Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  “What if I want children one day?”

  That was a much harder question. “The State has decided that many people should not have children, even if they might want them.”

  Wilhelm sat for a few moments, contemplating.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Of course not,” Arnold replied, a bit overenthusiastically, glad he was able to deliver a positive piece of news. “It’s a very simple procedure. If you like, I will come with you.”

  Wilhelm smiled. “But why me?”

  “Has anyone ever talked to you about your diagnosis?”

  “A nurse once said I was feebleminded, but I am nothing like Eva or some of the others, who drool and walk like ducks.”

  “Can you tell me more about why you think you’re here?” Arnold had heard bits, but he had no clear picture.

  “I had too much to drink. Ten beers. Maybe more.” He looked at his feet. “It felt good at first. It made me happy. I stole them from the Hubers. They live down the road. The beer was in boxes behind their house.”

  “Sometimes we have a bit too much to drink. Was it because you stole? Is that how you came to be here?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember it all. I was in the barn, and I think I fell asleep. I put my head on one of our sheep. She made a nice pillow. And then suddenly it was morning, and there was a man standing above me shouting. I saw that my pants were down. I must have gotten up to urinate in the middle of the night and not pulled them back up. My mother came running out of the house, and then my father, all while I lay on the dirt floor. Finally, my brother gave me a hand.”

  “Have you told all of this to the doctor in charge?”

  “Yes. I didn’t do anything,” he cried.

  Arnold sat next to Wilhelm, patted his back, and told him it would be all right.

  Wilhelm shook the letter. “I don’t want them to do this to me.”

  “You can appeal the recommendation. But you will have to take some tests, and answer many questions in front of a health court. The doctors may not be pleasant.”

  “What does appeal mean?”

  “You explain why this shouldn’t be done to you. Why you don’t believe you are feebleminded.”

  Wilhelm wiped his face with the back of his hand and gave Arnold a strong hug. “I am going to appeal,” he shouted. He lifted his hand in the air and charged down the corridor, yelling, “I am going to appeal.”

  There was little chance Wilhelm would succeed in his appeal. Perhaps it was wrong to give him hope, but in times when one often felt so powerless, at least he would have something to fight for.

  * * *

  Rigmor’s windows were open and Arnold, sitting on the chair next to the bed, heard birds chirping and cowbells tinkering. A light breeze tickled his face.

  He reached for Rigmor’s hand. He talked about the constellations, about Hydra and its main star, Alphard. Well into his descriptions, he sensed another presence in the room. When he glanced up, he saw Bohm standing on the other side of the bed.

  “She is a beauty—yes?”

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” Arnold said.

  “You were very engrossed in your vivid depictions. The sea serpent is a favorite of mine.” Bohm smiled. “I have found Prina to be a spectacular place to gaze at the night sky. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” Arnold placed Rigmor’s hand on the blanket. Only nurses of the same sex could touch a patient undergoing sleep treatments.

  “I was told I would find you here,” Bohm said.

  “Are you here for me, or to check on Rigmor?” Arnold stood.

  “Stay where you are. I am here for both you and Rigmor.”

  “Should Rigmor be hearing this?”

  Bohm scratched his bald head. “She is asleep.”

  There was no point discussing what patients could or couldn’t hear during sleep, Arnold decided.

  “What is it then?”

  “A small thing. But I thought you could help me out with it.” Bohm rubbed his chin. “Rigmor is to be sterilized.”

  Arnold looked down as a wave of distress swept over him.

  “The question,” Bohm continued, “is how do we tell the family?”

  “We?” Since the day Arnold arrived, he had not been involved in a single decision when it came to Rigmor.

  “I would like to stay on good terms with Frieda Blumenthal,” Bohm said.

  In other words, he didn’t want to lose the donations that came with having a patient such as Rigmor. The law would require sterilization, but to get the family’s blessing for it would be a boon.

  “I’m not sure how I can help,” Arnold said.

  “I have thought long and hard about this. I think it would be best to do it in stages. First, you can phone Inga and inform her. She did not seem so opposed to the procedure. Perhaps if you can soften the blow to her, she can in turn relay it to her mother. And most of all, make her understand that we are required by law to do this. The doctors who run the health courts are in control. Not us.”

  Bohm gave Arnold’s shoulder a quick, forceful squeeze. “It is a difficult task I am asking of you. I realize that. But I believe you are the right man to do it.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Good man. And please do tell Inga to come and visit us. She will appreciate the gardens, and a walk along the river. Perhaps you can find out what is playing in Dresden. A good symphony feeds the soul. Don’t you think?”

  What kind of a man talks about forced sterilization and the symphony in the same breath?

  Arnold thought of his mother, how she considered him her greatest joy. To take away the hope of offspring, of raising a child, smacked of cruelty.

  Bohm gazed down at Rigmor and laughed. “She does have magnificent hair. I am always envious of hair, as I’m sure you can understand.” He walked to the other side of the bed. He hesitated a moment, as if he knew he shouldn’t, and yet he did. He picked up a lock of Rigmor’s hair and caressed it.

  Arnold glared at Bohm. “She only likes her sister to touch her hair.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, letting go. “It is good you are here to protect her.” Bohm walked to the door. “Let me know how it goes with Inga.”

  Two days later Arnold telephoned Inga, expecting her to be furious. Instead, she calmly explained that the best way forward was to proceed with the operation without informing Frieda. At first, Arnold thought he must have misheard her. So Inga explained again, speaking too loudly.

  “Won’t your mother be livid when she finds out? You don’t plan on keeping this a secret, do you?”

  “Of course not. But the truth is that my mother does not want grandchildren. She is terrified of the pain that love for children and grandchildren bring.” Inga gave a harsh laugh. “Naturally, I am excluded in that regard.” She paused. “My mother is also terrified of surgery. She can’t tolerate the thought of a person lying on an operating table and being opened up and poked at. She just doesn’t believe people can be closed back up and return to what they were prior to the surgery. She is old-fashioned in many ways. Once the surgery is complete, and Rigmor is well, my mother will not give it a second thought.”

  After saying goodbye, Arnold walked along the riverbank. The conversation should have left him with a sense of relief. There had been no disagreement, no yelling, no telling him he should have done things differently. Yet, something troubled him. A feeling of darkness, as if he and the Blumenthals were headed into a tunnel and there was no turning back. First sterilization, and then what? Binding and Hoche had written about such things years ago, how institutions for idiots lavished the best of care on life of negative worth, while the strength of humanity, the soldiers—able, healthy young men—were sacrificed on the battlefield.

  Arnold tossed a small stick into the river and watched the current carry it away, with no regard for its destination.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Needs

  Belmont, Massachusetts 1984

&n
bsp; Omama had suggested Sabine spend time alone with Tanner, that she speak to him in a way that made him feel as if he was important to her, even if she had to exaggerate a bit. Omama made it sound easy, and Sabine wasn’t sure she could do it, but she did want to find a way back to liking him, at least to being content with him. It would make the transition out of McLean easier.

  Sabine and Tanner had been housemates the summer before her junior year in college, his senior year. He was coaching at a hockey camp, and she worked at a diner, a passable excuse not to have to go home. As far as she was concerned, he was way out of her league—leading scorer on the hockey team, big man on campus, full of charisma, and in possession of a Boston accent that sounded foreign and exotic. But he noticed her, called himself a leg-man, and insisted Sabine had the best legs he’d ever seen. He’d wait for her on the fake velvet couch with broken springs. When she came home, he’d pat the cushion next his and tell her that her uniform turned him on. He persisted, and she gave in. They had sex. His mouth tasted of beer and salt, and she was sure that after their hook-up, after he’d won his game, he’d lose interest. But he still waited for her, and if she held back, even a little, he came at her with more desire. She had never felt so visible, so wanted.

  At parties together, she felt proud to be seen with him. She would giggle when he said random, ridiculous things, like that he invented paint, or that he was an emissary from Mars. She loved being around him, loved how he drew people to him, how he seemed genuinely interested in everyone’s story. Sometimes he would give her piggy-back rides across campus, her long legs dangling at his sides.

  When Sabine graduated from college, she moved to Boston, where she and Tanner rented a one bedroom apartment. She enrolled in a PhD program at Boston University medical school. But then one day, five weeks into the program, she stood at the bus stop in front of the Public Library where she handed out cigarettes to the homeless, and could not get on the bus. She didn’t feel sick or even nervous, but her foot simply would not lift onto the stair of the bus. A woman behind nudged Sabine to move already. She turned and walked back to the one bedroom apartment and didn’t leave for two weeks. Tanner brought home pasta and Parliament cigarettes. He tried to coax her out, but every time she got to the doorway she was sure she was going to pass out. He watched TV with her and told her that sex would help. But nothing helped, and Tanner suggested she move back with her parents for a while.

  She lived in the basement of the yellow spilt level of her childhood. She didn’t leave the house, and the curtains had to be drawn because light felt as if it drilled through her eyes. The voice came and went, sometimes telling her she was a failure and loser, and she should just kill herself, and sometimes telling her to run. Just run! Don’t trust ANYONE!

  Sabine’s mother cried and rubbed her eyebrow and asked if it was her fault, if she’d failed as a mother. Sabine tried to reassure her mother that she was perfect. Sometimes that would make her mother fret more. Then vhy, she would ask. Vhat is the matter vith you?

  Sabine’s father was not as tolerant. He would trounce down the basement stairs after work, tremor with anger, and yell that it was high time Sabine moved on and pulled up her socks. Did she just think she could hide in a basement forever?

  It took months before she could climb up the basement steps and walk outside, into the back yard. Eventually, she began to drive her mother’s car around the neighborhood, then to the local convenience store for cigarettes, and finally one day she made it to the grocery store. But she had to abandon her half-filled cart because her heart was beating too hard and her hands shook violently.

  Her mother continued to fret. Her father continued to yell.

  After four months, she was able to take a plane to Boston. Tanner picked her up and they went to his new, cheaper apartment to have sex. She owed him that. Perhaps it was then that the tally board was started. They drove to Maine, rented a cottage on a lake, picked blueberries, drank, and had more sex. One night, after he’d had six beers, enough to relax him, he asked her to marry him. She knew her mother would be relieved, that this would make Sabine seem normal. And of course her father would be pleased to be rid of her.

  So, she said yes, and was grateful to Tanner for saving her.

  With financial help from Omama, Sabine and Tanner bought an old colonial in a suburb of Boston. For a time, Sabine felt as if she was managing. She even got a part-time job at an animal shelter, and adopted a mixed hound dog that shook whenever she heard the jingle of an ice cream truck.

  But it (she had no better word to describe the fear and panic and guilt that breathed down her) never really went away. Having other people around helped, and so she and Tanner had friends for pizza and poker games. Somewhere in a hazy part of her consciousness, she realized that the need for others had to do with her lack of interest and enthusiasm for her husband. But she owed him and hoped that maybe she’d wake up one morning and feel the way she had felt for him in college. She’d call up memories, like the time a puck had smacked him and gashed his forehead. He’d refused to go to the hospital until the game was over. As he sat on the bench, wiping away the blood, banging his stick on the floor when his team scored, she thought he was a warrior. Her warrior.

  Then the sleepless nights and the dread returned in full force and Sabine decided that having a baby would cure her. Tanner said they should have more in savings, but she promised that her mother and grandmother would help if there were bills they couldn’t pay. He pressed her for a guarantee and was happy about the sex part of the arrangement.

  Sabine had always felt defective and assumed that it would take at least a year to get pregnant. It took a month.

  Her mood during pregnancy was surprisingly stable. But only a few days after Mia was born, all of the symptoms Sabine had managed to stave off, returned with a new and bold ferocity. By the three-month mark she could not cope.

  Now here she was in her room at McLean with Tanner sitting on Cece’s bed, as Omama held court in the dining room. How crazy was it, she thought, that she’d rather be with her grandmother, Helen, Keith, Cece and Frank. That’d she’d rather be laughing about Frank’s paranoia of leprosy in the floors, Helen’s thesis about humans having the right to kill themselves, and Cece’s ghosts. Even talking to Cathy about the weather felt preferable to being alone with Tanner. Of course Sabine recognized how wrong her feelings were, and she wanted to adjust them, but they were stuck. She would have to pretend.

  “So what’s up?” Tanner asked.

  “Not much,” Sabine answered, wishing again she was in the dining room, but knowing she needed to attend to her marriage, and show Tanner that he was important to her.

  “How’s work?” she asked.

  “Good. Getting a few clients.” He rubbed the scar that ran through his eyebrow.

  “Great,” she replied.

  He patted a spot on Cece’s bed. “Come sit with me.”

  “You should probably sit on my bed.”

  He practically dove across the room, situated himself right next to her, pulled her close and kissed her neck. He smelled a little like a campfire.

  She tried to be still, to tolerate his kisses, to tell herself she liked being close to him. But his lips made her squirm, and she pulled away.

  “It’s been a while,” he said.

  “I know. It’s just not the right time. I mean, here in the hospital.” She and Cece had been moved to the twenty minute check wing, the least restricted of the hallways. The checks person had just poked his head in, so no interruptions were imminent.

  Tanner brushed a hand against her breast. “A guy has needs.”

  She glanced at the floor, at the scuff marks that made a path to the door. “I know. I’m sorry. I think it’s the medicine I’m on. It makes me, you know. Not really want to do stuff like that.” She paused. “It’s not about you,” she added quickly.

  Tanner scratched his neck. “How long will you be on the medicine?”

  For the rest of my life, she
thought. “I don’t know.”

  “I get that you need to be here. And I want you to get better and everything. But I have needs too. That’s all I’m saying.” He spoke casually—a light banter. The world had always seemed so easy for him to live in, that was one of the things she had been attracted to, one of the qualities she hoped would magically seep into her.

  “What kind of needs?” she asked. “Aside from sex?” Maybe they could have a different, more mature conversation.

  He had a full mouth and thick lips that she used to think were sexy, like Mick Jagger’s.

  “I guess I have to eat.” He laughed.

  She smiled mechanically, and then said, “I’m not talking about eating and sleeping and breathing. I’m talking about emotional needs. Needing someone to listen to you and understand you, help you figure out why you’re the way you are.” As she said it, she realized they weren’t things she’d asked for before she had started therapy and her daily rundowns with Helen. Sabine was changing the rules, mid-marriage, and she wasn’t sure that was allowed.

  He sat pensive for a moment. “Yeah, I understand that’s what you need. But not me. Just pretty much food and sex for this guy. Hungry and horny. H and H.”

  He laughed and went for her neck again. Under his happy-go-lucky shtick was a man who read Proust, a man much more sensitive than he appeared. But he didn’t want to reveal that—not even to her—and she only knew because she had seen the books he kept on his nightstand, and the occasional glances of sadness for others. Lately his compassion was directed toward Frank, for whom he’d bought two new shirts.

  In therapy, Sabine had come to the conclusion that Tanner’s easy-going air was a protection against failure, against disappointing his father, who had claimed Tanner was a hockey prodigy at the age of seven. Better to swagger and act as if he never cared in the first place, than reveal the hurt of sitting in the penalty box, not getting a second interview at Fidelity, or driving an old Ford instead of a Mercedes.