Saving Jane Doe

by Carolyn Purcell

  “Good thought.”

  “Ms. Long should know something by tomorrow.”

  When we discussed Jessie in the next morning conference, Dr. Whyte shared his thoughts about a previous depression being the cause of Jessie’s tears. He also said we would give up on hypnosis soon if there was no change.

  “Ms. Long,” Dr. Whyte said, “I believe Dr. Land asked you to check on something. Do you have anything to report?”

  “Yes.” Ann Long had a note of excitement in her voice. “A woman named Jessica Green was reported missing on August 4. She lived in a small town about sixty miles northeast of here.” Murmurs filled the room as everyone thought we finally knew who Jessie was.

  Ms. Long continued. “She left home after sending her three children to school and never returned. The police asked the husband to come to Lexington to look at the photo, but he said it wasn’t necessary— that his wife wasn’t pregnant and would never have an abortion. I was sure it was our Jessie and called the number listed on the report. A woman named Mary answered the phone and said that Jessica Green had been found in California about two weeks after the report was filed. No one else was reported missing around that time.” Our disappointment created a deafening silence.

  That Saturday as I dressed for the day, again I thought of Jessie putting on those same ill-fitting clothes and remembered what she had said about a sewing machine. I had an old Norse portable sewing machine—nothing fancy, but it sewed a good straight stitch. Before going shopping, I decided to take my sewing machine and several spools of thread in different colors to the hospital for Jessie to use. Because it was the weekend, I would be able to park close to the door. The old machine was heavy and had a broken handle. As I struggled to get it into the hospital, a handsome orderly walked by with an empty stretcher and took pity on me.

  “I’m taking this stretcher back to the fifth floor. Why don’t you set that machine on it and I’ll take a detour to your destination.”

  When I nearly dropped the machine on his toes, he helped me place it on the stretcher. I stood straighter and smiled. “Thanks, this is great. I’m going to the third floor.”

  When they buzzed us into the psych ward, he rolled the machine down the hall to the recreation room and set it on a table. “I’m off to the fifth floor,” he said as he wheeled the stretcher back out the door.

  “Thanks again.” A big grin was his fee for service.

  Jessie was standing with her back to the door. When she turned around and saw the sewing machine, I was rewarded for all the effort by a big smile. “This is wonderful! Come look through the closet with me,” she said.

  We found three outfits in the psych clothes closet that she thought she could alter. By Monday, she had finished a wool jumper made from a red-and-blue reversible fabric with the bodice made from one side and the skirt made from the reverse. It matched the blue turtleneck she had been wearing. With the extra fabric from where she had taken it in, she made a belt to match. She spent Monday making the gray slacks fit. She was like a woman on a mission, and by Tuesday evening a gray-and-pink blouse four sizes too large fit her like a glove. The next day a pair of black pants, again so large that she used the extra to make a little bowtie, became part of her wardrobe. She teamed them with a white cotton blouse. I went shopping after all but bought only some new panties and a bra. Nobody should have to use borrowed underwear, I reasoned.

  At the hypnosis session on Tuesday afternoon, Dr. Whyte told Jessie that he intended to continue trying hypnosis for the rest of that week. “I have asked Ms. Ann Long, our social worker, to begin working on a plan for your discharge. She will meet with you today or tomorrow. I want to reassure you that even if the hypnosis does not work, we believe you will get your memory back at some point. You may see someone or someplace that is familiar, and that will trigger memories. That is not likely to happen here in the hospital. Or your memory may return after you have more time for healing and distance from this recent trauma.”

  Jessie’s eyes looked like targets on a dart board. She gripped the chair like she was about to do a dip in a rollercoaster. “What will I do in the meantime?”

  “We recognize the problems that face you, and those are the things that Ms. Long can help with.”

  At the first meeting with Ms. Long, which Jessie asked me to attend with her, it became clear just how big these problems were. Jessie had nothing other than the clothes she had altered—no name, no job, no money, no place to live, no friends or family, no Social Security number, no record of education, and no known job skills. She was the social worker’s worst nightmare. Fortunately, Ms. Long’s motherly personality and air of confidence made you feel like she could solve any problem.

  “First we need to decide on a name,” the social worker said. “I assume Jessie is short for Jessica, but in the absence of a last name we need to pick one. Who would you like to be?”

  Jessie sat up straight, pulled her shoulders back, and made eye contact with Ms. Long. “I just read an article about the Scots clans, their crests, and their mottos. The crest for the Fergusons is a honey bee on a thistle and the motto is ‘out of adversity, sweetness.’ Let’s call me Ferguson. I can hope for sweetness to come.”

  “That works for me. When would you like your birthday to be?”

  “Dr. Land, what is your birthday?”

  “September 17, 1947,” I said.

  “I suspect I’m older than that. Let’s say my birthday is September 17, 1940. No. Wait.” A barely perceptible frown came across Jessie’s face when she remembered something of her past. It had happened every time she remembered something under hypnosis. “I don’t know the year, but my birthday is April 1. I remember a birthday party when I was seven. A little boy teased me about being an April fool. Let’s make it April 1, 1940.”

  “I doubt you are seven years older than me,” I said.

  “I bet I am. You said I probably had three children. You don’t have any.” With that statement a look of profound sadness came over her face; the light left her eyes and she seemed to shrink.

  Ms. Long saw the change in Jessie and patted her hand. “I’m not sure how we will get around not having a birth certificate, but I will think of something. At any rate, the next step is to apply for a Social Security number. When you get the number, we can apply for a medical card to help with this hospital bill and you can get a job. I’ll also check what living arrangements are available.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Long. I’ll try to think of some things I might be able to do for work.”

  “Good idea. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know anything.”

  Jessie heard no more from Ms. Long for the rest of the week, and as Dr. Whyte expected, nothing more came of the hypnosis. While Jessie sobbed during the sessions, she seemed upbeat and hopeful when awake. The amnesia protected her from whatever pain her past held.

  That Friday when I visited Uncle Henry my mind was not on the Scrabble game.

  “What in the world is on your mind, Cara? You are miles away. Care to talk about it?”

  “I can’t say much, Uncle Henry. There is a patient who troubles me. She has amnesia, and we don’t know who she is either. She has no money, no job, no family, and no place to go and she has to be discharged soon.”

  “What sort of person is she?”

  I thought for a moment. “She is very attractive and seems to be quite capable. You should see how she made alterations on clothes from the used-clothing closet the hospital keeps for patients who have none. By the end of the first week, in addition to the three outfits she did for herself, she had altered something for four other women. She even altered a coat for one older gentleman who always complained of being cold. All the patients seem to like her. I noticed she plays games with them, and they laugh at things she says.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, would she steal? Is she a gossip?”

  “No, I don’t think either would be true of her, but
I have no way of knowing.”

  “Can she cook?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “I need to hire a new housekeeper. Mrs. Mason is leaving to take care of her new grandbaby in Chicago. I was thinking maybe this woman could live here in Mrs. Mason’s room and work for me. I would want to meet her.”

  “Uncle Henry, I think she would be great. She couldn’t do heavy work for a while—she’s recovering from surgery—but I think she could do what you need.”

  Uncle Henry put M-E-M-O-R-I-E-S across two triple word scores in the right upper corner of the board. “That’s 13 times 3 times 3 plus 50 bonus points, 167. If she were here, you could keep an eye on her. I can tell you are concerned about her. Find out if she has any interest in such a job. If she does, then I will come and meet her.”

  I hugged him. “Uncle Henry, you are the smartest and best man I know. She doesn’t have a Social Security number and may not be able to get one for some time.”

  “That would be okay. We wouldn’t need it until next year. I wouldn’t pay much above room and board anyway until I see how she works out.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Uncle Henry liked Jessie and she liked him. They made a simple contract that said she would cook, clean, and do laundry in exchange for room and board. If she got her Social Security number, then she would get a driver’s license and add shopping and driving Uncle Henry to her duties. At that time they would agree on a salary in addition to room and board. Jessie left the hospital a week before Mrs. Mason vacated the housekeeper’s quarters, so she stayed in one of Uncle Henry’s guest bedrooms. The arrangement was perfect because Mrs. Mason was able to go over what would be expected of Jessie as well as some of Uncle Henry’s idiosyncrasies.

  On the first Friday after Mrs. Mason left, I went with some anxiety to dinner with Uncle Henry. I was pleased to see that the furniture and floors shone like they had not since Aunt Edna was in her prime. Uncle Henry invited Jessie to dine with us. Mrs. Mason never had, but he knew I would want to see how Jessie was doing. For his part, he seemed very happy with the arrangement. We howled at Jessie’s impersonation of Mrs. Mason.

  “Now, Mr. Henry likes an ice cube in his coffee. No cream or sugar, just an ice cube. Meals are to be precisely at seven, noon, and six. He doesn’t like meat loaf so don’t cook that. He prefers his main meal at noon, except on Fridays when Miss Cara comes to dinner. He likes something special fixed on Fridays. Miss Cara is like a daughter to Mr. Henry.” Jessie captured the accent, tone, and cadence of Mrs. Mason’s voice perfectly.

  “Well, she got that right.” Uncle Henry squeezed my hand.

  “You don’t have to fix special food for me,” I said. “But these pork chops are delicious. How did you fix them?”

  “Oh, they were easy. I just braised them in a dry skillet and sprinkled them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. Then I made gravy, mixed it with apple sauce and the juice of one lemon, put them in the oven, and baked them, covered, at two-fifty for two hours.”

  “How did you know to do that?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “It just seemed like a good idea.”

  “Jessie is a great cook, better than Mrs. Mason,” Uncle Henry said. “Guess what else, Cara. She likes to play Scrabble. She’s even pretty good at it, beat me once. Of course, she got all the good letters.”

  “Of course.” I winked at Jessie. “Are you suggesting that Jessie should join our Friday night game? I’d like that.” So it happened that every Friday evening, I ate a delicious meal and played Scrabble with my great uncle and my first patient. Those two became the dearest people in my world.

  Uncle Henry’s house had always felt safe to me, a refuge whenever life was difficult. Jessie seemed to feel that same sense of sanctuary, to be satisfied if not happy. She gained a little weight, got rosy cheeks, and recovered her stamina. Uncle Henry gave her some of Aunt Edna’s clothes. They fit her, but of course they were made for an elderly woman. Jessie altered them to be rather stylish for a young woman, not that she needed them. She never wanted to go anywhere, even after Uncle Henry began paying her a small stipend and she had some money of her own. Only when she mentioned her children did her sadness show itself.

  I finished Psychiatry and moved on to Internal Medicine but still had Jessie on my mind. She needed to be with her children. One day it occurred to me that if she had Rh-sensitization and complicated pregnancies, she would have needed to deliver in a high-risk obstetric unit. I made an appointment to see Dr. Steven Dunn, the head of Obstetrics. He had an interest in Rh disease and probably had a record of the patients at the university with Rh-isoimmunization. If he would let me look through the list, I could contact anyone named Jessie or Jessica. It was a long shot but worth the effort.

  Unfortunately, no one was named Jessie or Jessica. I checked for the middle initial J. Nothing. I even called the University of Louisville and the University of Cincinnati and asked clerks to check, but I didn’t have time to go there myself and I never got a report.

  Thanksgiving came about six weeks after Jessie went to work for Uncle Henry. Since my parents were both deceased, I always spent the day with him. Jessie cooked a great meal. After he prayed, giving thanks and asking blessings on our food, Uncle Henry made his annual statement, “I declare this the official opening of the eating season.” I smiled, having heard it many times, but Jessie roared with laughter. We had a wonderful day, but I felt concern that the coming holidays would be a problem for her. I need not have worried, thanks to Uncle Henry.

  “Cara, when do you do your Christmas shopping?” Jessie asked during Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Usually Christmas Eve. Why do you ask?”

  She smiled. “I thought you might take me with you.”

  “Sure, maybe I will get it done sooner if I have company. I hate shopping.”

  “I think I don’t mind, but I’m not sure.”

  “Christmas Day is on Saturday this year. I get off on Christmas Eve and don’t start back until January 3, but I could probably find a Saturday before that.”

  I was on call both of the next two weekends—actually, didn’t even get to stop by for dinner on either Friday evening—but on Saturday, December 18, Jessie and I went shopping.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten over to see you and Uncle Henry. My internal medicine rotation is a killer,” I said as Jessie got into my green 1967 Mercury Cougar. “I’ve been concerned about how you would feel about Christmas.”

  “I can see why you would worry, but you don’t live with your Uncle Henry.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” I pulled the Cougar away from the curb.

  “He may not be a psychiatrist, but he is a wise man. One evening, right after Thanksgiving, he asked me if I would like to study the book of Luke with him. He said that he studies it in December every year. It’s his favorite version of the Christmas story.”

  “I’ve heard him say that.”

  “I said, ‘Sure, I’ll study it with you,’ so on December the first, right after breakfast, he said, ‘Jessie, sit down. We need to start our study.’ For a week we took turns reading aloud the entire book of Luke. Each day we used a different translation. He says it’s important to read the whole book so that you don’t take statements from the Bible out of context. ‘That leads to misunderstandings,’ he said. I doubt I have ever read an entire book of the Bible in one sitting before.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “He said, ‘Jessie, you have to be patient and prayerful. If you are, you will gain some new insight every time we read.’ He’s right. It’s been amazing.”

  “What do you think helped you the most?”

  “You know how people, even some churches, talk about Christmas and make it about family and friends. I agree that’s better than making Christmas about getting gifts, but it’s still not the point and it certainly would not have helped me this year or anyone else who is alone, for that matter. Mr. Henry says Jesus’ coming is all about love and fo
rgiveness. Cara, if Jesus could forgive them for killing Him, maybe He can forgive me for killing my baby.”

  I turned to look at her, nearly veering out of my lane. “Jessie, I’ve never heard you say that before.”

  “I haven’t, but somehow even the hope of forgiveness makes it possible.”

  “I thought you would get your memory back when you could admit to the abortion.”

  “Actually, I did too, but it hasn’t happened. Mr. Henry has a theory on that too.”

  “So, you have told him everything?”

  “Yes, he knows as much as I do. He thinks that my husband is an unforgiving man, maybe a very good, moral man, but stern and unforgiving, and I can’t admit what I did to him.”

  “That’s probably not a bad theory.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Turfland Mall.”

  “I hope they have a bookstore. Mr. Henry wants a New American Standard Version of the Bible. It just came out this year. He has five translations already, but I want to get it for him.”

  “What a perfect gift for him.” I parked in front of the entrance.

  “Cara, don’t let me forget. I’ve made toffee for Dr. Whyte, Ms. Long, Dr. Armstrong, and Dr. Gray. I want you to take it to them on Monday.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to take it yourself? I could pick you up at lunchtime. I’m sure they would love to see how great you look.”

  “I’m sure they would rather I knew who I am. No, I would rather you take it.”

  “Okay. It’s a very nice gift. Nothing seems to please people at the hospital more than giving them food. Where did you learn to make toffee? Don’t tell me. You just knew.”

  She laughed. “Actually, no. I found a recipe in the newspaper last week. It’s really easy, surprised me. Mr. Henry loves it.”

  Christmas Eve was a Friday. That evening Jessie fixed dinner as usual, but instead of playing Scrabble we went to a service at Christ Church. I was exhausted from medicine rotation, so I went home early to bed. On Christmas morning Uncle Henry, Jessie, and I exchanged Christmas presents. Jessie gave Uncle Henry the Bible, and he was thrilled. You would have thought it was his only copy. I gave him a scarf and some other books I knew he wanted, but he liked the Bible best. She gave me a pair of lined wool pants that she had made and a matching sweater she had knitted.