by Sylvia True
She thought about their last fight, how he had once again tried to defend Gerald, and she had once again insisted Gerald was a brute. They had been so angry at each other they didn’t even say goodnight. And then in the morning he was gone. The man who had truly understood her, had held her hand for days on end after Rigmor’s death, the man who had walked by her side even if he hadn’t been her husband, the man who made living feel worthwhile had been stricken by a heart attack in his sleep.
Inga looked at Sabine, who seemed intrigued with the story, although Inga had forgotten what point she had wanted to make. Something about Sabine leaving Tanner—and yet here she was thinking about Fred’s death.
“But you loved him?” Sabine asked, holding her head a bit higher.
“Of course I loved him. But so what? Is that what we really need? I think I needed more of a companion than a lover at that point in my life. But we really are going astray here. Do you want Tanner to be your lover?”
“No,” the word almost spat out of Sabine. Her face reddened. “I mean not at the moment.”
Inga tilted her head. “My girl, you do not have to be in love with him. That is not a requirement for marriage.”
Paul moseyed into the dining room, inspected a few of the baskets, and took a bar of Lindt chocolate.
“Now there is a man no woman would want,” Inga whispered.
Sabine smiled. “Brenda likes him.”
“My point exactly.” Inga laughed.
For a moment Sabine looked happy.
“You see, it’s not all so bad,” Inga comforted.
One of the lights above them flickered, and Sabine seemed to sink again. “Mutti didn’t call me today.”
The poor thing. Her marriage wasn’t going well, and her mother hadn’t even telephoned. No wonder she felt bereft.
“Yes, you did seem rather lonely when I walked in. But your mother will call. She needs some time. Can you be patient with her?”
“I suppose there’s no rush.” Sabine rotated the basket. “Mutti used to be the one person who could make me feel better. But now the only time I really feel OK is when I’m here. In McLean. As soon as we drove off the grounds today, I could feel the panic and the fear come back.”
“But that is to be expected. Your depression didn’t just appear one day; it was likely building for many years. Perhaps you were able to hide it well, but eventually, these things come out, and then they must be treated. Naturally it will be frightening when you step outside of here. You don’t have the comfort and support, and you have people like Tanner’s father, who will never understand.”
Inga tapped the table and glanced up at the light as it flickered again. She felt a flash of anger—at the world, at men who were unable to fix things or replace light bulbs.
Then she felt a push, not on her back, but on her heart. As if it was ready to burst.
“Are you all right?” Sabine asked.
Inga nodded. They sat together in silence for a moment.
“Water? Tea?” Sabine suggested.
Inga placed a hand on her chest. “No.” She took a deep breath. Everything was calm here, she told herself. Very calm. In fact, there was no one else around. Nothing needed to be done. And yet something did need to be done. “I have had experience with places like this before.”
“You were in a mental hospital?” Sabine asked.
“No. My sister.” She paused. “Her name was Rigmor.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Sabine said.
Inga nodded. “She was a beautiful woman.”
“Why was she there?”
“You weren’t supposed to know. No one was.” Inga held onto the edge of the table. “It was a secret, in order to help you. And your mother. We didn’t want your mother to get ideas into her head. But it was stupid not to say anything. It didn’t make it easier for her, or for you. I see that now.”
Inga let go of the table. Her strength began to flow back. The years felt as if they tumbled outward, and a heaviness was lifted.
“So there was mental illness in our family?”
Inga took an apple from the basket and placed it in the middle of the table. “Above all, your mother was to be protected. And the way to protect her, my mother believed, was to never speak of any of this.” Inga took out an orange and placed it next to the apple. “My mother was terrified that your mother might suffer. She believed I was in large part to blame for Rigmor’s decline. I investigated new treatments. I proposed various ideas. I wanted so much to help. In the end, my mother thought all of my suggestions and research and talking only made things worse.”
Sabine picked out a few walnuts and placed them around the fruit. “That wouldn’t make her worse.”
The light blinked one last time and then went out. They both looked up. “I suppose I will never know if I made her worse. For years I blamed myself. And then I tried to forget.”
“What was she like, your sister?” Sabine asked.
Inga rested her hands on the table. “She was sweet. Very sweet. Shy as a child, quiet, not at all like me. I remember when she was only a baby, I felt in awe of her. I was only four at the time, but I remember telling our nanny that she was mine. My Rigmor, I used to say. Mine. I was a stubborn thing.”
“Was she young when she got sick?”
“She wasn’t a child. As a child she was so talented in art and music. She could sketch anyone, and so quickly. Her hands were nimble.” Inga smiled. “She didn’t have much fashion sense though. And she didn’t care. I picked out all of her clothes. Nothing too chic or modern. She never wanted attention drawn to herself. She had the most beautiful curls. Like yours,” Inga said.
“Like mine?” Sabine asked, surprised. “But you have always hated my hair.”
“Hate is a strong word. I think I wanted to help you with it. To tame it and plait it. I used to do that with Rigmor’s. Wrap the braids around her head so that she looked as if she was wearing a lovely crown. But then things got worse. She couldn’t sleep. Her moods were dark. She had stomach problems and became frightened to leave the house. At night shadows tormented her soul, and during the day if she heard Hitler’s voice on the wireless, she would get so stiff and tense, she could barely move.”
“She had psychosis?” Sabine whispered.
“Yes. But there were good times. She loved yellow roses and hated chamomile tea, which my mother was sure would help. A few times Rigmor and I emptied that tea into her night pot.” The memory made Inga smile.
“Am I like her?” Sabine asked. “I mean not in art or music, but like her in the way I’m sick?”
“The kindness you show to Keith and Frank, the way you let Helen hold the baby. You are generous in those ways, like she was.” Inga looked at Sabine. “But I don’t believe you are as ill. You don’t have delusions.”
Sabine bit her bottom lip.
“So you have had a few?” Inga said.
Sabine nodded.
“Have you told Lincoln?”
“No.”
“It is frightening, to be sure.” Inga paused. “But not uncommon. When depression goes untreated for long periods, people are prone to psychosis. It’s called depression with psychotic tendencies. I would advise that you share this with Lincoln. Do you see things?”
“Sometimes. I have terrible dreams. And I hear a voice. I mean, not often. But…you know. Once in a while.”
“Is the voice kind?”
Sabine shrugged. “It’s not unkind.”
“It doesn’t tell you to hurt yourself or someone else?”
“No.”
“People hear voices at different points in their lives. As long as they are not directing dangerous behavior, they can be lived with. Do you mind it terribly?”
“I mind that it happens. I’m afraid that I will get crazier.”
“It is highly unlikely that it will get worse, especially since you are on medicine. It’s tremendous the ways in which people can now get help. That was not the case in my sist
er’s time.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabine said.
“No need to be sorry, my girl. We must be happy that things have progressed in such a positive way.”
“I guess.”
Inga reached for Sabine’s hand, and this time she gave it willingly. They sat quietly for a few moments, Inga caressing her granddaughter’s fingers and then her wrist.
“I noticed this small wound on the first day I saw you.” Broken white threads ran through the red scars.
Sabine pulled her hand away.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Sabine nodded. “Sometimes the physical pain…”
“Yes, it can be a relief. I have read that.” Inga wanted Sabine to know that she understood. That she didn’t judge. “It looks a bit like a four-leafed clover,” Inga said.
Sabine chuckled. “I wasn’t trying to give myself a tattoo, but I guess a four-leafed clover is as good as any.”
“You and your mother were always good at finding them. Do you remember?”
Sabine nodded. “We were always looking down.”
“True,” Inga remarked. “Rigmor liked them as well. I did too, until a friend told me such a sad story about them. After that I could barely look at a clover, even a three-leafed one.”
“What was the story?”
Inga was annoyed with herself. She shouldn’t have mentioned it, but she could hardly not tell. She disliked when people started to say something and then refused—out of some moral obligation, or embarrassment—to finish what they had begun.
“My friend had been in a concentration camp. On a very wet and cold day, she was taken in the back of a lorry with another group of prisoners. Some were even children. They were left off in a field of mud. Nothing else, just cold hard mud. The Nazi soldier told them that the first one to find a four-leafed clover would be set free.” Inga shook her head. “Can you imagine? And so they all got on their hands and knees and dug until their fingers bled.” Inga opened her pocketbook and took out a handkerchief. The story always made her cry. “The hope that humans possess even in such situations is remarkable.” She blew her nose.
Sabine looked at the clover on her wrist. “That’s terrible,” she said.
“Humans are the only animal that have the capacity for such abject cruelty.” Inga sighed. “Will you let me braid your hair one day?”
“That would be nice,” Sabine said.
There was a resemblance to Rigmor, Inga noted, not only in the hair, but in the shape of the eyes. They were long and narrow. And Sabine’s nose was broad at the top, like Rigmor’s.
“It’s strange how I didn’t see it. The similarities you have to my sister. And to think I believed I knew so much about psychology and I never understood why there were times I was so frustrated with you, and also so drawn to you. Perhaps I wanted you to be Rigmor. Perhaps I felt angry at times when you weren’t.” She took a breath. “How unfair for you.”
“No, it’s fine. And I’m grateful you are telling me now.”
“You are forgiving in nature. As was she. But Rigmor was born at a time when mental illness was seen as a deformity.” She looked at the darkened window behind Sabine. “In the end …” she said, but then her throat tightened. She shook her head as she coughed.
Sabine jumped up and poured a glass of water in the kitchen. Inga managed to take a sip. “Better,” she said.
“Are you getting a cold?” Sabine asked.
“No, it’s nothing.” Her voice sounded old and raspy. “What was I saying?”
“Something about the end.”
Inga gripped the table again. “The Nazis only wanted to exterminate.” She pursed her lips.
“Did she die in a concentration camp?”
“No.” Inga picked up one of the walnuts. She inched back her chair. “No,” she said again, realizing they had reached a point she could not go beyond.
“How did she die?” Sabine asked.
Inga’s eyes were playing tricks on her. It seemed as if there were two Sabines sitting at the table. “I think,” she began slowly, trying to get her focus back. “It would be good to have a cup of tea.” Her mind was murky. “I would prefer not to talk of death.”
She glanced at her reflection in the dark window—a blurry composition, an ageless aggregate. She remembered the walks she and Rigmor would take in the Black Forest when they were girls, how they imagined fairies hiding behind the huge fir trees, and how the sunlight poked through in spots, like daylight stars.
Inga walked to the kitchen and waited as the kettle heated, giving herself and Sabine time to adjust to their shared knowledge—a new intimacy.
She brought out two cups of tea and opened a new bar of chocolate. “So I suppose you understand now, that you are not alone.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
They sat together for another twenty minutes, eating fruit and chocolate, talking about Mia and Helen and the weather. By the time Inga left, she felt tired and woozy—not sick, but light-headed. Perhaps a more unconstrained version of herself. On the ride back to the hotel, she put her hand in her coat pocket and felt the walnut she had taken. Its exterior was hard and bumpy, yet there was a smooth quality to it. She ran a fingernail along the seam and thought about breaches, how Fred had often talked about the point in a painting where light finds its way in.
* * *
The New Year started on the right foot for Sabine. She and Tanner had two cars, and she drove the older one to fetch Mia. Cathy, of late, seemed in the way. With nothing else to do, she began sweeping the hallway. When the head nurse asked her to stop, Inga did not intervene. Instead, she told Cathy to take a few days off. Soon Sabine would leave the hospital and it was time for Inga to begin making preparations for her return to Switzerland.
She sat at her desk at the hotel and began to write.
My Dearest Arnold,
It has been a very busy and interesting few weeks.
I suppose I must first tell you of my visit to your friend, Holgart. I did not like him, but he was helpful in the way I needed, and I thank you for that.
I have met some lovely people here. My favorite is a young man named Keith. He is highly intelligent and had the misfortune of having a deranged brother. In the end, there was a terrible accident, and Keith’s life can never be normal.
But as I glance over the past weeks, I have a new appreciation for that word. I wonder if there is even a normal in terms of personality. Our lives are so intrinsically unique, don’t you think?
There is a woman, Sabine’s roommate, Cece, who believes she talks to ghosts. A year ago, I would have described her as completely mad and, although I find her fantasies farfetched, I wonder if there is something in them. I remember laughing when you told me that your mother read palms, but I was wrong to laugh. I read once that only a closed mind is certain. I believe my mind is creaking open, and I think that will make you smile.
Helen is Sabine’s closest friend. I worry about her. She is much too sane. Which must sound odd, but I’m sure you understand. For her it is not biology at all. It is completely the fault of her upbringing. I am quite sure some unspeakable things were done to her as a young girl.
I have seen Sabine come to life. Every day she appears to be more capable and have more energy. Many of her symptoms are similar to Rigmor’s, but I cannot say how similar, nor can I be sure if it’s the medication that is making the difference. If medicine can cure such hopelessness, it would be a very great thing to have lived this long and to have witnessed such advances.
The baby is utterly and completely delightful. She has very full cheeks, as if she is a squirrel hoarding nuts. Her eyes are the shape of almonds and the color of dark chocolate.
I am tired of late, and sometimes I feel that time plays tricks, that I am in the past and then the present, and then nowhere at all. Perhaps time is not what we think it to be. Perhaps we are all of our ages at once, and our outer body is only an illusion, a reminder that we cannot stay here forever.
With fondness,
Inga
Inga put the letter in an envelope. She would post it in the morning. At the moment, she felt bone-weary. Although her bed was only next door, it seemed a long journey.
She did not have the energy to put on her nightdress or brush her teeth. The last time she felt this way, she was in the jungle, stricken with malaria. For three weeks she had sweated under a mosquito tent as Fred shouted at the nurses, insisting they do more.
Her forehead burned and she shivered.
She had no idea of the time when the phone woke her. She reached for the receiver, her lungs tight and congested, her throat raw.
It was Cathy, who said she had another opportunity to nurse a child with cerebral palsy. The family needed her to start immediately.
A godsend. “Yes, go. By all means,” Inga said, and hung up the phone. She got herself a glass of water, and climbed back into bed. As soon as she had the energy, she would phone Sabine and tell her she wouldn’t be visiting today.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After
Arlesheim, Switzerland 1939
When Inga returned to Switzerland after Rigmor died, she told the driver to drop her off at the bottom of the hill. She wanted to approach the chalet with stealth, move so quietly that no one would notice her. She would slip into her room, crawl under the eiderdown, and hide for the rest of her life.
She opened the gate. The pebbled path, freshly raked, made a soft crunching sound as she walked along it. The sun shone too brightly and everything around her felt too vivid, too close, too constraining. She turned the corner and walked to the back steps. There, standing at the top, was Frieda, her arms crossed in front of her, her face hard, her eyes searching.
Inga gripped the handle of her suitcase. She did not move. The five steps ahead of her seemed a mountain of stone.
When she opened her mouth to speak, only a small rasp came. Inga looked down at her worn boots and gave her head a tight shake, hoping that the gesture would convey everything, and that words wouldn’t be necessary. But then she glanced up and saw the lines in Frieda’s brow.