The Behavior of Love

by Virginia Reeves

  “No,” I say, and head inside.

  — —

  Ed is home early the following night, with wine and TV dinners he insists on heating up himself. I don’t move from my spot at the window, waiting for our pair of Clark’s nutcrackers to return after Ed’s car startled them off. We feed them peanuts in a flat feeder. They’re loud birds, big and black and gray. We’ve named them both Lewis.

  “The Lewises?” he asks, and I nod.

  “I think they’re gone for the day.”

  “They’ll be back,” he says, pouring me a glass of wine. “Here you go, beautiful.”

  I hate this version of him, the attentive ass-kiss. I prefer the angry asshole, or the sloppy drunk, or the absent doctor. At least those Eds are real.

  The timer goes off, and Ed brings over our steaming meals. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes, green beans and gravy. We used to laugh about our shared love of TV dinners, how our mothers would cringe if they knew.

  He raises his glass, as though if we toast enough, all our problems will vanish.

  “To the baby again?” I ask, and think of my drinks with Tim. A toast to my work.

  “Something else,” Ed says. “I wanted to tell you the other night when you went missing.” He pauses for effect, and I wait. I will give him no explanation about my absence. “Okay—not taking the bait. Well, here’s the toast, then: Penelope is getting discharged!” He delivers it with a flourish, chiming his glass against mine, his face all smile and pride. Like my childhood dog who brought me a dead squirrel once, laying it at my feet with the utmost care. He sat back on his haunches and smiled up at me, tongue lolling, so proud. I didn’t have the heart to refuse the gift, so I petted his head and told him he was good, and because my parents were sick, I had to scoop the squirrel into a bag and deposit it in the trash when my dog was distracted by his dinner.

  Ed wants to be petted and told he’s good. But he is more misguided than my dog, whose only mistake was thinking a human would appreciate the same thing a dog would. Ed’s mistake is greater, the gift he’s laid at my feet dirtier. If Penelope’s departure is worth toasting, then her presence was worth worrying about. By toasting her, he is acknowledging my fears and suspicions. He is giving them life and blood.

  He is such a fool.

  And I am too tired to fight.

  So I raise my glass with him, and I toast the end of what I now know was an affair. Whether or not it was physical, the relationship he had with her was a betrayal.

  I think about Tim. I try on the word betrayal.

  Ed is eating his meat loaf, and I am back on those steps of his institution my first day, waiting for him to finish his meeting with Penelope. I am counting the minutes he is with her.

  Chapter 14

  Penelope’s parents stand before him, a couple of feet behind the chair their daughter occupies during her sessions. Ed can see her in their faces, nearly a perfect blend of the two. On their own, their features are nearly comical, especially when compared—the father tall and thin, the mother short and round. They need Penelope to complete them, to make them relevant to each other. Ed finds it alarming, if not offensive, to see Penelope’s vivid eyes behind her father’s spectacles, her thick hair falling around her mother’s shoulders. Her nose sits above her father’s thick, salty mustache; the tiny shells of her ears tuck themselves against her mother’s skull. It’s a puzzle, a hidden-picture hunt. He wants to study them for hours, ticking off the replications. Mother’s forehead, father’s chin, mother’s hands, father’s legs. The pieces are perfect in Penelope and disconcerting in her parents, thieves stealing a piece of her at a time.

  Penelope hasn’t spoken to him since she last left his office.

  “Thank you for coming in today.” Ed introduces himself and shakes their hands. Father: firm and angry. Mother: flaccid and weak. “Have a seat.” The father sits in Penelope’s chair.

  “Why do you always sit there?” Ed asked her once.

  “It’s farthest from the hall,” she said, “which means more steps to take, should someone come to snatch me away. If I’m here, you have time to jump in and save me.”

  “Would I tackle the intruder to the ground?”

  She laughed her bell-ringing laugh.

  The mother now sniffs and rummages in her purse for a handkerchief.

  The father says, “I’m going to be blunt, Dr. Mali— What was it?” He remains tall even when seated, and his voice is too high for his height.

  “Malinowski.” They’ve heard his name innumerable times, seen it in the regular correspondence he sends to their home. It’s odd and long but not impossible.

  “Dr. Malinowski, right.” Mr. Gatson sets his hand on his wife’s arm, clad in a flowered blouse that seems forlorn, its flowers readying to wilt. “We have no idea why you’re pursuing this route.”

  The mother brings the handkerchief away from her nose to shout, “Penelope is diagnosed with epilepsy and psychotic episodes! And you want to put her back into our home!”

  “Calm down, Hattie.” The father pats her.

  Ed looks at the Lake Michigan painting. He sees Laura in her bikini, waist-deep in the surf, sun on her skin, bright eyes turned in his direction. “Come in!” he hears her shout. “It’s wonderful!”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gatson.” He draws out their names like dinner entrées, elaborate specials. “Diagnoses simply describe what has been observed in a patient. Here.” He slides a copy of Penelope’s recent expanded diagnosis across the desk, a formula he put into place within weeks of his arrival. “We have a much broader picture of Penelope now.”

  Penelope’s father takes the paper in his hands, holding it at both sides as though it might blow away.

  “What does it say, Lionel?”

  Mr. Gatson begins to read aloud, an odd lullaby Ed has already memorized. “ ‘Social diagnosis: a seventeen-year-old Caucasian female with one sister (Genevieve, five years older), who performs well (A’s and B’s) in school, writes and reads extensively, and has healthy developmental relationships with peers (so much as can be determined in the institutional setting).’ Healthy! Hah! Maybe out here with a bunch of retards, but she sure as hell doesn’t maintain healthy relationships with the kids at school. They’re terrified of her!”

  It’s the wife’s turn to play pacifier. “It’s all right, Lionel. Calm down.”

  “Would you like me to expand on the diagnosis?” Ed asks.

  They look at him as though he’s offered to take his pants off, a ludicrous and irrelevant suggestion.

  “That’s not necessary, Doctor.” Mr. Gatson goes back to his reading, the words strange in his mouth, devoid of meaning, just a series of sounds like the grunts and squeals in the hallways, the mewling and barking. “ ‘Medical diagnosis: isolated occurrences of petit and grand mal seizures. Responds well to medication. Psychiatric diagnosis: developmentally normal.’ ”

  Huff. Stomp. Pat. Slap. Noise untethered from comprehension, rafts floating on the rolling waters of a lake, no connection to the shore.

  Mrs. Gatson stares at Ed with her squinty eyes. Penelope is lucky to have avoided that genetic inheritance. “This doesn’t even talk about her psychotic episodes!”

  “I have no evidence of psychosis in Penelope. We feel strongly that that was a false diagnosis.”

  “Well, you’re an idiot, then.” The woman pokes at the paper in her husband’s hand. “And what does it mean by ‘developmentally normal’? She has fits. And this whole ‘slow to anger’ part is ridiculous as well. She’s a monster after one of her episodes.”

  Ed finds his tact slipping. Idiot? His diplomas and medical license are framed on the wall. He could direct her attention there, then to the books on his shelves. He could show her his résumé, all the time he’s spent in institutions, all the patients he’s overseen. Idiot, you say? I’m sorry, where did you go to college? He knows the answer. It’s in Penelope’s case history. Her mother hasn’t set foot on a college campus.

  No. Shame do
esn’t work on shameless people. Shame doesn’t work on anyone.

  And you are an idiot, remember, a voice says, maybe his mother’s. She is right, Eddy. You are a stupid man.

  He takes a deep breath and re-tents his hands. “I understand your hesitancy, Mrs. Gatson.” He pauses, listens to a truck rumble off on its errands. What is it doing? The grounds are a mess. “However, Penelope has been at the hospital over three years, and she has shown marked improvement with new medication and changes in her routine. She has an above-average IQ and is not among developmental or intellectual peers. We simply can’t justify keeping her here.”

  “But you can justify releasing her into the world?” Mr. Gatson jumps in again. Lionel, what a pissy weak name, all soft and loose on the tongue. The man’s mustache bounces as he speaks, a pet there on his face, something to stroke and tend, yet no time for his daughter. “Have you stopped to think that maybe she’s doing so well because she’s here? That your diagnoses have changed because of the environment?”

  Ed hears Penelope say, I’m better because of you.

  He says, “One of the concerns with keeping Penelope—or any patient—longer than necessary is the effect that institutionalization has on the patient’s identity. Penelope already identifies herself as someone ill enough for institutionalization. The longer she remains, the more she internalizes that identity. Keeping her here past the time of need will likely elaborate her illness in her own mind. She will get worse.” Ed is surprised not to be interrupted yet—no yelps from Mrs. Gatson. “Right now, Penelope is strong and capable, but she won’t continue in that direction without intellectual stimulation beyond what we can give her.” He decides to stand, a signal to them that he is in charge and their time is nearly up. He is telling them what they need to know. That will have to be enough. “When a diagnosis no longer fits, we have to abandon it and return to the person in front of us. Who we are as individuals is constantly redetermined and redefined. Penelope’s needs are different now.”

  This part of the script he has memorized. He’s made it to dozens of families: People are malleable, as are their behaviors, and behavior is really the only thing of interest and import. When behaviors meet societal norms, people need to reenter society. Some of the families are receptive, some combative, like Penelope’s. He had one set of grandparents—a highly functioning boy’s only relatives—claim that their grandson couldn’t be released because “he’d wind up impregnating another retard and bring more dummies into the world.” Ed wanted to point out that their grandson’s chances of impregnating a disabled woman were much higher in an institution whose population was solely the disabled than it was in a community of able-bodied citizens. “Very unlikely,” he said instead, and ushered them out. He is still searching for a group home for that particular boy.

  “What if she gets worse again?”

  “We are here to support your family,” Ed promises them, “and there are safety measures we put in place right away. Penelope will be required to see a psychologist once a week, or twice if you think it would benefit her. She’ll be continuing her medication. We’re sending you with recommendations for her diet. Seizures are often brought on by dehydration and malnutrition, so it’s important that she remain physically healthy.”

  The Gatsons stand before him in their odd little pairing. “I hope you’re right about this, Doctor,” Mr. Gatson says.

  “I’m very confident.”

  They leave his office in silence, only their steps making noise on the stairs, the din of the first-floor hall muted by yard time—everyone outside. He leads them back to the waiting area by Martha’s desk and goes to collect Penelope from her room.

  — —

  Ed finds her packing the few personal items she owns—books, the paint set and sketch pad Laura gave each of her students (an expense out of her own pocket, which was out of his pocket; he didn’t have the energy to complain), journals, one full, one filling, the clothes her parents supplied. She could’ve had plenty more, but it’s dangerous to own things as a patient, hard to keep them safe. Penelope told him often about the items that would go missing. Sometimes she’d find them again—a pair of her pants smashed into the dirt of the yard, one of her books in the dining room with large sections removed—but mostly, the things just disappeared. Once she caught a woman wearing one of her sweaters, but she’d stayed quiet. “She doesn’t know what stealing is,” Penelope said when she reported the story. “She saw a pretty sweater, prettier than the hospital-issued clothes she’s been wearing her whole life, and she put it on.” All of this would be easier if Penelope weren’t so damn kind.

  The dormitory is dim, even with the bright day outside, the beds rumpled. Penelope is about halfway down, standing by a bed on the right, her back to him, miscellaneous bits of her institution life spread on the mattress before her. He walks to her slowly, conscious of his echoing footsteps, the heaves and moans of the building, the rustle of Penelope’s packing.

  She has to hear him, but she makes no indication.

  They are alone, and this is their goodbye. Her life is moving outside this place, far from him, to the other side of a great chasm he tries to maintain in his imaginings. Too often, though, he finds himself thinking of her proximity back there in her parents’ home in Helena: truthfully, just on the other side of downtown. He’s memorized the address. He can’t unlearn it. Still—a chasm. Enough that if he should run into her around town, he’d merely remark on her great health and then continue on his way.

  Their goodbye, though—he has to have one.

  He is behind her, a foot away, too close. He reaches for her shoulder. He expects her to turn at his touch, but she keeps facing the bed, a book in her hands. He’s never touched this particular spot on her body. His hand spans from collarbone to shoulder blade, all those sharp pieces of her. She is probably too thin, though meat clings to the right parts—the perfect ass, the round breasts. He’s looked too often, cursing himself, forbidding himself to look again. But here he is, looking one more time.

  “Are they here?” she asks.

  He can’t move his hand. “They’re waiting with Martha.”

  “How’d they take it?”

  He can’t stand the defeat in her tone, all the rich color she’s showered on him and the other patients—gone, bleached away. He tugs on her, a slight pull. “Turn around, Pen.”

  She turns and dives against him, forcing his hand off her shoulder, dropping it to her lower back. Humans are wired to return an embrace, to hold each other; they instinctively look for a body to press against, warmth to garner and distribute. If someone recoils, it has been bred into them through trauma, and Ed has no such scars. He has other, more immediate reasons not to return her embrace, but he wraps his arms around her anyway, and he holds her without thinking, aware only of her body against his, her cheek against his chest, her breasts against his ribs—he is so much taller than she is—down to the bony bend of her right knee, where it digs into his calf. He would absorb her if he could.

  She says, “Please don’t make me go.”

  His hand finds her hair, strokes it. “It’ll be all right. They’re not perfect, but I believe they love you in their own way, and they’ll give you what you need—a house, food, rides to school and therapy, reminders about your medicine. Plus, you’ll be with Genevieve, so how bad can it be? And—you’re going to turn eighteen in a few months. A bona fide adult. You and Genevieve could get your own place.”

  She doesn’t loosen her grip. Her hands are holding fistfuls of his shirt, and she doesn’t move her body away from his, but she tilts her head back. “I know you don’t want me to go.”

  He has to extricate himself. He creates a set of instructions, like those he’d give a patient, every step detailed clearly as to avoid confusion. Remove your hand from her hair. Remove your other hand from her back. Step away. Take another step. The distance between you should equal three feet. He removes his hand. She grabs it. He steps back. She stays with him.
<
br />   “Tell me you don’t want me to go.”

  “You’re well, Pen. You need to be out in the world.”

  “Not that. You. What do you want?”

  He wants to throw her on the bed.

  Her face is so close, mouth partly open, inviting.

  But behind her is a row of dirty beds. They hold patients he is responsible for. And he is responsible for more than just patients. His wife. And now his son.

  He is stronger than Penelope, and it is easy to remove her hands from his shirt. He keeps hold of them, but out in the open, a barrier between them. “You’re going to be all right, Pen.”

  She pulls away and turns, shoving the last of her things into her backpack.

  “Pen.”

  “Stop it! Stop talking!”

  “All right.”

  They carry out the remainder of their duties in silence, Ed lifting her small suitcase, Penelope shouldering her backpack. They walk back across the yard and into Griffin Hall, where he gives her suitcase to her father.

  She doesn’t respond when he says goodbye.

  Dependents

  * * *

  SEPTEMBER–DECEMBER 1973

  Chapter 15

  — Laura —

  Ed swore he’d make it to this appointment, but again he calls, saying, “Laura, I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t let him explain the crisis that will keep him in Boulder, whatever it is—another no-show orderly, or a pervert his former boss hired, or simply a patient in the throes of a breakdown, no one but Ed there to comfort the poor soul. I don’t care. Ed staying won’t fix the problem. One more afternoon can’t fix anything, no matter what Ed claims. There will be other crises.

  “There will be other doctor appointments,” he said after missing the last one.

  “Not for long.”

  He’s made it to one so far.

  It’s nearly snowing, cold rain and sleet that sting my face. The streets are slick under the new moisture, and I drive slower than usual. It’s more than clutches that unnerve me; the entire driving experience shakes my resolve. Moving these huge hunks of metal around, four round tires the only contact with earth, so many moving parts—it feels foolish.