by Anna Quinn
But then at home, James pleading on the answering machine, “Please Nora, just talk to him. Please.” An unexpected deep ache rises within her chest. Perhaps she should talk to him—but her body tightens then. “Jesus,” she says aloud. And she goes to lie down, but there, on her pillow, a dusty pink candy heart. kiss me, it says.
She stares at it. It’s only a sweet gift from Fiona, her mind tells her. Yet—here is her throat locking up, a punch of danger to her gut. The banging of her heart fills the room. No, please, not again. Please no.
Behind her a man says, “Nora?” She turns and looks.
“Daddy!” she jumps up, so happy to see him! He enters the room, smiling, closes the door behind him, walks toward her, smiling, still wearing his work clothes, his brown suit and green tie. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Princess,” he says. He sits on the bed, takes her hand. “Daddy! Look at my new red dress! From Ireland! It’s my Valentine’s dress!” She twirls around in front of him, and he claps his hands together, smiling. But then, there is something wrong—something is wrong with his smile,
something is wrong
with his blue eyes.
His blue eyes too shiny.
And his forehead sweaty.
“Are you sick Daddy?”
and she loosens his tie,
the way he’s taught her,
the way she does it each night
for him when he comes home.
“No princess.”
He pats the bed, says,
“Sit by me.”
She climbs up next to him.
Breathing aftershave and money.
“I have something for you,” he says,
and he holds a pink candy heart close to her face.
Asks her
to read the words.
She looks at him,
unsure
of his eyes,
his voice.
“Say it,” he says.
“Kiss me,” she says, barely a whisper,
and he leans in and kisses her
softly on the lips.
And he pops the candy in her mouth
his hand on her leg,
stroking.
stroking.
stroking.
“Your Valentine’s dress is so pretty,” he says.
“A princess in a fairy tale,” he says.
When he lifts her on top of him things spin in her mind, his breathing goes deep, and she clenches her hands, fingernails digging into her skin. Everything is wrong.
“Say it again,” her daddy whispers,
now moving her
back and forth
back and forth slow
back and forth fast
on his lap
making sounds she doesn’t know
and when she doesn’t speak,
can’t speak
he says,
“Say it, say, ‘Kiss me, kiss me,’”
And she hears Sister Rosa then, hears her say, “Be brave!” but she is too frightened to be brave and Sister Rosa says, “Pray. Pray to St. Margaret.” Her father’s hand up her Valentine’s dress, burning between her legs and she prays, St. Margaret, please, please help me, please take me away, and over his shoulder, her blurred eyes stare at the wallpaper, one white lamb, two orange kittens, three yellow chicks, one white lamb, two orange kittens, three yellow chicks, and she imagines herself into the pictures, one white lamb, two orange kittens, three yellow chicks, one pink girl, but now she is going away, her legs, her arms and hands and fingers, her face, and now there is no color and now there are no sounds and now there is—
—nothing at all.
The phone rings then, startles Nora. It rings and rings, and finally her hands lift the phone, bring it to her ear, and she hears James. James saying things to her out of the answering machine: “Nora, Dad’s in a nursing home. Please Nora, just talk to him.” James acting as if everything is fine now, Daddy’s fine now, and then on the phone: her father’s deep voice—“Nora? Nora?” His voice stops her blood. How close he sounds, how familiar, as though he’s never been gone, as though nothing has happened.
Her only thought is to run.
She drops the phone and runs down the stairs, runs out the front door, runs down the sidewalk, runs across the bridge. She runs with the intensity of the pursued, through faces and bodies, red lights and sirens. An icy rain pelts down, and within moments, her clothes are soaked through, and her face drips rain. She is drowning, has fallen overboard, swallowed by an omnipotent, lightless sea. Lungs burn, water surges through her, heart closing. She is screaming, “No! No! No!” when the car slams into her. Slams into her body, slams her to the pavement hard.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
The morning of February 6, 1997
She awakens in a fog and doesn’t know where she is. A florescent light flickers above, a slight medicine smell, a TV, a strange room. A hospital. Oh, God. A jagged pain rips through her head. Something wrapped tightly around it. She raises her hand to touch it, more pain—an IV stuck in her skin shocks her—God. She looks at her body. Sees a pale yellow cotton gown she doesn’t recognize.
Shit. What happened?
“Mrs. Brown?”
Nora turns to the voice. A heavyset woman in her late fifties, overpermed hair dyed a fake red, white roots a perfect stripe down the middle. She is wearing a blue uniform and a white plastic name tag that says carol. She sits in a chair by her, sets a clipboard down on the nightstand by the bed, and touches Nora’s head, takes her blood pressure and pulse, records the information on her clipboard. Shines a light in her eyes with a small flashlight. “I think the morphine must be wearing off darlin’,” she says. “We’ll give you a bit more in just a little while.”
Nora struggles to sit up, pain shooting everywhere. She opens her mouth to speak, but words don’t come out. Nothing.
“Now, don’t worry about not being able to talk,” Carol says, placing ice chips on Nora’s lips. “It happens sometimes after a concussion. You’ll be fine. Your vitals are good. You have a gash on your head and few bruised ribs, but those will heal up before you know it.” She wipes the melted water from Nora’s mouth. “Doctor Brinkley will be in to see you later. She’s been taking care of you for the last few days, so not to worry. One of Seattle’s best.”
Nora blinks rapidly. Last few days?
“Do you remember anything, darlin’?”
Nora’s eyes panicked and watering.
Carol applies another ice chip. “Some guy nearly ran you over.”
WHAT?
“Four days ago. Over on Forty-Seventh Street. The jerk didn’t even stick around. You were real lucky someone found you and called 911. Though they didn’t stick around, either.” Carol shakes her head. “Hard to say what’s wrong with people these days, they’re so afraid and such.” She pats Nora’s hand. “You could have died if that driver had been going any faster. As it was, he mostly just knocked you off your feet, knocked you out for awhile.” She walks to the window and yanks open the curtains. “Good news is you got an east-facing room. Lots of morning light. Did you know that patients stay an average of 3.67 days less in east-facing rooms?” She goes into the bathroom, comes back with a Dixie cup of water. Brings it to Nora’s lips.
“Once you can talk again, Doctor Brinkley will ask you all kinds of things—see what you remember and what you don’t. You know, like, are you married, do you have kids, who’s the president, that kind of thing.”
Fuckfuckfuck.
“Of course, I know you have a husband. And a daughter—Fiona is it? They’ve come in every day, and your brother, James, too, but we can’t let them in until you’re cleared by Dr. Brinkley.”
James? James was here? And then she remembers—her father—her father’s voice on the phone. He
r body goes immediately stiff. Oh, God, please don’t let my father be here. No, no, no, please no. And adrenaline shoots and her heart races then and her throat tightens. She can’t breathe and she twists and jerks and now the car slams into her, cracking her open, and the needle rips out, kiss me, kiss me my princess, and she shrieks but there are no sounds, and Carol murmuring and now the needle in her arm and again swimming, swimming, swimming in the cold and she can’t keep her head above water.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The afternoon of February 6, 1997
Nora lies staring at the drip, drip, drip of the IV: the clear liquid trickles down the tube into the needle; the needle pierces the vein. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. She tries not to think about him, but she can’t stop thinking about him.
And now Carol brings her breakfast, encourages her to sit by the window, puts the plastic tray on her lap, says this is such a nice room for morning coffee because of the early sunlight, reminds her with a wink about the luck of an east-facing room, and leaves her, says she’ll be back soon. Nora holds onto the tray. Out the window a girl catches snowflakes on her tongue, but now the girl’s tongue becomes her own tongue on the skin of her father, and now the wheezing of a bus becomes the wheezing of his body on her body and she braces herself for impact and the tray crashes to the floor and she doesn’t know what is true and what is not, and now Carol is here stroking her hair saying everything will be all right, holding out a pink pill saying, “Here, darlin’, take this.” And Nora is tired of horror flicks in her mind, tired of the smells and sounds of him and opens her mouth and Carol says, “Okay, yes, darlin’,” and folds the pink pill into Nora’s hand and offers a tiny paper cup of water with her other hand, and Nora places the pill into her mouth and swallows the water but the pill is too large and suddenly she is trying to swallow him and she gags and chokes and Carol has to thump her hard on the back until the pill shoots like a bullet from her mouth. And Carol holds her tightly, coos to her, inches her back to bed and covers her up, tells her these things happen, flashbacks happen, darlin’, and oh, you wouldn’t believe the flashbacks her son Daniel had the first year he returned from Iraq. “You wouldn’t believe it,” Carol says over and over again until it is a song in Nora’s head, a lullaby soothing her breath back to normal.
There is a tapping at the door then, and a tall, fit-looking woman wearing a white uniform walks into the room. Black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, tiny pearls in her ears. She strides over to Nora and thrusts out her hand, the nails unpolished yet perfectly manicured; no-nonsense nails: “Dr. Jean Brinkley.”
Nora can only stare back, numb, raises her hand slightly in slow motion. Dr. Brinkley shakes her hand and sets it down gently, studying Nora’s face the whole time. She pulls up a chair and starts right in. Carol tiptoes past her, whispers something, and disappears out the door.
“Mrs. Brown, I’m the psychiatrist here at Seattle General. I’ll be part of the team working with you and Dr. Forrester for as long as you are with us.”
Team? I need a team?
“We don’t have any reason to believe you have internal bleeding, so there’s no need for a CT or MRI at this point. However, we’d like to keep you for another few days just to be sure—and, well, regarding your inability to talk, we thought we’d wait and see what your therapist recommends.
“Your husband suggested, Mrs. Brown … he seems to think, well, he seems to think you may have stepped out in front of the car on purpose. And then, with your reaction last night—until we know more, we’ve placed you on a seventy-two hour watch. We’ll check in on you every ten to fifteen minutes, and with the exception of your therapist and the psychiatric team, no one else will be allowed to visit—for now.” As if she sees the confusion in Nora’s eyes, she says, “It’s the best thing, Mrs. Brown. Please. Trust us.”
Nora opens her mouth. Forms a “No” with her lips. Breathes hard into the “No.” She hears the air moving, feel her lungs push it out, but something shoves back into her throat, and there are no words, no words, no words, no words.
“Now,” says Dr. Brinkley, touching Nora gently on her arm. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about problems or difficulties you are having. You may refuse to answer any question or end the interview at any time. The information you give me will be kept confidential. I’ll be making notes as we go along.” She pauses. Studies Nora. “Do you feel up to that?”
Nora nods.
“I realize you aren’t able to speak, but perhaps you can write your answers?” She hands Nora a small pad of paper and a pen. “Shall we begin?”
Nora nods again.
“What’s your date of birth?”
Nora writes. Her fingers thick as bricks because of the pink pill. She finally holds the notebook up for Dr. Brinkley to see: March 4, 1958.
“Where do you live?”
234 Pike Street.
“Who is the president?”
Clinton.
“Name three rivers.”
Mississippi, Columbia, Elwha.
“What does ‘bull in a china shop’ mean?”
Acting clumsy.
“Do you have any children? If so, how many, and what are their names?”
Oh, God, Fiona. What does she know? She must be so frightened. It’s hard to make the pen move. She aches for Fiona.
“Mrs. Brown? Do you have any children?”
She writes, her hand advancing in slow motion.
One, Fiona, age 6.
“What kind of work do you do?”
High school English teacher.
“Why are you here?”
Her gut tightens. Her bruised ribs ache, and the ache moves into her hand. She will write anyway. She needs to get the hell out of here.
Hit by a car.
“Why were you in the middle of the street in the dark?”
Upset. Running.
She feels sick. The questions are oppressive—she considers writing “because I’m insane”; “because my husband’s having an affair”; “because my father whom I haven’t seen in twenty-seven years is back”; “because I remember what happened when I wore the Valentine’s dress.” But she can’t. She feels like she might begin stabbing Dr. Brinkley with the pen.
“Mrs. Brown—can you tell me why you were upset?”
This is all too complicated and dangerous. She writes: Can’t you just look in David’s reports?
She throws the pen and paper on the bedside table. Closes her eyes. Takes deep breaths.
“Okay. Okay. Just rest now. But I’m going to tell you something. And I’m telling you to help you. Okay?”
Nora stays still.
“There are people who would rather be here, you know, in a hospital, than admit something traumatic happened to them. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true. We can help you, and if you let us help, you could walk right out of here.”
When Nora says nothing, doesn’t open her eyes, Dr. Brinkley says, “So, okay. Your doctor is expected shortly. Would you like me to call Carol, have her sit with you until he arrives?”
Nora shakes her head. She feels suddenly ashamed.
“There’s a struggle going on inside you,” David says quietly. “A struggle between you and that little girl.” David sits in the chair by her bed. She is propped up against pillows, eyes closed. Listening to him.
He is talking kindly, sympathetically, wants to know what happened, saying she’ll talk again, this must be so hard, what a relief talking can be—the way it puts distance between you and the pain, that she’ll talk when she’s ready. She opens her eyes and looks fixedly at him. She wants to tell him why she ran, why this isn’t right, that she needs to go home, that she doesn’t know if she was trying to kill herself. She doesn’t know. She tries again to speak. Silence.
“There’s
nothing to be ashamed of,” he is saying. “Could we discuss last night?”
She nods.
“Did you think about something in particular, or did a thought come to you when you didn’t expect it?” He hands her the notebook and pen.
She stares and stares at the blank page. Brain cells frozen, then frenetic. Her hand lifts the pen as if it will write something but then drops shakily to her side.
“It’s safe here,” David says. “You’re safe. Say what you want to say. You are no longer under his roof.”
She can’t.
“You’ve been guarding this secret for a lifetime, Nora,” he says gently. “You don’t have to anymore. You don’t need to. It’s the secrets that make us sick; it’s the telling that heals.”
The repercussions. The shame of everyone knowing the truth of her. And what will happen to her father? How can she do this to him? But now, here is the hand, fierce and steady, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing words into the notebook right before her eyes.
I remember the Valentine’s dress. Margaret is telling the truth.
And now, it is all too much. This telling. This remembering. She closes her eyes and curls her body tight and braces herself for the objects and words that fly hard into walls, against her face, curling tighter and tighter until she disappears.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
February 7, 1997
By the time David arrives the next day, Nora’s emotions have fallen off the edge. She writes a note in panic, rips it out, and gives it to him with a trembling hand.
I need to get out of here. Please. I want to go home.
He exhales sympathetically. “I know you’ve remembered something horrific.” He touches her arm gently. “We need to work through this. In a safe place. I think you should stay, at least until you can assure yourself—and me—that you can keep yourself safe.”
She grounds herself in his eyes. Am I a danger to others? And why the hell isn’t my voice coming back?
“Your brother was here earlier. He doesn’t want you to worry about your father. He wants to see you. He said your father didn’t come with him—he stayed in Rochester. He wants you to know your father is not physically capable of travel, nor, he said, emotionally able. ‘Weak and ineffectual, as always,’ he said.”