr. P. requested one instrument after another. From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Joyce hand them to him, but she kept her gaze steady on the wall. Finally Joyce handed Palmiento the steel spatula, and Sarah knew the moment for destruction had arrived.

“Julia, how old are you?” Dr. P. asked as he worked.

“Tenny-eight,” Julia slurred.

“Good,” Dr. Palmiento said. Sarah imagined him digging deeper into the burr hole with his spatula.

“Can you count to ten for me, Julia?” he asked.

Julia grunted something unintelligible, and Dr. P. continued his destruction.

“Sing me a nursery rhyme, Julia,” he said after a few minutes. “How about the one about Mary and her lamb?”

“Blah. Gibble,” Julia said.

“Count to ten, Julia,” Palmiento asked.

Nothing.

The wall blurred in front of Sarah’s eyes. Julia’s fight and fire were gone.

The moment she could escape, Sarah excused herself from the operating room and went into the staff restroom. Shutting herself inside one of the stalls, she cried, knowing that the scars from Julia’s surgery would forever be etched across her own heart.

L
AURA HAD FINALLY GOTTEN
E
MMA TO SLEEP AFTER A COUPLE
of hours of nightmares and tears. Now she lay in her own bed, surrounded by the books on Alzheimer’s she’d borrowed from the library. She was searching through indexes and chapter headings, trying to determine if someone with Alzheimer’s could make up stories rich in detail and told with clarity and enthusiasm. Laura was beginning to wonder if Sarah’s description of the goings-on at Saint Margaret’s might be a figment of her imagination. The events were beginning to border on the unbelievable. Who would put a psychiatric patient in a “coffinlike box” for a month? Probably, Laura reasoned, Sarah had simply confused the facts in her memory.

One of her books stated that “the Alzheimer’s patient’s vivid recollections from the past may lead the caretaker to think the patient is more lucid than he or she actually is.” That fit Sarah, certainly. It was almost eerie. On their walks, Sarah would slip into the past, losing her infirmity as she described an incident in what seemed like perfect detail. A moment later, she would look down the street and have no idea where she was, or even if she was on land or water. Sarah didn’t even remember Laura’s name from one visit to the next. She did
know, however, that Laura’s appearance meant she could go for a walk.

The phone rang a moment after Laura had turned out the light and settled under the covers. She picked up the receiver from her night table.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” The voice was Ray’s, and Laura stopped breathing for a second before realizing it was Stuart on the line.

“Stuart!” she said. “You sounded so much like Ray, for a minute I thought…”

“Oh, sorry,” he said.

“It’s hardly your fault.” She laughed.

“Well, listen. I know it’s late, but I just came across an article in the latest
Publishers Weekly
and I wanted to read it to you.”

“Go ahead.”

He began reading about Ray Darrow’s upcoming book,
For Shame
. The title still made Laura cringe, but the author of the article had nothing but words of praise for the book, and Laura listened with a lump in her throat. The piece described Ray as a great humanitarian.

“‘If every politician reads this powerful book,’” Stuart read aloud, “‘much needed social change is sure to follow.’” He paused. “Pretty nice, huh?”

Laura closed her eyes. “I only wish Ray could hear that.”

“It’s his legacy,” Stuart said. “It’s exactly what he would have wanted.”

For a long time after hanging up the phone, Laura lay on her side, eyes wide open, sleep evasive. Reaching out to touch the empty mattress where Ray should have been, the pain of losing him washed over her. He’d been a good husband.

Except for his anger over her father’s last request.

Except for his impatience with Emma.

She shook her head, annoyed at how Heather Davison kept picking away at Ray’s image, and at herself, for beginning to think that Heather might be right.

A
LISON
B
ECKER CALLED WHILE
L
AURA AND
E
MMA WERE EATING
breakfast.

“We have to postpone Cory’s party,” Alison said. “She was up all night with some stomach bug.”

“Oh, how miserable,” Laura said, but she wasn’t thinking of Cory as much as she was of Sarah. She’d told Sarah she’d visit today while Emma was at the birthday party. Now, though, Emma was left with no place to go. Most likely Sarah didn’t remember Laura saying she’d come today, but what if she did? The thought of her waiting for her with her walking shoes on was more than Laura could bear.

“Anything I can do to help?” Laura asked Alison.

“No, thanks. Jim went out for ginger ale and saltines, so I think we’re all set.”

Hanging up the phone, Laura took her seat again across from Emma.

“Well, honey, that was Cory’s mom. Cory’s sick today, so she won’t be able to have her birthday party.”

Emma looked out the window in the direction of the Beckers’ house.

“I know you’re disappointed.” How did she know that?
How did she know anything her daughter was thinking or feeling? She was in the middle of a colossal guessing game, dividing her time between a small child who refused to communicate and an old woman who couldn’t.

One of the library books she’d been reading suggested linking the Alzheimer’s patient with a child. In many ways, they were at the same level of ability.

“Since you can’t go to Cory’s party,” she said, making a split-second decision, “you can go with me to visit a friend.”

When Sarah opened her apartment door, her eyes fell immediately on Emma.

“You brought Janie with you,” she said, a broad smile on her face.

“Janie?” Laura asked. “No, this is Emma, my daughter. Emma, this is Mrs. Tolley.”

Emma leaned into Laura’s leg, though not with her usual shyness, and she didn’t hesitate to go into the apartment with Laura. She eyed Sarah with curiosity. There had been few elderly women in her life.

Sarah was so focused on Emma as she led her guests into the living room that she walked right into one of the end tables, knocking her late husband’s picture to the floor. Laura picked up the framed photograph and placed it on the table again.

“Will Janie go on our walk with us?” Sarah asked.

“If that’s all right with you,” Laura said. “But her name is Emma. Do you remember me telling you about my daughter, Emma?”

Sarah sat on the edge of the sofa, making herself Emma’s height. “What a beautiful doll!” she said. “What’s her name?”

Emma held the Barbie out to Sarah, who took it on her lap.

“What’s her name, Janie?” she asked again.

“Do you remember that I told you Emma doesn’t speak?” Laura said.

“You stopped talking, Janie?” Sarah seemed almost obstinate in her refusal to call Emma by her name. “Why did you do that, dearest?”

Emma wrinkled her nose and shrugged, leaning restlessly against the arm of the sofa.

“Good,” Laura said to Sarah. “You have your walking shoes on already.” She looked at Emma. “Do you need to use the bathroom before we go for a walk, honey?”

Emma shook her head.

“Well, I do,” Laura said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Walking toward the bathroom, she noticed the big plastic calendar-clock on the kitchenette wall. The date was set three days ahead, and she took a moment to set it back. Sarah must be pushing the button more often than once a day.

She was washing her hands at the bathroom sink when, through the paper-thin door, she heard Sarah ask, “Are you in school yet, Janie?” Where the heck was this “Janie” stuff coming from? she wondered.

“I’m
not
Janie!” Emma’s voice rang out clearly. “I’m
Emma
.”

Laura caught her breath. It had been so long since she’d heard that voice that she’d almost forgotten how it sounded. Low-pitched for such a tiny girl, and loud. And right now, a bit indignant.

She wanted to run out of the bathroom and pull her daughter into her arms, but she didn’t dare break the spell. Pressing her head against the door, she listened as Emma answered Sarah’s questions, even though they were directed to a child with a different name.

“My doll’s name is Barbie,” she said.

“I’m five.”

“I’ll go to kindergarten soon.”

Laura glanced in the bathroom mirror. There were tears in her eyes and her nose was red. She dried her tears with toilet paper and left the bathroom, deciding it would be best if she didn’t treat Emma’s talking as if it were anything out of the ordinary, but rather something she’d expected her to do one of these days.

“Are you ready to go for our walk, Emma?” she asked, waiting for the answer.

But Emma merely took her Barbie back from Sarah and trotted over to the door to wait for them.

On their walk, Sarah was far too preoccupied with Emma to slip into her memories of the past, but no matter what she asked the little girl, Emma was done talking. It hurt Laura to know that her presence was the cause of Emma’s return to silence. She answered most of Sarah’s questions about Emma, and eventually gave up trying to get her to call her by her right name.

“You must know a little girl named Janie,” Laura said.

A faraway look fell over Sarah’s face. “Yes, I knew a Janie,” she said, “but I’m not allowed to talk about her.” She stepped out ahead of her walking companions, and Laura knew that the conversation had come to an end.

She called Dylan that night from the phone in the skylight room, where she lay stretched out on the floor pillows. The night was thick with clouds, but the moon appeared from time to time, peeking through the smoky veil.

“Emma spoke today,” she said.

“You’re kidding!” Dylan said. “Tell me all about it.”

“Well, I had to take her to Sarah’s apartment with me this morning, and while I was in the bathroom, I overheard Sarah asking her—”

She suddenly heard a woman’s voice in the background, calling “Dylan?”

“You have someone there,” she said, chagrined. “I’m interrupting.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Hold on.”

She heard muffled voices and knew he had cupped his hand over the receiver and was talking to the woman who was…his date? His lover?

“Hi,” he said, coming back on the line. “So, you had Emma over at Sarah’s and Sarah was asking her something?”

“Yes. I was in the bathroom and Sarah kept calling Emma ‘Janie’ for some reason, and all of a sudden, Emma said, very indignantly, ‘I’m not Janie!’”

Dylan laughed. “All right, Emma! Then what? Oh, hold on another second.”

She heard the woman’s voice in the background again, her words indistinct, and this time Dylan didn’t bother covering the phone when he answered her. “They’re in the closet,” he said. “Top shelf. The stool’s right inside the door there.” Then to Laura, “Okay. I’m back.”

“I am seriously interrupting you,” Laura said.

“No, you’re not. So, did she keep talking? Is she talking now?”

“No. She stopped when I came out of the bathroom.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must not feel too good.”

The compassion in his voice surprised her, brought her to the brink of tears yet again. “At least she spoke,” she said. “At least I know she can still do it.”

“Could Sarah have called her by another name in an attempt to get her to speak, do you think? Maybe she knew perfectly well what she was doing, and was just trying to provoke Emma.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “You know, she told me about a mute patient she had when she was a psychiatric nurse. The psychiatrist got her to talk by taunting her.”

“So maybe Sarah was doing the same thing.”

It seemed unlikely. “I don’t know. Sarah’s not that clearheaded.”

“Maybe she’s more clearheaded than you think.” He paused. “I’m going out in a few minutes,” he said, “but when can I see Emma again? If she’ll see me at all after I screamed at her about the guns. Wish I had
that
morning to do over.”

“How about coming over Monday evening?” she suggested. “Emma and I have a therapy session with Heather in the morning. I’ll be painting the living room in the afternoon, and I’ll probably be a paint-speckled mess by the time you get here, but we could order pizza or—”

“I’ll come over in the afternoon and help you paint,” he said.

“Oh, no! I don’t want you to do that.”

“It’s my day off,” he said. “I’ll be there around one-thirty, okay? You have an extra roller or should I bring one?”

“I have one.”

“See you then.”

After getting off the phone, she poured herself a glass of iced tea and carried it out to the screened porch. She sat down in one of the rockers. The night was very still except for the rhythmic croaking of the frogs that lived along the bank of the lake. She ordinarily found comfort in a quiet evening on the porch, yet tonight it did not calm her.

Dylan was a genuinely kind person, and she was convinced of his sincere interest in Emma. That was all she’d wanted him to be: a kind and attentive man who would take an interest in her daughter. So, why was she so disturbed by the fact that he had a woman at his house? It was absurd. Dylan owed her
nothing. He didn’t even remember the night they’d slept together, and he had been clear about his desire to remain unattached. Why couldn’t she simply shrug off the sound of that woman’s voice? What were they doing tonight? She pictured Dylan laughing with the anonymous woman in his living room, or maybe lying in the hammock in his backyard. She pictured them in bed together. Pictured him touching her, making love to her, consciously, not the way he’d made love to Laura so long ago.

So what? She didn’t own him.

She turned her mind to other things, managing to think about Emma’s talking, and Sarah’s fixation on calling her Janie, and what color she would paint the living room. Yet she knew that when she climbed into bed that night, her dreams would be filled with Dylan Geer.