MY HEAD’S THROBBING from its latest blow, my vision still bordering on double, as Lester escorts me down some shadowy steps a short distance from Hanover’s front entrance, into a grim subterranean room marked RECEPTION. The door to the outside slams shut behind us with disturbing finality.
I need to keep my head till I can figure out my next plan.
Lights suspended from the ceiling cast ghostly circular patterns on its gray-and-white checkerboard floor. Behind a large desk is a nurse filling out paperwork, who doesn’t look up as I beg her to listen to my story.
Lester pulls me under one of the lights, removes the handcuffs and coat. I fight to keep myself in check as he performs a search of me that is more about his lingering pat down than finding actual contraband. The reception nurse is more thorough, stops Lester as he’s leading me away to search the pockets on the front of my dress that he’s neglected. Pulls out the pack of gum. “For your safety no outside food is allowed inside the hospital,” she says, then confiscates the pennies from my loafers as well. For safety.
Lester leads me away, and the hospital’s odor, a suffocating mix of disinfectants, cleansers, and bodily fluids, grows stronger the deeper into the building he takes me. When he pulls out his retractable key ring and unlocks a door labeled WOMEN’S WING, I note the lock’s a Titan mortise—rock solid, small to no chance of picking it. Like the climbability of chain-link, it’s another vaguely criminal fact I am certain of.
I also note that I might know how to pick a lock.
We pass a door marked EAST-WEST CORRIDOR, and I see through its window a hallway stretching into the dim basement distance like a subway tunnel.
Soon we come to an elevator. A Black custodian is mopping the checkerboard floor nearby in a steady circular rhythm. Lester inserts a key, then pushes the elevator’s up button.
While we wait, I try to press my temples to relieve the pressure, careful to avoid the tender, swollen spot where Lester’s hand landed. “Here, miss.” I look up and see the custodian’s holding out a clean, white handkerchief and gesturing to my bloody ears.
“Thanks,” I say, take the offering—
And immediately feel myself tearing up at his kind gesture.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I manage to stifle my weird emotional response and have just begun cleaning off my ears when Lester snatches the bloody handkerchief away and hands it back to the custodian.
“Joe, is it?” he asks the man.
“Yes, sir,” the custodian answers.
“Well, Joe, you being new here, I’m gonna give you a big ol’ benefit of the doubt and assume no one’s told you it’s a rule we don’t share personal items with the patients.”
Joe silently endures Lester’s lecture, tucks the bloodied square back in his pocket, and returns to mopping while we step into the elevator.
A dim fluorescent light flickers from its ceiling as it slowly rises to 1. When it bounces to a stop, we head down a wide, bright hallway to an office marked DR. EUSTACE SHERMAN.
Good, a doctor. Someone who’ll see how ridiculous this whole mix-up is—and with the rum to get me released.
In the doctor’s waiting room Lester leads me toward a desk where a young woman in pearls sits behind a nameplate that reads MISS JANE CAMPBELL She’s typing on a manual typewriter the size of a small boulder, and the keys’ thwack, thwack staccato is reverberating painfully through my tender head.
Above her hangs a clock, next to a wall calendar featuring a boy in a Pilgrim hat. Days one through twelve are neatly checked off. It’s November twelfth. Not a big surprise, judging by the almost-bare trees I saw on the grounds.
Miss Campbell glances at me, then addresses Lester. “You can bring Dorothy back. He’s expecting her.”
Dorothy—each time they call me that ludicrous name, I want to smack someone. But that’s not how I get the hell out of this place. So, I drop my urge into a little mental drawer and slam it shut. The move feels effortless, well practiced. It’s possible I have hundreds of mental drawers, an entire tansu chest of them in my head, storing all my most unhelpful thoughts.
Lester takes me down a short hall to an office where a man in a white coat sits behind an enormous wooden desk polished to a high shine. He’s poring over a file.
“Doctor,” I say to him, “there’s been a huge misunderstanding—”
He raises his finger but doesn’t look up. Lester seats me in one of two chairs facing the desk and stands nearby.
While we wait, I scan the room, filing away details. Exits other than the obvious? Just two windows with fixed bars over them. Potential weapons? I like the coatrack in the corner.
Dr. Sherman’s a collector. Above him hang several framed butterflies pinned under glass. And his bookshelves are filled with objects that look plundered from a natural history museum: an elephant tusk, African masks, and a group of small primitive female figures with ample breasts. Close by is a nautilus shell, split down the middle and mounted on a spike, its secret Fibonacci chambers laid bare for all to see.
Among an infinite set of possibilities is one where my escape depends on the clever use of nautilus shell and busty clay figure, so no object is beneath note. I’m guessing my compulsive cataloguing of weapons is a habit born of both intense need and copious repetition—and I wonder just what kind of messed-up life situation would provide those two things.
It’s a habit that’s kept you alive, hasn’t it?
The voice—always there with the cold-blooded commentary when she senses a threat or thinks I’m taking one too lightly. My own mental watchdog. Has she always been with me? And why?
When Dr. Sherman finally glances up from his file at me, he looks utterly fascinated. Which makes two of us: the doctor has even more wrinkles than Nurse Wallace. “You and the nurse on the bus, you’re both so … old. How is that even possible?”
The doctor smiles, then says in a thick Scottish accent, “Why don’t you and I have ourselves a little chat.” He comes over to my chair, and his cologne—a heady mix of leather, cedar, and soap—envelopes me. “I’m Dr. Sherman,” he says, offering his hand.
“Careful, Doctor,” Lester cautions.
“Oh, I think we’ll be fine, Lester,” the doctor says. After I shake his hand, he takes the seat next to me and eyes my scrapes and bruises. “I apologize if the staff was a bit … overzealous. You were quite impressive out there. Saw you myself from the window. So, I hear you’re having a bit of trouble remembering who you are—yet quite sure you don’t belong here?”
You bet your ass we don’t belong here.
“I told them there’s been a mistake,” I say. “I’m not Dorothy Frasier. There was a woman in braids on the bus who was clearly unhinged. She must be—”
“The real Dorothy,” he says, grabbing the file off his desk, “who you believe stole your handbag.”
“This Dorothy person might still be on the bus,” I tell him. “If we act fast, get word to the driver, he can grabble ’n’ snag her.”
“‘Grabble and snag,’ is that what you said?” the doctor asks.
“Yeah. Why?”
He doesn’t answer, just jots a note in the file. “And you believe Dorothy switched places with you on the patient transport bus?”
Memories of my bewildering experience on the bus have already begun to take on a faded, unfocused quality, like an old photo. It’s unnerving—and something I keep to myself. “I told them she must’ve put her ID tag on me. Feggin’ bitch. If we can just get back my purse—”
“You think it’ll contain a driver’s license telling us who you really are?” he asks.
“Maybe … or some other clue to go on.”
“I see.” Dr. Sherman quietly examines the tag, and I start to think I’ve gotten through to him, that maybe the deputy was right, the doctor will straighten all of this out. But then he turns to Lester. “I’ve said it for years, these war surplus tags County insists on using for transfers are a problem. Their mobility leads to just this kind of upset.”
“You don’t understand! This tag isn’t—”
“I know it’s confusing,” Dr. Sherman says softly to me, “but not to worry, you’ll be getting more secure identification soon, an ID band that isn’t going anywhere.”
“You aren’t hearing me. I’m not who you think I am,” I say with all the calm I can muster.
“Dear, eight women stepped onto the transport bus at Culpeper County Hospital. And eight women, including yourself, stepped off it here. How do you explain that?”
“The real Dorothy hid in the back with my purse. I’m sure I saw her!”
But am I, really?
Nothing’s clear at this point, and I can feel the pain and pressure in my head begin to build as Sherman continues. “Let’s suppose that were true and this woman hid to elude capture. It still doesn’t explain why you were on that bus, now does it?”
“There’s a reason. Something important I had to do … I just can’t remember what it is. I must’ve hit my head in the bus, driver took a turn too sharply, and I got concussion. Then he clocked me,” and I nod to Lester. “None of this feels right … makes sense…”
“I understand,” the doctor says. “Along with the physical examination Dr. Sackler will perform up in the infirmary, we’ll be running some psychological assessment tests to better determine the nature of your amnesia—”
“The nature of my amnesia? I just told you my head was injured—”
Dr. Sherman pats the air in front of him like he’s trying to soothe it. Or me. “Sometimes, when a patient experiences events or learns things their mind finds too overwhelming to cope with, it’ll block those memories, deny them to protect itself. But, dear, it’s vital for your recovery that you begin to face reality, no matter how painful it might be—starting with the fact there was no woman in braids on that bus.”
“You’re wrong, she—”
“‘Dorothy Frasier,’” he says, starting to read from the file. “‘From Littleford, Virginia. Twenty-three years old. Currently under a court-ordered commitment of not less than twelve months. Transferred today from Culpeper County Hospital to Hanover State for evaluation and treatment. Onset two years ago of steadily worsening psychotic episodes marked by blackouts, delusions of grandeur, paranoiac, multifocal hallucinations.’” He looks up. “Have you been hearing voices, Dorothy?”
None of your fucking business.
So, I guess that’s a yes to voices—but don’t we all hear a voice from time to time, nudging us to do more, be better? Mine’s just a bit harsher than most—definitely not something I’ll be discussing with this guy.
“I may be having … a little trouble remembering who I am, how I got on that bus,” I say, “but I know I’m not crazy—and I sure as hell am not Dorothy Frasier.”
But Sherman keeps reading. “‘As the disease has progressed, it’s been marked by an increasing lack of concern for appearance, hygiene, as well as an escalation in lewd and antisocial behavior, aggression, and’—”
“We’re wasting time!” I say, and try to stand, but Lester stops me.
“‘… violence toward self,’” Sherman continues, “‘culminating in a recent suicide attempt.’”
Suicide? I try directing my thoughts away from that word to something more useful, like acquiring the coatrack to use as a cudgel, but my mind keeps circling back.
Because suicide feels … possible.
The doctor watches for my response, but I give none, coolly tug the cuffs of my cardigan up, cross my arms, and look at him with my best stone-cold poker face—
Only Dr. Sherman seems far more interested in my crossed arms than my poker face. “County’s records are lacking as usual, but it’s pretty clear the method.” What is he talking about? “May I see your hands?”
Not much choice with Lester still spoiling for a fight behind me. I hold both out, but Dr. Sherman takes just my right, gently turns it palm up—
And there on my wrist is a two-inch scar. What the hell?
It’s recently healed, dark pink and slightly raised, flanked by dots from suture holes. I stare at the seam in disbelief as the throbbing in my head intensifies.
Why did I do it?
Sherman stands up. “I think that’s enough for today. Give yourself some time to settle in, dear. Things will start to make more sense. Speaking of time,” he says, looking at his watch, “I’m late for the staff meeting again. I swear they’ll be docking my pay soon, eh, Lester?” And they share a chuckle before Dr. Sherman turns back to me. “Come.”
In the waiting room he hands Miss Campbell the file along with a note he’s written. “See that Miss Wallace gets the change in orders.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she says.
I walk in stunned silence between Dr. Sherman and Lester down the long, broad hallway, brain churning with possible suicide motives.
So, you’ve had some dark days. Doesn’t make you Dorothy.
Why you did it won’t get you out of here. So table it.
Soon we come to another metal gate marked NORTH WING, WOMEN’S WARDS. A nurse on the other side buzzes us through, and we continue on, passing female patients wandering the hall or sitting on the benches lining it. Most seem intimidated by Dr. Sherman and avoid eye contact.
“I’d like you to meet someone,” Sherman says to me, and leads me to a patient cowering nearby. She’s maybe thirty—hard to tell with all the worry perched on her face. “This is Lillian. Lillian, meet Dorothy.”
The woman looks at me, or rather through me, for the briefest of moments before seizing my arm and pulling me close. “Careful where you step!” she whispers. “The Soviets, they’ve been laying their electro-mines everywhere to prevent our forces from retaking the land. See them, there, there, and there?” she says, pointing about the hallway. “Those spies of theirs are communicating on their wristwatch phones, making plans all through the seven kingdoms—”
“Lillian, you can go ahead and let go of Dorothy,” Sherman says to her. When she doesn’t respond, he gently peels the woman’s hand off my arm. She doesn’t seem to notice. “That’s a good girl,” the doctor says to the woman, like she’s his loyal dog, before continuing down the hall. Lester nudges me to follow.
“At the onset of one of her schizophrenic episodes,” Dr. Sherman says, “Lillian is actually quite aware of what’s happening to her. Can even describe the upset she feels as the visual and auditory distortions set in. These worlds she imagines are outlandishly complex and elaborate, full of scheming players and intrigue, high stakes and drama, and they quickly begin to take hold of her. And as you just saw, once she’s in the full thrall of an episode, the visions are so real to her, she can no longer distinguish them from reality.”
We reach an open door marked CONFERENCE ROOM, and two doctors in ties, white coats, and brown lace-up shoes nod to Sherman as they walk past us into the room.
“It’s patients like you and Lillian who truly need Hanover. Not just its protection and care, but its state-of-the-art treatments, should they be necessary.”
“But I’m not a schizophrenic!” I say, grabbing his jacket. He quickly removes my hand, flustered at my touch. Looks to see if anyone’s watching before turning back to me. “Medical progress is never a smooth road, but if you’ll open up, tell me what you’re seeing and hearing, I promise to help you get beyond the denial, manage the symptoms so you can begin to separate substance from fantasy.”
“Why aren’t you listening to me? I’m not Dorothy Frasier. I don’t belong here!”
He smiles. “Dorothy, beyond the twelve months, your commitment to Hanover is at my discretion. I determine when you can be safely released. So, cooperation, that’s the key to going home.”
Home.
Haven’t the slightest idea where—or what—that is. Just know I won’t be waiting for this patronizing asshole to give it to me. Time to find another way out of Hanover. “I want to speak to someone else—”
But he disappears into the room with the other doctors, and Lester pulls me away, down the long hall. “Come, darlin’. It’s bath time.”