“Dangerous?” He says, and splutters on a half-choke, half-laugh. “Why, my daughter is the most docile, polite creature ever to grace this earth!”
I start to open the door, and stop.
“Does your daughter ever talk out of turn, My Lord?”
“No, not at all.”
“Does she ever swear or act vulgar in her mannerisms?”
He looks aghast.
“No. She learned politeness before any other subject.”
“Well, she does now,” I say, and inch open the door without waiting for a response.
“Where is the handle?” Mr Stanbury asks, just as we are about to cross the threshold.
“There is no handle, they pose a safety risk. Patients running into them and trying to do all manner of things with them; I daren't tell you what. It is truly insane what lunatics can do with a door handle. Here, look.” Lifting a flap of metal, I show him the hidden keyhole. “In the unlikely event that a patient managed to get hold of a key, they wouldn’t be able to access the lock unless they figured out how to lift this almost-hidden flap of metal.”
“Impressive security.”
“As I said, Mr Stanbury, we try our best,” I say, pleased.
On entering, we find Lady Stanbury sitting on the bed, her back to us, gazing out of the window. When she hears the door open, she turns to us and smiles. He hands are cupped around something.
"Good morning, Anne." I say.
"Go to hell."
I look to Lord Damsbridge pointedly, and he shrugs.
Quickly, I take the men aside, and speak quietly. "You will notice I address her rather informally. This is because she does not associate herself with the name Lady Stanbury; a symptom I'm afraid is associated with her disease. As that name means nothing to her at present, and to call her Lady Anne would inhibit the healing process, I call her 'Anne'".
“Why would that inhibit the healing process?”
“Because her mind would only remember the time when she was Lady Anne, which was before she married. It would not encourage her to remember her husband, nor her child.”
"What are you whispering about, you fiends?" Lady Stanbury asks, opening her hands.
In them is a pile of yellow paint flecks.
Something to do with seeing his wife acting and talking so strangely affect's Mr Stanbury, as all of a sudden he falls to his knees and starts to cry. "Anne, Anne, Anne," he repeats, wringing his hands. “My love, my heart!”
His suit will get filthy on the floor, yet I refrain from advising him to stand. He's not a patient.
"Oh dear," she says, frowning at her forgotten husband, throwing the paint onto the ground where they settle like yellow petals torn from a flower by an errant child. She settles herself further away from us on her bed, until her back presses against the wall.
"Anne, this is your father and your husband, do you recognize them?" I ask her, approaching her slowly. Though she doesn’t appear to hold any sort of dangerous object, her earlier performance encourages me to remain wary.
As equally suspicious of me as I am of her, she eyes me as I move towards her, rubbing her hands against each other, alternately studying them and me. "Well, of course I recognize my own father; hello, Father; but you haven't kept me as a hostage quite long enough to drive me insane, just yet. Though why you would try to pretend this gentleman,” she points to Mr Stanbury, “is my husband, I can't imagine. You're all crazy." At this point she moves her gaze off her hands and looks directly at Lord Damsbridge, leaving the bed and moving a step towards him.
"Dearest Father, how much do they want? I was captured like a felon, placed under lock and key, even thrown into a sack! Where are the police?” She moves another few steps and looks around her, peering between us towards the door. “Ah, you're not so fat that I can't see through the door, fish-eyes. Yet I don’t see the police, and I don’t hear them either. Oh, I know what's happened.” She walks around in a circle, nodding to herself before returning to her bed, and starts absently picking at the wall. “They've told you not to involve the law, haven't they? Fiends. Well, listen, I would not enter into any negotiations with them if I were you: you know what happened with the French Revolution and the Spanish Inquisition – bloody foreigners. In fact, Father, it is rather comfortable here, well, apart from being treated like a potato which was most disagreeable. Yet, my staying is actually putting my kidnappers out, for I am being fed and watered daily." With this she begins to laugh until tears roll down her face. "Isn't this just exquisite? Oh, how I turned the tables on my captors!"
Lord Damsbridge looks at me. “A sack?”
"Part of her delusions: she believes she has been kidnapped," I tell him, deciding that now is not the time to discuss the use of mechanical restraints.
"My father knows that I have been kidnapped, as opposed to 'thinking' I have. He can see me with his eyes, his not-so-fish-eyed eyes, like yours!”
"You haven't been kidnapped," says Mr Stanbury, still on his knees, tears falling down his face.
“Fish eyes?” Lord Damsbridge looks at his daughter, and offers her a smile. She frowns back at him, and goes back to picking paint. Suddenly, she whirls.
"YOU!" she cries, aiming the flecks at Mr Stanbury whereby they sprinkle ineffectually to the ground. "Why don't you go and join Fat Ruth? We do not need a spare part for our negotiations."
"You told me you didn't want to negotiate, Anne." I say.
"Father, this is ridiculous! There are dozens of poor women here!" she screams, ignoring me.
"Who is Fat Ruth?" asks Lord Damsbridge to nobody in particular.
"She is quite insane," Mr Stanbury observes quietly, standing up and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbing his eyes, he continues. "What treatment has she had to date?"
“Treatment? Well so far, we have simply given her rest in a cosy atmosphere, it is-”
"'Cosy atmosphere’?" Lady Stanbury retorts, jumping up and pointing to the window. She continuously moves and fidgets. "Do you maniacs call bars across the window 'cosy'? Where were you born, in a cave? A prison? Yes, you probably were, I bet your father was a lying thief too.” She turns to Mr Stanbury and shouts at him loudly. “Did I not order you to leave the room?"
"Leave us a while, Stanbury," says Lord Damsbridge. “I'm sure the good doctor will discuss treatments with us at a more appropriate time.”
I watch the exchange with interest. This conversation will progress nowhere as it stands, and as I previously tried to tell Lord Damsbridge, nothing has been achieved by bringing them to see her. The sight of her husband seems to be distressing her immensely, though she claims not to know who he is. She recognizes her father, yet his presence does not seem to be calming her any. I am keen to follow up on her delusions, and though I am equally eager not to have Lord Damsbridge observe the proceedings, I shudder to think what impact it could have upon the hospital if he was to withdraw his funding.
"Mr Stanbury, could you kindly wait outside for a moment?" I ask him. "I'm sure one of the nurses would be all too happy to make you a cup of tea."
He stares at me, twitches his jaw, and knocks twice on the cell door, hard and loud. Nurse Ruth opens it for him, and he walks past her muttering obscenities under his breath and sniffing.
"Really, you employ people whom use such foul language in front of a lady? Disgraceful," Lady Stanbury says, picking the paint again. A large area of the wall is now grey; she has exposed the stone.
Evidently she has no insight into her own vulgarity, and the hypocrisy of her words are not lost on Lord Damsbridge as he shakes his head in shame.
"Anne, tell me where you are." I say.
"I'm in a cell, are you blind? There is no door handle, I am trapped, and nobody speaks French. Where is Beatrix?"
"Do you remember how you got here?"
"No, because you evidently gave me chloroform or some such." She starts swaying back and forth.
"What is the last thing you can remember before waking here?"<
br />
She becomes wild, leaping off the bed and circling the room like a caged animal. "I was at home! I went to sleep! And I woke up here! Believe me, when I DO remember getting here, I will identify every person responsible for this and make sure they are all swiftly arrested." She stops, stands in front of me, and squints. "Including you. I can be sure to remember your long, unruly beard, and evil eyes."
"Do you remember my name?"
"You call yourself Doctor. Now, I shan't answer any more of your questions as firstly, they bore me rigid, and secondly, I shan't give you any reason to harm me."
"But Anne, why would we want to harm, you?"
"For the ransom, idiot,” She turns to her father. “Father, do these people never read? By next week expect a finger or toe in the post. I'm sure their lack of education will ensure they resort to violent negotiations soon enough,” She shifts her gaze back to me.
“But I have ten of each, you fiend, in case you can’t count; and I shall cut off your fingers and toes lest I get the chance." She shakes her fist at me, and counts her fingers out loud. “One, two, three, four...”
"I think it's time to leave," I say to Lord Damsbridge. He looks once more at his daughter.
"I love you Anne."
Something passes between them, a flicker below the surface of her features, a ripple across his. A mutual recognition. It disappears as quickly as it appeared, and she frowns, rubbing her hands together, turning her face away from him.
"Oh, go away Father. One of my feet is already in the grave.”
As we close the door, she shouts:
"Send Fat Ruth back here, will you? I like her more than you."
A Poison To The Body
Edgar
October 16th, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
“Mr Stanbury, please, calm yourself. Anger is a quite unnecessary emotion. A poison to the body.”
“My wife is a lunatic.” I say calmly, yet inside I am seething. My fingers curl protectively around the metal ring in my pocket.
Insane. Positively mad. Perhaps I made a mistake in marrying her after all.
Lord Damsbridge, unable to stay in the hospital for even another minute, took his leave after my wife’s parting words. “Cruel, cruel words for a daughter to say to a father,” he muttered, distraught, as left me outside of the doctor’s office.
She had cruel words for her husband, too.
“How can I not be angry, doctor? I hate her for what she has done. I was upset when I saw her, and now I'm just....just...” I search for the right word. I find it. “Enraged! Oh, I don't know what to think of her! And...the manner in which she spoke to us both! Quite unlike anything I have ever heard!” A noise buzzes in my ears, and I am having difficulty taking a full breath. I lay my hands on the Doctor's desk and try to calm myself. “A woman, speaking like that to her husband!”
She is a criminal lunatic, not an ordinary one. She murdered my son.
Does it really matter how she spoke to me? Why am I focusing on that, now?
"I can understand you questioning the love you have for your wife, but you are wrong to hate her, Mr Stanbury. She is ill.” Dr Savage comes around his desk, placing a hand upon my shoulder.
“But she does not appear so.” All the women I saw on the way back to the office looked insane: a woman in a corner cackling away to herself, another screeching as she ran down the corridor imitating a bird, or a cat, I'm not sure which. I look at my wife and I don't see a crazy person, I just see the woman I love: changed, somehow.
Wait.
Love, or loved?
Either way, the doctor's platitudes ring empty.
“Most lunatics don’t, Stanbury. Most of them look as sane as you and I.” He pats me firmly before moving around to his chair and lighting a cigar. Without waiting for a response, he blows smoke at the ceiling and continues. “Someday, you will be able to forgive her. Your wife is suffering as much as you are, but in a different way. Wait until she remembers what she has done...Would you care for a smoke? These are from Cuba. One of the governors brings back boxes of them every time he goes to America. The best quality in the world.” He holds out the tin box, tapping it with a fingernail.
I accept, it might help with my breathing. Lifting it to my mouth, I pause. Strange; dust covers the palms of my hands. I wipe them on my trousers before cutting and lighting the cigar.
“Perhaps if I understood, Doctor, why she murdered my son, maybe I could forgive her.” How can he not understand the severity of the situation? My wife didn't start having affairs, or become lazy with regards to her wifely duties. She didn't start cutting the grass with clippers or something equally innocuous, like painting her face with flour, as had one patient I saw in the corridor. “She killed a person, doctor, a child. A baby. My baby. My son, my John.” I start crying again and shame forces me to turn my head away. John's blue eyes stare at me inside my mind, and I remember the first time he really looked at me with them, focused. His first smile. I remember everything about him, yet the memories bring me great pain, a twisting sickness that agonizes my body and soul.
The doctor sits back and exhales loudly, looking almost annoyed at my incomprehension. Yet he quickly rights himself, sitting up tall and composing his features into something that aptly suits the situation, and I wonder if I imagined it.
“She is mentally ill, Stanbury. May I call you Stanbury, or do you prefer a prefix? I believe we are going to end up friends, you and I.”
“Stanbury is fine,” I say, not much caring about titles or names anymore.
“Right. Good. Stanbury, you are the person that unfortunately, is in the most pain at the moment. When Anne remembers her crime, well...the agony of remembrance is too much for many women. When we reach that point, we will be keeping a close eye on her indeed. You never know what a mother will do to themselves when they realize they've killed their own child.” He offers me the ashtray and I notice belatedly that my cigar has burned out. I barely smoked it.
I panic. She can't. She can't take something else away from me.
“Are you suggesting she might try to kill herself?”
He shrugs.
“She may. She may not. I never can tell which ones go on to try it, and which one's don't. In that respect, we pay close attention to them all.”
But...
“Why doesn't she remember now? Why has she forgotten us?”
“Amnesia,” he says absently, opening a brown folder and searching in the desk's drawer for something. “Aha, here. Right. Yes, she has amnesia, Stanbury. Though I don't expect it will last too long, it never does.”
“Am-what?”
“Amnesia. Puerperal Mania is an umbrella term for symptoms, one of which in Anne's case is amnesia. A loss of memory. A most wonderful psychological defence mechanism.”
Behind him, a potted plant lays dead on the windowsill. A rotten petal falls crisply to the floor in the silence that settles upon us as I try to understand. The doctor notices my gaze and peers over his shoulder, or perhaps he hears it too. “Yes, that. It's a disgrace really. I did have a secretary, but she ran off with an ex-patient last month. Dratted flowers are dying everywhere.”
“Don't secretaries type letters and such?”
“Yes, but she had this idea about 'cheering the place up'. I agreed with her so long as she promised to water them, which she did...until she left. I'm afraid now, the only ones that get maintained are those the patient's care for outside of this office. Now I have to write my own letters, so I have even less time than before, never mind time for watering darned plants.” He mumbles something under his breath about women, plants and the workplace. He looks up at me. “I don't suppose you can recommend a good maid, perhaps?”
I shake my head in the negative.
“Shame, I'm considering employing from abroad-”
“About this memory loss, doctor...”
He perks up, and rearranges his glasses, forgetting about his lack of secretary and maid.
“Yes, a most troubling yet fascinating trick of the mind. Truly, it never ceases to amaze me how the brain can protect itself, like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Let me...” He trails off, fiddling about with something underneath his desk. Eventually he pulls out a gold bell. Slamming his hand upon it, he looks at me triumphantly.
“Now, what did I just do, Stanbury?”
“You rang a bell.” What is he doing?
He smiles and bangs it again.
“And now? What did I do?”
“Well, erm...” I look around me, not sure of his point. “You rang it again, I suppose.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw you do it, and I heard the bell.”
“Yes!” The doctor becomes animated, and jumps from his seat. He takes a bow. “And why do you suppose you saw and heard me ring the bell?”
I remain silent, as he laughs at the expression on my face.
“It is not a trick question, Stanbury. You heard it because you are awake. You are in a strong state of consciousness. Now,” he draws a circle in the air above his head. “Tell me, did you dream last night?”
“Well, I...” I realize I haven't the faintest idea.
“You're going to tell me you don't remember, aren't you.” He smiles.
“Well,” I say, nodding. “Yes. I mean no, I'm afraid I don’t remember at all.”
“Do you suppose you dreamed of me, ringing a bell?”
“I doubt it, Doctor.”
He sits and interlaces his hands underneath his face, scratching at his beard.
“But nobody remembers their dreams, doctor. I don't understand the relation of this to the...am-whats-sit”
“A comparison Stanbury. The mind. Bear with me. When you first wake up, do you ever get that feeling, or even a slight memory of something? And yet the harder you search your brain to try to catch it, it is gone with the rising of the sun, and before an hour is out you forget it even existed?”
The Medea Complex Page 5