“I only wonder,” he goes on when I don’t answer, “if you identified with Edith in some way. Sky tells me you have a baby yourself. I wondered if perhaps you had experienced any postpartum mood disorders.”
I try to remind myself that even if he has looked me up, it’s Laurel he’s looked up. What could he have found out? Has he called Stan? The thought of him talking to Stan Hobbes makes me go cold all over. But even if Dr. Hancock has discovered my deception, what of it? It will be embarrassing, but I’m nearly ready to leave anyway. I’d like to finish out the job, but maybe Sky would let me continue it as Daphne Marist. But if Sky is angry at me for pretending to be Laurel then this might be my last chance to see Edith Sharp’s file, so I may as well humor Dr. Hancock.
“You’ve caught me,” I say. “I did suffer from postpartum depression for a few months after Chloë was born. But I went to a support group and I feel much better. I suppose that did make me identify with Edith Sharp. Maybe if she had had help earlier she wouldn’t have ended up here.”
“And is that why you want to see her file? So you’ll understand how a woman might survive the experience of postpartum psychosis and come out whole?”
That strikes me as a strange way of putting it, but all I want to do now is put an end to this . . . whatever this is. “If you say so,” I say impatiently. “Speaking of babies, I’d like to get back to mine sometime today. If I could just have the file—”
“I thought I’d give you something more,” he says, rising to his feet. “Since understanding Edith is so important to you, I thought you might want to meet her.”
“Meet her? But isn’t she . . .” I can’t hide my shock, which Dr. Hancock seems to be enjoying. “Isn’t she . . . dangerous? I just saw the black eye she gave Ben Marcus.”
“Oh, she’s been sedated since then. She’s placid as a lamb right now and twice as contrite. I thought it might interest you to talk to her, but if you think it will upset you . . .”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. There’d be no harm in admitting that the idea frightened me. Meeting a mental patient might make anyone upset. But Dr. Hancock is already getting out his keys, opening the door, barking orders to his secretary to hold his calls and let the on-call supervisor on C Ward know we’re on our way over, and striding down the hall. I have to hurry to keep up with him. I feel like all the disembodied body parts that line the wall are watching me. What a gruesome assemblage for a mental hospital. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dr. Hancock selected them. Right now, he’s tapping the green file against his leg, like a treat he’s using to lure me along. Bastard. He’s doing this to punish me for getting special privileges. I wonder how he gets back at his patients.
He has to wait for me at the elevator. I watch him turn the two keys to operate it and then we go down, passing the first floor. The wards must connect in the basement.
When we get off the elevator it’s as if we’re in a different building. No plush carpet or framed pictures. The floor is water-stained linoleum and the bare walls are painted a noxious green. The doors of the rooms we pass have small frosted-glass windows that are covered over with metal mesh.
“We see some patients here.” Dr. Hancock taps the corner of the folder on the windows as we pass by. I try to peer through the frosted glass and catch glimpses of shadowy shapes, like fish swimming in an aquarium. I feel like we’re underwater.
We turn a corner and another. The floor seems to slope down. By the time we come to a door I’m completely turned around. I have no idea what side of the building we’re on or how many floors beneath the ground. Dr. Hancock uses another key for this door and a slide card attached to a lanyard around his neck for the next one. How in the world did Edith get out of here? Perhaps I’ll ask her—if we ever get to her.
At last Dr. Hancock opens the door to a small windowless room. “Here,” he says, laying the file folder on a spare wooden table in the middle of the room. “Why don’t you read this while I go get Edith.” Before I can object, he leaves the room, locking the door behind him. The click of the lock echoes loud against the cinderblock walls. It’s to protect you, I tell myself, sitting down at the table. But still I am besieged by claustrophobia, locked in this small windowless room. I open the folder as if it’s a window that might let in some air, and begin to read.
The first thing I notice is that the page is full of black rectangles. Parts of the text have been blacked out by heavily inked boxes. Redacted. I flip the pages and see that the entire file has been altered in this way. As I begin to read, I see that the black boxes cover all references to the patient’s name and any other identifying information. But why? I already know her name is Edith Sharp. The action seems hostile and unnecessary. Well, so be it; I don’t need Edith’s name. I can easily fill it in myself.
XX is a young woman from an affluent background who appeared to be a functioning young adult until the onset of severe dissociative symptoms in her early twenties. The one traumatic event of her childhood was the death of her parents in her early teens, but since she had already been in boarding school their
