by Andrew Pyper
“I wouldn’t say ‘curious’ myself,” she begins. “I wouldn’t say ‘episode’ neither. Now I can’t claim I remember her myself—I started here in ’54, and by that time she was gone. But even then you couldn’t speak of The Lady without someone around here giving you a look.”
“Would there still be a medical record available on her?”
“Under what name? She never told anyone, which makes sticking her file into the alphabetical order a tricky business, as you can imagine.”
“But might there be an Unknown Persons section to the files where she may be?”
“Possibly. We could take a look and see. But I’m not so sure just anybody can come along and look at another person’s file. And I told your friend Thom Tripp the very same thing.”
Nurse Fergus opens her eyes wide and shows a knowing playfulness in the blood-vesseled whites.
“Tripp came here to look at her file?”
“Told him that there’s procedures for access to hospital records. Or you have to at least prove that you’re a relative.”
“Why? Did he say why?”
“I didn’t ask, to tell you the truth. But even if I had, I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten very far. Your friend is not the most talkative man to walk the earth.”
“He’s not my friend.”
Nurse Fergus lowers her eyes, shrugs.
“Can I see the file, nevertheless?” I ask, sensing she may wave me away if I don’t press on.
“I’ve told you. There are procedures. Unless you’re a relative?”
“I’m no relation. But I am a lawyer, and I can assure you that this is all entirely proper.”
“That so?”
“Absolutely.”
Nurse Fergus does something with her mouth that could either be an early symptom of Parkinson’s or an effort at a girlish smile.
“First satisfy my curiosity,” she says. “What’s this got to do with what you’re up here for? Are you following your friend, or was he following someone else?”
“Neither. It’s nothing,” I say, and go for a smile myself. “It’s just an interest.”
“An interest.”
“They say everybody should have a hobby.”
“Well you’ve picked a bloody strange one, I must say.”
And she’s right, of course. I’m losing my grip on the trial of the season and all I can do is waste my time looking up a dead old girl with a bad reputation. Because I can’t go back to the honeymoon suite to do something useful. Can’t push the image of her face from my mind, the husk and song of her imagined voice. Because all I can do is let Nurse Fergus grip my wrist and take me down the main hall to the Records Room where she pulls open a bottom drawer densely packed with worn files.
“More Unknowns here than you’d guess,” she says. But it’s only a few minutes before she sticks a thin, oil-stained folder under my nose with a croak of satisfaction. “She’d be this one.”
An exposed water pipe gurgles uncomfortably above my head. Both of us wait for it to subside and in this time I notice how close we stand to each other, pushed together by filing cabinets, hanging bulbs, damp boxes stacked on the floor.
“Shall we have a look?” Nurse Fergus takes a half step closer to my side, crosses her arms together under rolls of cardigan, turtleneck and breast.
“A peek?”
“A peeky-boo.”
Only two pages. A standard admission form with “Nameless” printed in the space allotted for patient identification, and under TENTATIVE DIAGNOSIS the words “Unable to mother.” The second page is a two-paragraph handwritten report outlining her escape from hospital. Apparently she’d used the old knotted-together-sheets-to-make-a-rope routine, tied the one end to the bedpost and threw the other out the third-floor window, breaking through the glass with her bare arm. Then down she went into the snow, scrambling into the woods in nothing but her gown and slippers. At the end, the underlined sentence: “Red Ward recommended for patient upon return.”
“Not much in the way of detail,” Nurse Fergus comments as she reads with her chin on my forearm.
“What about her children? There’s nothing in here about them, or where they ended up. And nothing about her hysterectomy.”
“How would you know about that?”
“Town gossip.”
“You must have been speaking to some of the old folks around here if you’ve heard that kind of gossip.”
“Nurse Fergus, I always seek the company of old folks wherever I go.”
I wonder for a second if this last bit would be taken as offense. But apparently not, for she only grins wider and sucks at her dentures in satisfaction.
“Back then, you didn’t have to explain things as much,” she says. “Today of course you can hardly strap one of the rough ones into their bed without having to have a lawyer come round to sign some form or other. But when I first came here everything was run the way the doctors wanted it. Truth is, by the time you ended up in a place like this, chances were nobody else wanted much to do with you anyway. So they used to do hysterectomies without the patient’s consent, and all sorts of other things—some far worse, really—without much paper to show for it. And as for taking a mother’s children from her, well, you’d just get the justice of the peace up in the town to sign an order and you could ship them out to the main Toronto orphanage without another word. From there, God knows where they’d end up.”
I return the file to the approximate place she pulled it from and rise, the silk violets on my necktie brushing across her knuckles as I go.
“Thank you for your help. I didn’t imagine I’d find very much—”
She takes me by the elbow with a bony firmness.
“Are your curiosities satisfied now?”
Pull my arm away. A girlish giggle at my back as I half-run down the hall.
When I get back to town there’s still time to visit Tripp before they shut the cellblock down but I call instead. Then I’m left on hold long enough that sleep, curling and warm, begins to settle around me where I sit. But before it has its way with me I hear the receiver being lifted at the other end and the wet, halting sucks of my client’s breath. There is no greeting, and for a time I imagine him at a bare table in one of the fluorescent rooms of the Murdoch Prison for Men, the phone held to his ear from almost forgotten habit. It’s clear that if nobody else spoke—neither me nor the guard standing behind him nor whoever whispered to him privately in his head—he would stay this way forever.
“Thom? You there?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Barth, Thom. How’re things?”
“Do they let me have visitors?”
“Who would you like to have visit?”
“Tuesday’s the day. Visitors come on Tuesdays. To see the others.”
“You’re allowed visitors too. Who would you like—”
“Can I have pictures?”
“Can you—what kind of pictures? Because it all depends.”
“You know, I’d actually prefer them to the real thing. To be frank.”
“Well, with pictures it all depends on the subject, Thom, so if you—”
“You know the subject. It’s been the same subject for some time—”
“—hey, hey, O.K., can we just get back—”
“—unless somebody changed it without letting me know.”
Tripp coughs, sending something hard flying around inside him, and resumes his powerful breathing that sounds down the line as the crashing tide of the sea.
“Thom, just listen for a second. I want to ask you something, alright? About the case.”
The tide draws back up his nose.
“Our story is that the bloodstains in the back of the car came from Krystal’s scraped knee,” I say. “That it happened on a different day from her disappearance, right?”
“Our story.”
“So how did the blood get on your shirt, Thom? Isn’t that strange?”
“Are you asking me t
o explain what—”
“Yes, I am. Asking you to explain how the blood got on your shirt if she was sitting in the backseat with a cut on her knee.”
“They come and go on Tuesdays. But pictures. Pictures are different.”
“Thom, please, don’t change the subject when I—”
“It all depends on the subject though, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right. You’re goddamn right about that. And right now the subject is trying to save your fucking ass, Thom. So for Christ’s sake could you just—”
“Now isn’t that an odd thing! An English teacher who’d rather have pictures than books!”
Tripp makes a sputtering suppression of laughter, a flapping of lips so close to the mouthpiece that it distorts into an imitation of flatulence. But that’s thankfully all. The laughter doesn’t escape, and soon the respiratory tide returns, proof that the unstoppable oxygen machine that is my client is alive and well.
“I apologize for my outburst. But I have some questions, Thom, and I would like it—I would be so pleased if you could help me out with some of them.”
Nothing from the other end. But I can sense him listening.
“For example, I was talking to a former colleague of yours the other day. Miss Betts. She told me about the trouble you had with your divorce, being denied custody of your daughter. Now, all of that may be something we might think about using, or worse, it might be something the prosecution might want to use. But I’d like you to tell me what happened there anyway, so that I can answer—”
“A face like her mother’s,” he says, so softly I barely hear it.
“Is that who you saw up in the window of Melissa’s school the day you tried to visit her and the police kept you away? Was it your wife’s face that you saw?”
“No. Melissa was crying. My wife never cried.” He turns his head away. “All her teachers standing behind her trying to say teacher things and pull her away but she wouldn’t let them. Because she was my little girl and she wanted to see her daddy.”
I have to strain to hear the last of his words, each of them fading after the other as though the phone was being slowly pulled away from his mouth.
“Did you try to take Melissa away, Thom? Is that why they wouldn’t let you see her anymore?”
“There’s that word again. Take, take, take. But I ask you: how can a father take his own daughter?”
“So you’re saying that you did then. Or tried to. As far as the law is concerned.”
“I thought being a father was supposed to be the most natural thing in the world,” he laughs now. “I couldn’t tell you as far as the law is concerned. But that’s where you come in, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is, Thom, yes.”
I imagine him there in his prison overalls, his boyish skin in need of a shave, a trace of dinner still in evidence somewhere on his fingers or chin. And now that the talking is over he’s allowed his face to loosen again, his features returned to their usual setting of gummy distraction. Not that he’s mad, exactly. It’s that he’s decided that wherever he goes in his head is better for him than any of the currently available offerings of the waking world.
“Listen, I’ll let you go now, Thom,” I say. “I’ll visit soon.”
The receiver is halfway to its cradle when the mechanics of Thomas Tripp’s body are interrupted by a request from its brain.
“Bring pictures,” he says.
THIRTY-FOUR
“It is my opinion that Thomas Tripp’s profile is consistent with that of a reactive psychotic.”
This is Goodwin’s expert shrink, perched high in the witness box, eyes held open in the falsely earnest, disinterested way common to those of his profession. This one, however, is even worse than most: all clipped beard, fleshy lips, designer glasses that look like some kind of ancient navigational device. Whenever he finishes speaking he turns first to the bench, then to Goodwin and finally to me, giving each of us the same blinking second-and-a-half of gooey innocence as if to say You see, I have no personal interest in this. I’m merely offering my professional opinion. But what all of us know—even Goodwin deep down—is that this guy’s a prostitute. A $400-an-hour witness fee hustler who would declare his own mother a reactive psychotic under oath if a lawyer hired him to.
“Could you please explain for the court, in general terms, what a reactive psychotic is?” Goodwin is asking, turning to the jury with a pained look. He knows as well as I do they’re not so good with words greater than two syllables.
“Well, the term describes an individual who, as a consequence of suffering a certain trauma—an emotional trauma—responds in an extreme way. The brain defends itself by shutting down some of its elementary faculties or dissolves previously held behavioral boundaries, such that the result is a psychotic state which may be either short-lived or prolonged.”
He gives us the punctuating look again: one, two, three. Just trying to help, his fussy beard and glasses say. I just happen to know all about this stuff. I’m an expert.
“I think it’s important to emphasize that I’m just dealing here with a case profile,” he’s saying now—what the hell’s his name? Ganzer? Panzer? “Mr. Tripp has never been a patient of mine, so I can’t speak to any extensive personal knowledge of his history. But I feel, based on the information in the file provided to me by the Crown, that I am able to make some tentative conclusions.”
“That’s fine. But just to get all of this straight, are you saying that it is your view—your tentative view—that Thomas Tripp is insane?”
Nice one, Pete. Serve the good doctor a high beachball just to make sure he can smash it back.
“No, not at all. No, no. In fact I’d like to make it very clear that psychotic behavior or the presence of a psychotic condition does not necessarily mean that the subject is insane. Indeed, it is my understanding that being legally insane has nothing to do with being psychotic, neurotic or otherwise, but concerns the subject’s ability to understand the difference between rightful and wrongful actions.”
At this point, I rise. Slowly though, pushing back my chair and lifting myself up with hands planted on the desk in front of me.
“I object, Your Honor. The doctor may be an expert able to provide descriptions of certain psychological illnesses for the general education of the jury, but he is surely not an expert for the purposes of articulating the legal definition of insanity. And even if he were, this is not an issue in the current proceedings. Nor will it be.”
I slouch back down again, keeping my eye on the doctor. And he returns my stare without change in what I now see as his decidedly pubic face.
“Quite right, Mr. Crane. Doctor, I would ask that you limit your comments to the area of your particular expertise,” Goldfarb tells him, but her heart’s not in it.
“Of course. I apologize, Your Honor,” Dr. Pubic minces.
Then Goodwin’s back up there, guiding his man through the file, the sorry history of Tripp’s life. A bright student through university and teacher’s college, an early marriage to his high school sweetheart, the slow climb up the departmental seniority ladder, the birth of a daughter. Fully functional domestic support systems is how the doctor puts it. Then it all starts to fall apart. The marriage first, followed by much unsuccessful counseling, the loss of his only child. Isolates himself from whatever friends still bothered with him. The only thing he could apparently still focus on was the Literary Club, with meetings held once a week and a total membership of two.
“But many of us have to go through stresses of this kind in life, doctor, and not all of us are psychotics,” Goodwin is saying, looking once more to the jury whose very faces seem to prove him wrong. “So what’s the difference, in your view, between a reactive psychotic and any other person who’s undergone emotional trauma?”
“Actually there’re a few differences,” the doctor chirps. “Generally speaking, there are three categories of psychological activity: normal, neurotic and psychotic. Arguably there
is also a fourth—insanity—but I guess we’ll leave that aside for the moment.” Another look in my direction at this, his eyes milky circles. “Now, neurotic behavior involves any number of symptoms, including anxiety states, hysteria, obsessional neuroses, and others. The distinction between these and a true psychotic is that a neurosis embodies what may be called a mental conflict, but the basic character of reality remains, whereas in the psychotic the very structure of reality itself is altered. Put another way, the real and the unreal are so confused that eventually they become one and the same. Now, in Mr. Tripp’s particular terms, I think we can draw certain broad characteristics of…”
He goes on to make sweeping, objectionable swipes at my boy Tripp, the sort of prejudicial psychobabble that should have me leaping to my feet every five seconds, but I remain seated and silent. The truth is, all this talk has me considering my own troubled profile. What would the doctor—any doctor—make of an admitted seer of visions, subject of phantom visitations well beyond the mere bed-shaking, key-hiding, footstep-on-the-stairs variety? As the doctor’s jellied lips smack away at painting my client out as Norman Bates, I wonder whether I myself may have graduated from harmless neurotic to a more advanced stage. The water certainly tastes bad up here but is likely still well below government-recommended levels for mercury and lead, and I haven’t eaten anything since my arrival except for factory-made sandwiches enriched with enough preservatives to keep them fresh deep into the twenty-first century, so it can’t be poisoning. It also seems I don’t qualify as a reactive psychotic, given that I haven’t reacted to anything in the past twenty years. So what is it, then?
I make a mental note to eat more fruit.
“Although Mr. Tripp made no detailed statements of any kind to the police following his arrest,” Goodwin is saying now, eyes cast downward at the prepared questions he’s plowing his way through, “he did, however, at one or two points during initial questioning, state that he had nothing to say, and even if he did, he couldn’t remember. My question to you, Doctor, is this: Can memory also be affected in situations of trauma?”