I’M GOING HOME.
I try to process the news as Miss O’Brien and the aide help me into my long-lost plaid dress and starched petticoat, along with my cardigan, socks, and loafers.
Paul raised holy hell with the doctors and Hanover’s superintendent for irreparably harming his wife, threatened to go public with our story, and they agreed to get the forms signed by the court and release me to his custody as of this morning, December 21.
No more hiding behind the curtains in my infirmary bed, playing for time, hoping not to be sent back down to the Unit for more treatments. Paul’s rescuing me from all that, from future Lester “visits,” from Sherman’s brutal protocol.
Free. So why aren’t I happier? More relieved?
Because my rescuer is the person Officer Worthy might have said lied to me. But according to who? Mary? Some Unit paranoic who put a guy in the hospital?
And her source? Me, a maybe-recovering schizophrenic. Hardly a sure bet.
So I ignore my nerves as Gus walks me slowly down to the lobby, try to focus on the good right in front of me—I’m going home to familiar surroundings, where my memories will soon return like lost sheep, including the one I crave most: Officer Worthy’s visit. Not a hint of it has returned yet.
Hanover’s lobby is like nothing else in the hospital. Palatial. Filled with potted palms, velvet-covered chairs, and oriental carpets that feel soft under my feet. On the wall is a portrait of an old white man, probably the first of many to run this place.
“Morning, Dorothy,” Miss Wallace says, walking up. She nods to Gus, and the attendant leaves.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say slowly, letting my flattened syllables slide into each other. Need my recovery from the seizure, not to mention my emergence from the protocol, slow enough to be believable. Protect Mary. Whatever her crazed reasons for faking her fugue state, they should be honored.
In the nurse’s hands are my coat and a tiny manilla envelope with my name on it. “Aren’t you lucky you get to go home in time for Christmas.” She opens up the envelope. “The pennies from your loafers,” she says. I remember a nurse confiscating them that first day in reception. “Put out your hand,” she says, tilts the envelope, and the coins fall into my palm.
I slowly place them in my sweater pocket, then look up and swear I see Wallace eyeing me strangely, face even paler than usual. Does she know I’m faking my damage?
“Dee!” Paul shouts, coming through the big double doors, and as he runs toward me, grinning, I feel my stomach twist with nerves. He picks me up and swings me around, then gives me a kiss. Just on the cheek, but now I feel something thrumming through my body, overruling my anxiety.
Desire.
When he puts me back down, I say slowly, “Good morning, Paul.”
“You are speaking!” he says, unbuttoning his gray wool coat. “That’s … that’s wonderful, Dee! They said you were … but I didn’t believe—”
“As I tried to explain yesterday, Mr. Frasier,” Dr. Sherman says, approaching the three of us, “protocol patients recover quite rapidly once the ECT is stopped.” Paul glares at him and Sherman turns to me. “So nice to see you up and about, dear.”
I keep my gaze hazy, sense the doctor’s eyes still assessing me. “Thank you, Dr. Sherman.”
He hands Paul some papers. I spot the words “Commutation of sentence” on the top one—and realize I can read again! My heart quietly soars as the doctor speaks to Paul: “Release forms for Dorothy signed by the court and myself. You’ll need to present them at the gate.”
Paul nods curtly and slips them into his coat pocket.
“And here are her prescriptions. To help keep things on an even keel,” the doctor continues, handing him some small slips of paper. “May I have a word, Mr. Frasier?” he asks, then walks a dozen feet away and waits for Paul.
My husband frowns. “Be right back, Dee,” he says, then joins the doctor.
I strain to hear snatches of the doctor’s words to Paul as Wallace shakes out my coat. “… so for both your sakes, I urge you to continue the conditioning I’ve initiated with your wife … With the right reinforcement from you, those new beliefs and habits of thought in her, that new reluctance to act out or distrust, will strengthen and build till it becomes her new status quo … won’t be long before Dorothy will cease to question her new inclinations, think about how she used to be … But without the right support from you, I fear she’ll be back here within weeks—”
Paul mutters something I can’t make out, and Sherman responds. “… and given you’ve cut her treatment short, it’s unclear just where we stand in terms of her illness. Too much undue stress could precipitate a return of her symptoms.” Is that true? Is my recovery that precarious? “So, you need to manage how much she’s exposed to—”
“Dorothy, time to put your coat on,” Wallace says, interrupting my eavesdropping. She holds it up and I spot a small rip at the elbow I’ll need to sew. Must be from my tumble onto the pavement with Officer Worthy after he yanked me away from the speeding car. Almost six weeks since that day. The thought of all that time gone makes me almost queasy. But I push it down, slip my arms into the waiting coat, and watch as the nurse buttons it.
“Thank you, Miss Wallace,” I say, and see that odd look in her eyes again. Maybe she does see through my act … Or maybe it’s just paranoia still lingering in me that the protocol didn’t have time to treat. But the nurse simply says, “Have a pleasant holiday, Dorothy,” and walks away, off to impose her rule on other hapless patients.
I turn back to Sherman and Paul. “… so if something serious should come up, don’t hesitate, call the sheriff’s office. They’re equipped to handle these situations—”
“She’s clearly no threat to anyone, you’ve seen to that,” Paul snaps at him, and walks back to me. Holds out his hand and smiles. “Ready to go, darling?”
I take his hand, and he walks me slowly away. At the door, I glance back at Dr. Sherman and his pursed lips. “Forget about him,” my husband says, and holds the door open. Such a simple act, yet impossible without him.
I need to not forget that. Paul has forced them to release me into his custody, and as I walk out of here, I am in his hands. Loving hands, but all the same, his hands. He’s my legal guardian, the one determining each day whether I belong outside of here. I need to be careful. Not give him any reason to doubt.
The snowfall last night has dusted the lawn in white, and the sunlight on it temporarily blinds me. I dip my eyes a moment, and when I look up, Paul’s grinning. “If you’d like to stay…”
“No thanks.” I smile, step outside into the bracing winter air, and am overcome with teary exhilaration and relief at my new-found freedom: I’m out of Hanover. And I’m never going back!
I slip my hand out of Paul’s and head for the steps.
“Wait. Let me help you,” he calls to me.
“No, I can do—”
“Dee, stop!” Paul shouts—
And I freeze without a second thought, or even a first. No thought, just the knee-jerk, obedient response etched into my mind by the doctor’s shocks. Has the protocol merely substituted the voice’s commands for Paul’s?
I turn back to Paul, feeling a mix of shame, irritation, and unease at my latest act of compliance.
He walks up, holds out his hand, and I take it. “Look, adjusting to what’s out there,” he says, sweeping his arm across the horizon, “a world, a life that, for now, you largely don’t remember, is going to be difficult—especially with you still recovering from the protocol. We need to be smart. You understand?”
No. But I don’t want to argue. Just want to get as far from Hanover as I can. So, I say yes, and we walk slowly down the long steps.
Once we reach the car, Paul looks back at the hospital, then at me. “I didn’t know, Dee … What was happening to you in Sherman’s Unit. I thought I’d be allowed to see you. But Sherman refused. Said visits were ‘detrimental to the protocol’ and I’d be invalidating the terms of our agreement if I saw you before it was finished … I should never have trusted the guy.”
“We should never,” I say. “I trusted, too.”