by Anna Quinn
“You have done an amazing job. You are just like St. Margaret in the story. You have slain the dragon with your sword.”
She is feeling proud. She will ask him a big question.
“Before I go, will you … will you … will you give me a goodnight kiss on my forehead?”
“Oh, Margaret, yes, of course.”
She wraps her arms around herself then, whispers goodbye, and closes her eyes.
David walks over, leans down, and kisses her on her forehead.
“Goodbye, brave Margaret. Sleep tight.”
Nora awakens in the middle of the night. She thinks about her last conversation with David—him saying Margaret agreed to let her be in charge. Nora closed her eyes after he’d said this, and in the midst of all her relief she felt an immense sense of loss.
She switches on the night-light, reaches for a glass of water. There is the photograph, leaning against the glass. She picks it up. Her father had taken this picture the day she’d received the Valentine’s dress from her grandmother. Taken the picture a week before he ruined the dress. Taken the picture when she’d been a good girl. And now—her father’s mouth, breathing heavy in her ear, whispering, “If you tell you will be alone. All alone. No one will believe you. If you tell, no one will ever believe you.”
In her mind, suddenly, her own voice as a child:
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten …” Nora closes her eyes, and here is her six-year-old self in the classroom coat closet. The smell of wet boots and wool.
“Nora?”
It is Sister Rosa. “Nora, what are you doing here? You should be on the bus!”
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten …”
Sister Rosa kneeling down, touching her knee. “Nora?”
Silence.
“Nora, what’s wrong? Please tell me.”
Tell her. She will help us. Tell her. “I … I … can’t go home.”
“Why not?”
Tell her.
“Nora, forgive me, but I have to call your mother.”
No, no, no. Not our mother. She will kill us. Her eyes flash wide.
“It’ll be all right. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” Nora says through chattering teeth. “Will … will … you take me home?”
“Of course,” and then, even softer, “of course.”
In the car, Sister Rosa says, “Nora, we’ve known each other for a few years now.”
“Yes, Sister. Since first grade.”
“And we’ve prayed many, many times together.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Can you please tell me what’s wrong?”
Tell her.
“Do you still pray to St. Margaret?”
She closes her eyes. She is so sleepy.
“Nora? Do you still pray to St. Margaret?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And she’s kept you safe.”
Tell her.
When Sister Rosa stops the car in the Bauers’ driveway, she turns to Nora and takes her hands into her own. “You’re not alone,” she says and closes her eyes. Breathes deep, folds her hands into prayer. “Saint Margaret,” she says fiercely. “Hear me. See this beautiful girl. Protect her, now and forever. Amen.”
“Amen,” Nora whispers.
Maeve opens the door in her stocking feet and says, “Sister Rosa,” in a startled, slurred voice. It’s 4:00 in the afternoon, and Nora knows she’s been drinking for at least an hour. Auburn hair loose and messy, nervousness sparks from her glassy eyes as she looks at the nun, her daughter, and back again to the nun. A nun has never visited the house before. Maeve is wearing a wrinkled blouse with stains down the front and self-consciously crosses her arms over her chest. Nora averts her gaze, doesn’t dare make eye contact, looks at her shoes. Ears burning.
Sister Rosa holds Nora’s hand tight. “Mrs. Bauer, Nora was helping me with a project, and somehow the time got away from us, and she missed the bus. I hope that hasn’t caused a problem.” Her words an icy river.
“Of course not,” Maeve says, and Nora knows she is being careful to pronounce her words. “It was so nice of you to bring her home.” And she is saying things a good mother might say. “Would you like to come in? It’s freezing out there.”
“No, thank you. I need to get back.” Sister Rosa drops Nora’s hand. Her eyes, soft and deep with protection, meet Nora’s. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Sister.” Please don’t leave us here.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Bauer. You have a very special young woman here.” When Maeve says nothing, only smiles tightly, Sister Rosa says, meeting Maeve’s eyes straight on with the intensity of someone threatening battle, “But I’m sure you know that.”
Nora follows her mother through the doorway, and the door clunks closed. Her mother walks to the coffee table and picks up her glass of gin, takes a drink, the green olive touching her lips, then floating around the clear liquid again. She slams the glass back down. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing.” Nora steps back.
“You told her something.”
Fear shakes Nora’s body, and her skin pales. “No … no … Mommy.”
“Didn’t you?” her mother says, coming closer.
Shivering all over.
Hard furious terrified woman hand bones against girlface-girlarm-girlback-girlbones. Again and again and again.
“You stupid girl! You’ve shamed us! Shamed us!” She stops, gulps more gin and Nora crawls away fast and slips downstairs to her piano.
A howl down the hall startles Nora into the present. The disinfectant smell of the hospital suddenly magnified, a monster pushing into her skin, her lungs, her throat until she gasps, sucks in enough air to breathe again. Again, the howl down the hall. Dark rises within her. Rises and swells. Rises and gathers force and becomes fire becomes blood becomes sound and the sound forces her body out of the bed and she begins running around and around the room arms and anger flailing pounding on walls and doors mouth open wide open wide and something fierce and violent rips open her heart rips her body open until she is not a woman not a girl only a screaming mouth a screaming heart a screaming body.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
February 13, 1997
Nora wakes to the familiar fog of residual drugs. Shit. Now what? And in the haze: How much more can I take until I’m planted in a wheelchair, staring at the same spot on the floor all day, eyes flat as stamps, murmuring silvery syllables that slip away like fish into an unfathomable ocean?
“Good morning.” It’s David. “I heard about last night,” he says, taking off his coat. He pulls up a chair to the bed.
This can’t be good. She reaches a drugged hand for her notebook, her pen.
“Nora. Wait.”
She waits. Grateful to close her eyes again.
“You don’t need to write. Just nod.” Pause. “Do you remember anything after I left? Carol says you were holding the photo of yourself as a child.”
She keeps her eyes closed and becomes acutely aware of the opaque mass that has invaded her brain cells, making it hard to concentrate, but then, there it is—the photo and Sister Rosa discovering her in the coat closet. Bringing her home. Her mother’s anger. The secrets. The shame. The slam, slam, slam of the hand. Her father’s mouth—If you tell you will be alone. No one will ever believe you.
The scream.
; “Oh!” she says, and opens her eyes.
“Your voice is back!”
She sinks into the bed, closes her eyes, inhales, holds the air for a moment, stunned, nervous the sounds might be temporary, then through sheer force of will, clears her throat and pushes out another “Oh.” The sound bursts forth, shimmering and clear. She smiles uneasily.
“Keep going,” David says softly.
“Ahhhhhhh,” she says then, her body softening. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,” up and down the C scale, slowly at first, then a bit faster, then loud and soft, over and over again, trying to get the breathing right, each sound giving her more confidence, more energy, reassuring her she’s lived through the hardest parts, she’s moving forward. And now she hums random notes, as if she is walking home from school on a pleasant day, the sounds still shy, as if they are surprised to represent her and her alone.
“Open your eyes, Nora,” David says. “Open your eyes.”
She opens her eyes. Blinks at the cool white of the tamper-proof ceiling lamp. “I … I …” she whispers, and then more loudly, “I’m going home.” She bolts up, turns to David, says in a faint but unwavering voice, “I’m going home. Today.”
He looks stricken. “Getting your voice back is tremendous. And—” he collects himself, leans forward, says calmly, “and you must give this time. There’s so much we haven’t processed.” He pauses. “We need to talk about the scream, how you felt about it, how you feel about having your voice back, how you feel about Margaret. There’s just—we should talk about these things.” He stands up. Walks to the window, shoves his hands in his pockets, stares out. “And …”
“And what?”
He turns to her, and she can see him try to keep his face neutral. “Tomorrow—tomorrow is, well, it’s Valentine’s Day.”
She’d lost track of the days. She can see how such a thing might happen in a place like this, a place where all you can do is crawl over and across your mind, crawl in circles arguing with yourself, confuse your feelings, try to figure out what went wrong, crawl into hiding only to have someone pull you out and force you to take side-trips and tie your feelings into knots and then pull on threads. A place where all you can do is look down the hall and at the ceiling and out the window and make everything a metaphor. And yet, (maybe because of this) she believes that now she can handle it. It being Valentine’s Day. Something more than her voice has been returned to her, and she knows she can rise above it.
“I can handle it,” she says softly, as if she doesn’t want to scare the words away. “I’m ready to go home, to start again.”
David sighs. “I understand, but I can’t sign you out today.” He pauses and looks out the window, his breath making a foggy patch. “I won’t. I’m sorry, but this is too rushed.” He turns to look at her. “You have to be sure, Nora. You are strong. But you have to be sure.”
“You think I’ll run out into the street again,” her voice narrow and watery. “Throw myself through a window.”
“I just suggest you have at least one visit with Paul, Fiona, and James like you planned,” he says. “Then see. If all goes well, we can talk about you going home, create an outpatient schedule—”
“I don’t need you to sign me out,” she whispers. “I’m a voluntary patient, and I can leave whenever the hell I want.”
“Nora,” he says in a weary voice. “Voluntary or not, there’s a process that must be followed. You cannot simply sign yourself out. If Dr. Brinkley and I feel you might be a danger to yourself or others, as much as we’d hate to do it, we’d get a court order. He pauses, inhales, exhales slowly. “Being committed is, well, once you’re committed, it’s much more difficult to get out.” His large fingers shove hard through his white hair. “That’s the reality.”
Silence except for metal carts clanking down the hall. Silence except for the whine of country music floating slow in the background and an occasional muffled cry or scream. She feels like a child. Elation drained out of her. She leans back, exhausted, fights anger, says slowly, “How sure do I have to be, do you have to be, for me to get the hell out of here? How complete does the healing have to be?”
“Nora, we’ve talked about this. There’s no such thing as complete healing.” His ears, neck reddening. He walks to the nightstand, grabs a water glass, and heads for the bathroom. She hears him fill the glass. Guzzle the water. Now he stands in the doorway, says, “This is—”
“What? This is what?”
“It’s lifelong work, Nora. Lifelong. Look, when your feelings stabilize—”
“I’d like to call John,” she says abruptly, a sudden panic rushing through her. A need for an outside ally, another solution. “I want to ask him to visit tomorrow.” She’s a bit breathless now and pauses to calm down, doesn’t want to lose her new voice. “Will you at least sign off for that? Make sure he’s on the okayed-visitors list?”
“John?” he says. “The principal of your school?”
“Yes.”
He arches his brows again, rubs his forehead, but before he can say anything else, she says, “And I want to see him alone. Without you or a nurse or Dr. Brinkley. Seeing him will …” but she doesn’t finish the sentence because she doesn’t know what seeing him will mean. She just has the need to see him and prove she can handle things. She wants to test herself. “The nurses will be in the hall anyway, right?”
When he frowns, she says, “Look, if something goes wrong I’ll stay another few weeks, okay? I promise.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
February 14, 1997
She sits by the window. Below her, a line of people board a city bus one by one. Their faces, out of focus, make her heart fold inward, and she quickly looks past them between the buildings to the Puget Sound. A subdued blue sky darkened by clouds.
“Nora?” And now, John.
He holds a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand and a small book with a red ribbon around it in the other. His face ramshackle and open like an old house. For a moment, she feels like they’re on the set of a play and she’s become flustered and forgotten her lines, but then she remembers.
“Hi,” she says and stands and walks toward him. She is wearing her red socks because they seem festive, and she doesn’t want to be reminded that her running shoes don’t have laces.
“Hello,” he says, a bit formally, and she thinks the nurses have told him that whatever he does, he shouldn’t mention what day it is.
So she says it. This is, after all, a test. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She waits to see if something bad will happen, if Margaret will come out, but she only feels herself standing there, and the lightness of her singular weight both startles and thrills her. Maybe Margaret will keep her promise. Maybe she’s exhausted her purpose.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, presenting her with the roses.
She arranges the flowers in a plastic glass on her nightstand. “Beautiful,” she says, heart pulsing nervously.
He hands her the book he brought. The Book of Light by Lucille Clifton.
“Thank you. She’s one of my favorite poets—but I don’t have this collection.”
He hugs her then. It surprises her that she puts her cheek on his coat. After a few moments, she steps back, blushing, and it’s hard to know what to say.
“Shall we sit?” he says, motioning to the chairs. He walks over to the same chair David usually sits in—the one by the window. She settles into the one opposite him, the book on her lap. She stares at it momentarily as if she might untie the ribbon, but she is really just trying to find words.
“This is weird, isn’t it?”
He unbuttons his raincoat, leans over, and takes her hands in his. “People go through shit. You’re just taking care of things, trying to make things better. That’s all that matters, right? That we try to make things better?” He is wearing a green flannel
shirt, a shirt you might wear on an easy Sunday while you read the Times and listen to Etta James. The image relaxes her. His words relax her. Things will be better from now on. She knows it. She will leave this place, move into an apartment with Fiona, and get back to teaching. Get back to her life.
For an hour, they talk. He tells her funny stories about the kids at school, and she nods and laughs. He tells her how much her students miss her, and she asks questions about the ones she knows he keeps his eye on. They talk about Elizabeth. She sets the book on the windowsill then, and begins to cry. He pulls her to her feet and holds her and walks her to the bed and they sit on the edge of it, arms wrapped around each other, her head on the rise and fall of his chest, and they say nothing at all.
When it’s time to go, he asks if she needs anything, asks if she’ll call him tomorrow. She says no, she doesn’t need anything, and yes, she’ll call. He kisses her on the cheek, and she actually wants more and tilts her mouth up. But then she is on a stage again, and Billie Holiday is singing “All of Me,” and the whole thing feels so corny she bursts out laughing. And suddenly, Carol is there asking, “Are you alright? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” John says, laughing too, and because he says that—“Fine”—even though he doesn’t know why she is laughing, it is like being transported into normal.
“Bye,” he says to her with a boyish wave when it’s time to go. “I look forward to talking tomorrow.”
“Me too.”
Once he’s gone, she picks up The Book of Light and unties the red ribbon. Lets it float to the bed. She sits in the chair by the window. Stares at the cover of the book. There’s a woman, not old, not young, with green hair, head bowed, eyes closed. Near the woman’s head, a blue-green light in dark space. A revelation? A hole in the sky? Nora opens the book to the first page. An inscription: You are not alone. With you always. John. Her finger traces his words. She smiles, turns the page. Synonyms for light, stream-sparkle-flicker-spark-fire-blaze, radiate off the page and saturate her skin. She reads the words over and over and over again. She’s made it through Valentine’s Day.