“Then take me to him at once.”
“Tomorrow night,” she said.
“I wish to see him now.”
She let go of me and backed away. “No. Not tonight.” Her shoulders slumped, and her face fell slack with exhaustion. She peeled off her wet clothes and slid into bed.
Now I, too, must sleep.
January 15, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
She is in good spirits today, as if a great weight has been lifted from her. We lunched with the other patients in a large dining room, a bright and cheery place with large windows overlooking the snowy grounds. Hastings joined us for a dessert of apple pie, and he was proud to point out that the apples were grown on the property.
Your mother sleeps now. How she enjoys her post-dinner naps! A subtle light enters her room such as in Vermeer’s
When she wakes, she will take me to meet you. It is hard to write such a thing without throwing my hands in the air with contempt and frustration, but I shall do my part as the superintendent wishes. I will try to gently back her into a corner of her own mad logic. But I question the point of it all, for if the truth at last shines upon her, will not a half-dozen more delusions creep into her mind like a thick fog?
Later—
Hastings arrived while your mother slept, and inquired if all was well. I assured him it was. He invited me to accompany him on his rounds, and I eagerly accepted. Why is it that the ill fortune and madness of others fascinate me so?
We started in the women’s wing. Hastings introduced me to his patients as a visiting doctor — a slight deception, yes, but at the same time, very true. I kept quiet and stood out of his way as much as possible in order to keep the patients from becoming upset or over-excited at the presence of a stranger. But the doctor’s easy manner and congeniality never failed to put the female patients at ease. Some of the women actually fawned over him, touching him as if a pet.
A strange thing, Christoph; during the course of our rounds, I crossed paths with a female who had a large tumor protruding from the front of her neck. It was the size of a grapefruit. My instincts as a doctor took over, and I tried to question her about the growth, but she refused to talk. She covered her face and hurried away, as if ashamed. But what was most odd, was that as she turned a corner, the tumor appeared to pulse.
Hastings informed me it was a recent growth that will likely soon kill her. I felt sorry for the poor soul.
We soon passed through a central rotunda and into the men’s wing. Hastings pulled two cigars from his shirt pocket and offered me one. I accepted, but as he lit my cigar, a troubling thought jumped into my head like a hungry flea. I paused mid-puff and put my hand to my forehead.
Hastings noticed my sudden change of mood. “Yes?” he asked.
“May I ask you something?” I asked. “It is a question of delicacy, but I wish an honest answer.”
He squinted through a cloud of cigar smoke. “Of course.”
“With the freedom here — the men and the women — do they…” My heart beat rapidly, my face grew hot. “What I mean, has Gerta — “ I searched for the proper words.
Hastings sucked on the end of his cigar and blew out a ring of smoke. He said, “With the liberties the patients enjoy here, there are of course occasional, shall we say, flings.” He smiled. “But Gerta, I assure you, has been steadfastly chaste.”
Now, Christoph — again, I will be honest. Your mother is fourteen years my junior, yet she is no longer as viable and lovely as when we first met, before her madness set in. Wrinkles cross her face like cracks in bread crust. The skin of her neck sags, and her hair runs with streaks of silver. But I caught something in the superintendent’s eye, in his tone of voice, and I knew at once he lied. Lied to protect my feelings, my honor — of this I have no doubt. But nonetheless — my insides felt like a rag squeezed tight.
Does your mother have lovers here? Can I blame her? It is the essence of nature, is it not?
I must stop torturing myself with these thoughts.
While in the men’s wing, we came to the room of a patient named Branagh. Before entering, Hastings informed me that Branagh had been the one responsible for digging the caves.
He sat in a chair, his wrists restrained by rope.
Hastings introduced me, but before I could say anything, Branagh asked in a thick Irish brogue, “Are you one of Satan’s imps?” His muscles flexed beneath a tight black shirt.
I looked at Hastings, then back at Branagh. “I assure you, I am not.”
“Then why do you converse with him?”
Hastings shrugged. “Mr. Branagh believes himself to be the Son of God.”
I asked, “You’re the one in charge of digging the caves? They’re quite ingenious.”
Mr. Branagh’s thick hands relaxed on the arms of his chair. His face brightened and became at once youthful.
It was fascinating, Christoph, as he explained in detail the logistics of such an undertaking. Amazing how one so delusional can also be so intelligent, so gifted.
“But it is God’s work,” Branagh said. “It is not a place meant for the wicked doings that go on there.”
Outside the room, Hastings raised his arms. “So much talent wasted to the trappings of delusion. Wouldn’t it be much easier to comprehend if all the mad were mere idiots? Thick-skulled criminals?”
As we made our way back toward the rotunda, quick, light footsteps approached from behind. Before I could turn, a hand grabbed hold of me.
The man was pale as snow, with a large Adam’s apple that bobbed violently with each swallow. He winked lasciviously. “I know your Gerta.” He straightened to his full height and bowed to me. “It is an honor, sir.”
“Ignore him,” Hastings said.
The man’s stomach appeared grossly distended, like that of a starving man. He took hold of my hand and pulled it to his belly. “See?” He smiled. “He’s fine. Everything is fine.”
Hastings wrenched the man’s hand from my own. “James!”
“It is an honor, sir.
Hastings’ hand shot out and slapped him hard across the jaw. “Leave at once!”
The patient cowered and felt his lip. A speck of blood came off on his thumb. He slunk away like a chastised dog.
Hastings shook his head, staring after the man. “Forgive me. I feared for your safety. I am not normally a man of such temper.”
“What was that about?”
“More of the same — a poor man with enough delusions to fill an entire wing.” He stubbed his cigar out on the wall and dropped the butt to the floor, waving an attendant over to sweep it up.
Christoph, when I pass through these halls, patients and attendants alike stop to watch me pass. Do I carry the mark of Cain on my forehead? Am I being paranoid?
Your mother grows more delusional by the hour. “A miracle,” she said only an hour ago. “Tonight you shall see.”
She’s become giddy. It has grown so hard not to slap some sense into her. But that would do nothing to cure her. It would merely result in petulance.
A miracle…
She obviously believes that you, my dear son, will communicate with us. Is it to be a seance? Are others to be involved? Perhaps that is why they stare at me so.
I must not get upset. Why is it that I am such an understanding and patient man, except when it comes to your mother? Around her, I am so often a beast.
