around to see if everyone was noticing her, but no one seemed to.
“Surprise,” I said, dropping down into the chair next to her.
“David,” she said. Her voice suddenly disappeared, like a coin in a magic trick. Was she going to pull it out of my ear? She cleared her throat; color was rising in her face. “I told them I was your aunt.”
“I know.”
“I’m so bad at getting away with things,” she said. “I felt sure I’d get caught in my…”—she glanced around —“…lie. But now that I see you, I think I’ve actually pulled it off.” She smiled. Conspiracy. Triumph.
A surge of emotion ripped through me. All at once, I took Ann’s hand and held it, and then I lifted it slowly to my lips and kissed the back of her cool, faintly tanned hand. My nose was pressing against her; there was a faint cucumbery taste on her skin, and when I finally stopped kissing her and she let her hand drop into her lap, I saw that her hand was wet. I stared at it, hoping she would wipe it dry and horrified that she might.
“I’m in town at the behest of my publisher,” she said, quietly. “Promoting my book.”
“So you finally wrote a book,” I said.
Ann hesitated, nodded. She’d expected me to know. A slight overestimation of her own celebrity. I felt ashamed for her. How dare she think I would know
“I miss a lot of what’s going on in here,” I said.
“Of course. And even if you weren’t here. Maybe ten thousand people in all the world know my name. It’s a small world, the book world.”
“It’s about time you wrote a book. Think of it: a real book.”
“You look OK, David,” she said; “You really do.” She glanced around the room, as if to say: Better than the others, at least. Someone was having a coughing fit, a patient. His family was pounding him on the back to make him stop.
“I saw myself in the mirror yesterday,” I said. “And I thought, ‘Hey boy, you look like someone in a public fucking nuthouse.’”
“You look good. Your voice is deeper.”
“It’s the drugs. It relaxes my face and makes me look old. They give you a lot of drugs here. Remember how we used to love drugs? Well, it’s different here. It’s serious. They have to give them to us or else we’d tear the place down. Burn it. That’s why my voice is so low, too. The drugs. I’m glad you noticed. I wasn’t sure it was true, and I didn’t know who to ask.”
We were silent for a few moments. The cougher was still coughing. An orderly stood with his massive arms folded, watching the family pound the cougher’s back.
“What do you do while you’re here?” Ann asked.
“But I’m always here!”
She looked around, shrugged. “What do you do?”
“Look. I want to ask a favor. Now you’re a famous writer. Why don’t you write a story about me? But not a story. The truth. What happened to me. I’m sorry. I’m forgetting what I’m not supposed to say. But the point is I’m here and it’s been a very long while, don’t you think? My case is sitting on someone’s desk, on the bottom of the pile. Don’t you think a little publicity would help? If you wrote a story to tell the world what’s happened to me, and maybe others like me too. I just need to get out of here. Even if I seem old and different, I’m still alive. I’m still the exact same person. It’s me, Ann. It’s me. It really is. I’m holding on. I’m making it day by day. But I don’t know, I really couldn’t say how much longer I’ll be able to hold out. They want you to change. That’s what it’s all about. I might even do it if I thought they’d let me out after. But knowing how it is I could turn myself into shit and they’d still keep me here.” I grabbed for her hand again but let it go when I saw her eyes were blurred with tears.
“I don’t think you belong here, David,” she whispered. “I never thought you did. It’s a damn outrage and you’re absolutely right to be angry.”
“I’m not angry, I’m dying. And I want to get out.”
“I never thought you deserved it. That’s why I came, to tell you. My plane leaves at three but I had to chance missing it to tell you and to see you. If there’s anything…” She swallowed a sob, covered her eyes for a moment. “That sounds so false. I’m sorry. But it’s so. If there’s anything I can do, any way I can stand up in your behalf, I will. It’s not a matter of family anymore. It’s a question of right and wrong and it’s plainly wrong for you to be punished any longer.” She started to get up but I held on to her arm.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Your father told me. Weeks ago. I called.”
“That must have been weird. Was it all right?”
“Your mother got on the line. She started to scream at me. Your father hung up and then I did. It
“Does Jade have a baby yet? Is she all right?”
“She’s OK. Her husband was transferred to Brussels. She doesn’t much care for it. And no, they don’t have children.”
“Yet.”
“I don’t think she’s anxious to. I think I’ve queered her on motherhood.”
“What’s your book about?”
“Hugh. I’ll send you a copy.”
“Hugh?”
“You’re in it, too. But not as you. It’s not what you think. It’s about before. Falling in love with him. The beginning.” She stood up.
“It was very nice of you…” My head was dropping. I covered my eyes and then I was afraid to uncover them and find her already gone. I felt her hand on my shoulder. I stood.
“Don’t lose faith in yourself, David,” she said. We were standing very close; I could smell her perfume. I breathed deeply, drawing the scent into my blood.
“I don’t have any faith in myself.”
“Yes you do. You’ve just got to find it. It’s no wonder you can’t here. You’ve got to get out. You don’t belong here.” She reached up, put her hand against my face. She held me in her eyes for a moment; I wanted to hug her but something told me not to. I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. Ann stepped back, looked at me in the way you do when you want to commit someone to memory, and then she turned.
I watched her walk across the visitors’ room, toward the glass doors. Her shoulders were back and she was trying not to walk fast. In a moment she’d be gone.
“Thank you,” I called out to her, cupping my hands over my mouth like a man at sea.
She raised her hand without looking round. She waved goodbye with her fingers, lowering them one at a time, as if counting down. Five, four, three, two, one.
The next September my father died, at home, in his sleep. A massive heart attack, though I don’t know if it would have taken a huge shove to loosen his grip on life. As soon as he was gone, it was clear to me that he’d been preparing his own death since Barbara Sherwood’s. Rose came to Fox Run to break the news. We were alone in the visitors’ room, on a Wednesday. Her face looked utterly white, as if she were hovering in a state of semi- shock: there are windows in the wall separating life from death and when you peer through one of them it changes you. I knew something was wrong as soon as I sat next to Rose, and when she laid her cold, small hand on my wrist I was ready for the worst. It was already three days after the fact: Arthur died at eleven thirty Sunday night; his body, as per his promise, was already in the University of Chicago Medical School, “donated to science.” I felt too neglected, too behind the roll of events to cry. I felt only a deep soreness within, as might be caused by a disease.
A month later I was given a round of psychological tests. Nothing new. Adding columns of numbers. Who was the first President of the United States? What is the sun? Questions to see if my brains were addled, if my hold on reality was at all sequential and ordinary. Inkblot tests, complete-the-story tests, spatial perception tests, memory exercises, and finally a kind of Ph.D. oral in front of a panel of three psychiatrists, in which I spoke of myself and answered their questions. If you could have any job in the whole wide world, what would it be? If you loved a gal and she didn’t love you, what would you do? I was weak from the effort to appear normal, and I had even forced myself up toward a level of acuity in which I recognized that if my efforts were too apparent—or too successful— then I would be defeating myself. It was important to remain at all times vulnerable to their judgments of me; confidence and determination would be interpreted as symptoms of disassociation.
