“We shall return in the blink of an eye, dearest Anna,” I said.
“I await your return then, Count. Be quick about it!”
At that, we smiled at her and slowly exited the room. As soon as the door closed behind us, I said to Constance, “This is a most bizarre turn of events.”
“Very perceptive analysis, Ishmael,” she said.
“Well, at least she’s not in a coma anymore.” I gazed down the long corridor. “Where the devil is Dr. Van Buren?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
I grasped the doorknob. “I suppose we should return to her bedside. She may become agitated if we do not appear.”
Constance pulled me away from the door. “Ishmael, I haven’t read that book in years. I have no idea how to respond.”
“I shall guide you.”
I moved toward the door again, but Constance grabbed my elbow. “Ishmael, I can’t go back in there unless I know what the hell to say.”
Sympathetic to Constance’s dilemma, I commenced to offer her a hasty, abridged summation of the plot and characters of Anna Karenina.
“I must say, Constance, I am not entirely gratified that Abigail has chosen to visualize me as Count Vronsky. You see, Vronsky is a rather shallow fellow, albeit a charming, good-natured, and quite handsome scoundrel but—”
“It doesn’t matter, Ishmael. This is hardly the time to complain about her casting choices.”
“Of course. How utterly imbecilic of me.”
“Maybe I should just leave,” Constance said..
“No, please remain,” I said. “Unless you have a class to attend to.”
Constance consulted her timepiece. “Not for another hour.”
“Excellent.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go back in.”
I nodded and pushed open the door. Both of us were greatly relieved to see that the tragic heroine of Tolstoy’s great classic had drifted off into a peaceful sleep and heartened to perceive that there was a contented smile on her face.
When Constance departed for her class, I rushed off in search of Dr.
Van Buren. Eventually, I located him as he emerged from a patient’s room on the third floor, whereupon I informed him that Abigail had regained consciousness.
The good doctor was quite delighted, a reaction that gradually began to dissipate when he perceived the confusion in my eyes.
“Alas, there has been an unusual development,” I said.
As I accompanied Dr. Van Buren to Abigail’s room, I explained in some detail her bizarre transformation from Abigail Bird to Anna Karenina and her delusion that Constance and I were characters from Tolstoy’s novel of the same name.
“Fascinating,” he said.
“Indeed. Have you by chance read the novel, Dr. Van Buren?”
“In high school,” he said. “Unfortunately, I barely remember it.”
“I suspect that she will identify you as one of the book’s characters when you appear in her room,” I said.
“I’ll wing it.”
We took an elevator to the second floor and proceeded to walk down the hallway toward Abigail’s room.
Dr. Van Buren asked me to remain in the corridor while he performed his examination. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
At that, he entered Abigail’s room and roused her out of her slumber. I was able to watch them converse, as the door was slightly ajar.
Approximately five minutes later, Dr. Van Buren joined me in the hallway and closed the door. I studied him closely but the expression on his face did not appear to be one of concern. He took me aside.
“In all my years as a neurologist, I have never seen this sort of thing,” he said. “It is certainly a type of delusion, one that we call dissociative fugue. The patient loses identity and prior memories. In Abigail’s case she has substituted the identity of a fictional character. Very unusual.”
“Is there anything you can do?”
“We’ll wait and see for a while,” he said. “She may snap out of this eventually. In the meantime, I would advise you to play along as best you can. Maybe something you say will cause her to return to reality.”
“A simple task for me as I am well-versed in literature.”
“I will mention this to a few physicians from New York,” Dr. Van Buren said. “She’s still asleep so you might as well go home. Come back tomorrow morning and let’s see what happens.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Although comforted somewhat by the doctor’s words, I must confess that I was a trifle apprehensive. What if Abigail never snapped out of it? Would she spend the remainder of her life as Anna Karenina? Would I have to court her as Count Vronsky? Alas, the novel does not end well for poor Anna.
Naturally, I phoned Balthazar immediately and informed him that his daughter had awakened from her coma. He was jubilant until I apprised him of her unfathomable literary delusion. When he promised to travel to Highland Falls the next day, I suggested that he first obtain a copy of Anna Karenina and read it, although this proved unnecessary as he was already quite familiar with the book.
After making a brief appearance at the office, I conveyed myself home and consulted my copy of Tolstoy’s novel. Perhaps there was a passage in the book that could be utilized to stimulate Abigail’s memory. I was in the midst of skimming chapter twenty when there was a knock upon the door. I suspected that it was Felix, who occasionally visited me for reasons that pertained to the belatedness of a rent payment, but I was incorrect.
“Sheriff Grimsby!” I said as he stood in the doorway. “Have you heard the wonderful news? Abigail Bird regained consciousness this morning!”
Grimsby frowned. “Jesus Christ,” he said with irritation. “Why didn’t anybody tell me? I’m the goddamn sheriff around here. I need to question her.”
“I’m afraid that will not yield the desired results, Sheriff.”
“How come?”
“It appears that she is under the delusion that she is a fictional character, specifically Anna Karenina.”
“Who?”
“The heroine of the book by the same name by the great Russian novelist, Mr. Leo Tolstoy.”
“Oh. Well, maybe she can tell me what happened anyway.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “Anna Karenina did not fall from a pile of rocks at the Highland Falls waterfall.”
“I’m gonna have to try anyway.”
I then realized that he was still standing in the doorway. “May I come in?” he asked and before I could apologize for my lapse in manners, he strode past me and set himself down on an easy chair.
“So what brings you here, Sheriff?” I asked.
Grimsby retrieved his notebook. “You left something out the day I interrogated you at the hospital. You didn’t tell me about Butler.”
I shrugged. “I assumed it would be irrelevant as he arrived on Friday evening and the incident involving Ms. Bird, according to your forensics, had occurred during daylight hours.”
“How can you be sure he actually arrived in the evening?”
“Because that is when he appeared on my doorstep.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Maybe he arrived during the day.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
Grimsby then rose to his feet. “Thanks for your time, Professor,” he said. “I doubt Mr. Butler had anything to do with it but I gotta check.”
“Have you contacted him?”
“Not yet. He’s in Canada,” he said. “By the way, what kind of weird name is Octavian anyway?”
“I believe Octavian or Octavius, as he was originally called, was a nephew of Julius Caesar. When Caesar was assassinated, Octavian became his successor and was known as Caesar Augustus. That is the sum total
of my recollection.”
“I should get to the hospital.” I followed him to the front door and opened it. Before he stepped outside, Grimsby turned to me. “Soon as Butler gets back home, we’ll have to bring him out here to question him in person. Standard procedure. I’m sure you’ll be happy to see him again.”
I did not reply.
Prepared to once again assume the identity of Count Vronsky, I conveyed myself to the hospital the next morning. Much to my surprise, Balthazar was waiting for me in the lounge area—apparently he had flown to Syracuse immediately following our conversation but had decided to wait for me before seeing her.
When we entered Abigail’s room, we found her attempting to manipulate the remote control.
“Good morning, Anna,” I said.
She frowned. “Anna? Have you had too much to drink? Who the devil is this ‘Anna’?”
At last! My Abigail had returned! Hallelujah! I glanced at Balthazar, whose eyes had brightened. “Oh, Abigail!” I said. “You’re back! This is a most happy occasion!”
I was about to continue when Abigail’s brow wrinkled. “Abigail?” she said. “First I am Anna, and now I am Abigail?” Then she pointed a finger at me and smiled. “I see! Is this some kind of new parlor game? I do simply adore parlor games.”
Balthazar and I exchanged a look that bespoke perplexity. If Abigail was neither Anna Karenina nor Abigail Bird, who indeed was she?
“This box on the wall is such a ridiculous contraption,” Abigail said. She spoke with a distinct Southern accent. “It’s like a moving picture in a tiny box and the actors are speaking. Speaking! My word! Such a stupid idea, isn’t it? Where is Mary Pickford? Valentino? Fairbanks? I can’t seem to find any decent music either. What must a person do to find Sophie Tucker and the divine Mr. Jolson on this infernal contraption? But I’m just a silly fool, aren’t I, Gatsby?” This was followed by a girlish giggle.
It did not take me more than a second to understand what had occurred—Anna Karenina had evidently transformed herself into Daisy Buchanan overnight. I had no choice but to assume the character of Gatsby.
“Please, Daisy,” I said to Abigail. “I insist that you call me Jay.”
“Oh, I’m awfully, awfully sorry. I certainly am glad to see you again, Jay. We haven’t met for many years. How long has it been?”
“Five years next November,” I said, recalling the exact line from the book. “You were Daisy Fay back then, the most popular girl in Louisville.”
“Such a long time ago. Eons! My goodness! I do remember how dapper you looked in your military uniform.”
“And you were beautiful. You still are of course.”
Abigail then noticed the presence of her father and said, “Hello, Nick! How lovely to see you!”
I hoped that her father had read the book, a concern that evaporated when he said, “How are you, Daisy?”
“Utterly terrific!” she said.. Her command of the Southern dialect was uncanny.
“You look a little peaked,” Balthazar said.
Abigail gave forth another girlish giggle. “Oh, I confess, I tilted back a few cocktails last night. I do believe I’ve become something of a lush in my old age. Ha! How sad, don’t you think, Nick?”
“I’m not exactly a teetotaler myself,” Balthazar said.
Abigail turned to me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I desperately need a whiskey or some other species of alcohol.”
“Nick has made us some tea,” I said.
“Tea? Tea! Why would anyone but a reptile want tea on such an awfully hot, humid day?” Abigail said with a laugh. She began to fan herself with her hand. “Although, I doubt reptiles drink tea. How silly I am!”
“It was I who invited you to tea, Daisy,” I said. “Nick arranged it.”
“How very sweet of you, Jay. But why so mysterious?”
“I wanted to surprise you, Daisy.”
“Well, you certainly succeeded!”
I paused for a moment, attempting to recall the next stage of the chapter. “Have you seen my house?” I asked. “It’s right next door. You can see it from the window.”
Abigail followed my gaze. “Is it that huge place over there?”
“Yes, that’s it! It looks well, doesn’t it? See how the whole front of it catches the light.”
“Why it’s a… palace!”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Much too big for one person to live in, of course, although I do seem to have several permanent houseguests.”
“Heavens, what do you do for a living?”
“This and that.”
I then told her about the rooms and all the interesting people who came to my, or rather Gatsby’s, wild parties. These, I explained, included movie stars, financiers, musicians, and a variety of party girls.
“What a simply marvelous life you must lead!”
“Yet I find myself to be quite lonely,” I said.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“You see, Daisy, I pine for a certain woman. A woman I met some time ago, a thoroughly delightful woman. I have never forgotten her. I wish that I’d been able to tell her how I felt about her but I could not.”
“You loved this woman?” Abigail asked.
“I did,” I said. “I do.”
I decided to change the subject. “Did you know I can see your house from mine, Daisy? There’s a green light at the end of the pier.”
“What a coincidence! Why we’re practically neighbors!”
“It’s not a coincidence, Daisy,” I said. “I bought my house so that it would be near to yours. I often stand on the balcony and look at your house.”
“Why ever do you do that?”
“Because—”
At that, the door to the hospital room opened and a male orderly, clad in blue scrubs, entered and approached Abigail’s bed. “Time to check your vitals,” he said.
“Go away, Tom,” Abigail said in a harsh voice. “Go off to your…wench.”
“Huh?”
“Go away, Tom. You make me positively sick.”
“My name’s Charlie, not Tom, and I don’t have a wench,” said the orderly. “Actually, I’m gay.”
“Why would I care about your state of mind? What is there to be gay about?”
The orderly frowned in confusion, wrapped a blood pressure sleeve around Abigail’s arm and glanced at the monitor.
She must have misinterpreted the orderly’s frown for she narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a pompous ass, Tom,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I have no idea why I even married you!”
“You didn’t.”
“Don’t be a fool, Tom!”
I noticed Balthazar tilting his head toward the door. “We’ll see you later, Daisy,” I said. “I have an appointment with a man called Wolfsheim, a business partner of sorts. Perhaps you can come to one of my parties some time.”
“That would be divine,” Abigail said. “And are you off too, Nick?”
“Just for a moment, Daisy,” Balthazar said.
She pouted. “Must you both go?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “We’ll be back shortly. I promise.”
Her face brightened. “All right, you may go then. Go, go, go. Fact is, I could use a nap. But at least bring me a bottle of whiskey when you return. Gin will do. Or rye.”
“Your wish is our command,” I said with a salute.
Grinning widely, Abigail shooed us out with a wave of her hand and we both exited the room.
The moment we stepped into the hallway, we beheld Dr. Van Buren striding toward us, accompanied by Constance. In a low voice, I whispered a reminder to Balthazar that the hospital authorities, including Abigail’s physicians, were all under the impression that he and Constanc
e were husband and wife.
“Looks like I’ll be playing two roles today,” Balthazar said with a trace of jocularity.
When they were in our midst, Balthazar addressed Constance. “Good morning, darling.”
Momentarily flummoxed, Constance soon comprehended the ruse and gave her bogus husband a hug. “How is our Abigail today?” she asked.
I glanced at Balthazar. “She no longer thinks she is Anna Karenina,” I said to Constance and Dr. Van Buren. “Today she believes herself to be Daisy Buchanan.”
“Oh my,” Constance said, placing her arm around Balthazar’s waist. “How many books did you read to her, Ishmael?”
“Just the two. Fortunately, I did not read her Metamorphosis by Mr. Franz Kafka, for had I done so she might have taken on the identity of a cockroach, which would have been most bizarre, to say the least.”
Balthazar turned to Dr. Van Buren. “May I speak to you, doctor?”
Van Buren looked at his watch. “I have fifteen minutes.”
Once they were off, Constance and I repaired to the hospital cafeteria for some mediocre refreshment. After a moment, Constance spoke. “I just had an epiphany.”
“Pray tell.”
“There’s a possible theme to all of this, Ishmael,” she said.
“To all of what?”
“Abigail’s delusions.”
“And what might that be?”
“So far, the two literary heroines she has become believe you to be their lovers. As Anna, she immediately recognized you as Vronsky; you were Gatsby to her Daisy.”
I confess this observation had not occurred to me. “And what is the significance of this?”
“Just a theory, mind you, but maybe she’s trying to tell you something in her way, via a fictional character. Maybe she’s subconsciously trying to tell you she’s in love with you.”
At first, I was skeptical, but the more I pondered Constance’s hypothesis, the more I was heartened by the possibility that Abigail might indeed be trying to communicate her affection for me. “Interesting,” I said. “If true, this would be most encouraging. Thank you for enlightening me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Having voiced her theory, Constance appeared to have something else on her mind. A flicker of a smile passed across her visage. “You know, Ishmael, having Balthazar as my pretend husband makes me think of my ex.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 16