Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  The staff at the restaurant where he worked liked him, and he became friends with one of the cooks. Night after night, Lester listened as Arnold spilled one story after the next. He began with the most recent, and moved backward, from Sonnenstein, to Rigmor to the Blumenthals. Eventually he got to his work at the University, and his attraction to men.

  When all of the words had been released, Lester pulled Arnold toward him and kissed him. It was that night that Arnold began to come out of his trance. Slowly he cobbled together a life for himself. He stopped going to the papers. It would be left up to others to tell their stories and reveal their nightmares.

  Arnold had a chance to start again, to establish himself as a physician in a country that believed in human dignity. He passed the required medical exams to become a resident doctor at Columbia University, and a year after the war ended, he opened a private practice.

  The past slowly disappeared beneath the present tides. Inga, and Sonnenstein, and Frankfurt—so much good and so much bad—rested in the sediment beneath the waves. Once in a while a few grains of sand, or a small rock—a memory—was dragged out from under the water, and Arnold would hold it, study it, but ultimately return it.

  Rigmor, on the other hand, lived in the light, becoming ever more present, ever more vivid—an energy he would never, not even for a moment, relinquish.

  * * *

  Every morning after Inga woke, she did her exercises, had her one cup of coffee with one sugar, and got dressed as if she had somewhere important to go.

  She lived in her small flat in Basel near the train station. In nineteen-forty, the rumbling often woke her, and her first thought was always that of a bomb.

  The world had lost its mind. Switzerland shuddered daily from fear and blitz attacks too close to its borders.

  It was difficult to travel, difficult to see Fred, difficult to continue. But she did. Every day she walked the city until her legs were so tired she knew she would sleep.

  She visited cafes and shops, and it was the treatment she received from store owners, from waitresses, from book sellers, that helped fortify her. Her hair was always nicely done. She wore pearl earrings and a pearl necklace, and people spoke to her as if she was someone. They curtseyed and bowed and made sure her table was wiped clean. She didn’t speak their Swiss dialect yet, and was initially worried they would judge her for being German, but it was rare that she received a dismissive glance. It was the working class people who saved her, who greeted her kindly when she had only scattered dust inside of her.

  The pain didn’t lessen as much as it changed form. Once a scorching fire, it was now a hollow reed.

  She was not a mother.

  Or a wife.

  Or a sister.

  Or a German.

  Or a Jew.

  Or a Swiss.

  She had no country. No home. No friends.

  She was a well-coiffed, properly-mannered, beautifully-adorned, nicely-scented, pretty shell with dull, defeated green eyes.

  In time, she trained herself to stop. Stop thinking. Thoughts of Frankfurt, Arnold, Sonnenstein, or Rigmor still crept in. But each time, she imagined a red stoplight, and forbade herself to continue. Some days the stoplight came up a hundred or more times. Still she maintained the practice, and on good days she barely saw the red light at all.

  Eleven months after Rigmor’s death, she felt strong enough to visit Arlesheim. She took a tram and walked to the chalet for Lisbet’s fifth birthday.

  There were two young mothers with their children sitting at the round dining room table with cups of tea. Frieda greeted Inga in front of the guests as if she was a cherished family member, telling the other women that Inga was the mother of Lisbet and a highly educated world traveler. The truth was somewhere in between.

  The other children were young skaters whom Lisbet had met during her lessons.

  “They are not nearly as gifted as Lisbet,” Frieda said to Inga, not quietly enough. One of the mothers turned. Frieda gave a polite smile. “Her instructor has told me he has never seen a child take to the ice the way Lisbet has.”

  As soon as the guests left, Frieda refused to look at or speak to Inga. At dinner, when Frieda wanted the salt, she faced Lisbet and said, “Could you tell your mother to pass the salt?”

  Inga laughed. “I can hear you,” she told Frieda, who ignored her.

  “Tell your mother if she chooses to stay away for almost a year, I will not speak to her for twice that time.”

  Lisbet, her small face quivering, looked at Inga. “My grandmother,” she began, and burst into tears.

  Frieda opened her arms, and Lisbet jumped into them. “There, there, my dear girl. It’s nothing but a small disagreement. Isn’t that correct, Inga?”

  “Yes, nothing to be upset over,” Inga said.

  Frieda put Lisbet to bed, and Inga washed the dishes. It was nearly eight, time to get back to her flat, but she didn’t want to leave. Being in a home that had visitors, that had a child, that had life, even if it also had Frieda, connected Inga to a world she had severed herself from.

  “You are still here,” Frieda said, as she walked to the buffet cabinet to get her whiskey.

  “Lisbet seems well,” Inga said.

  “Yes,” Frieda replied.

  Inga ran a finger along the tablecloth. “I was thinking,” she began, and stopped. “I know I stayed away, and I am sorry for that. But now that I am back…”

  Frieda finished her drink. “And?”

  “I thought it might be good if I moved back in.”

  Frieda let out a heavy sigh. “Why did you stay away so long?”

  Inga couldn’t find the words. She managed to say, “I shouldn’t have.”

  “The child thinks she has no mother,” Frieda said.

  “I am sorry.”

  “It would be good for Lisbet to see her mother more than once a year, but there are rules in this household.”

  “Of course,” Inga replied. “I will follow them.”

  Frieda nodded. “But know one thing,” she said.

  Inga waited.

  “I cannot forgive you.”

  Inga moved back in the following week. Some days were passable, even pleasant, especially when she could play hide-and-seek with Lisbet, who never seemed to tire of the game. But much too often, Lisbet clung to Frieda, who made no secret about her dislike of Inga.

  When it felt intolerable, Inga retreated to her flat in the city, for a week, sometimes a month, sometimes longer. She took up painting lessons at the art museum, learned how to play bridge, and began to see other men, not seriously, but to help fill the void. Four was the maximum number of times she would sleep with someone. After that, it might slide into more serious territory, and she wasn’t looking for serious. She had Fred for that.

  The war went from bad to worse to devastating, and Inga had to stop reading newspapers or listening to the wireless.

  But it was impossible to shut the world out completely. Fred always had his stories, and there was talk in art class, and on the streets. All around her, even in neutral Switzerland, people staggered and sagged under the weight of loss.

  Through it all—through the defeat of humanity, through Lisbet’s growth spurts, through Frieda’s callousness, through Fred’s coming and going, Inga got up every morning, did her exercises—had her one cup of coffee with one sugar, and got dressed as if she had somewhere important to go.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Home

  Framingham, Massachusetts 1985

  Sabine would be moving out of McLean soon, and she felt prepared. Almost. She just needed to feel ready to live with Tanner again. Dr. Lincoln asked her what made her anxious about going home. She skirted around the topic, saying that what frightened her most was not being able to sleep. Sleeplessness was usually the first sign of depression, she pointed out, and then sometimes hallucinations followed. When she had finally told him about the psychosis, he was concerned but not alarmed. His thoughts mirrored Omama�
�s, which felt strange and good. Sabine really did have an ally.

  One weekday afternoon, after lunch and a lengthy conversation with Helen, Sabine decided it was time to talk honestly with Tanner. She planned on telling him that she wanted things to work, but that she needed time. She would thank him for his support and explain that she had never really had a good sense of herself because she’d always lived in fear and guilt. She would apologize for being weak and needy at times, and tell him that so many of her decisions had been made in a desperate attempt to be normal. Nothing was his fault, nor was it hers, but for the time being it might be good to sleep in separate bedrooms.

  She signed out of the ward, climbed into the dilapidated station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the outside, went grocery shopping and then picked Mia up from daycare.

  At home, she played with Mia, and felt as if she was on solid footing. She was going to be able to do this. As Mia napped, Sabine called Omama, who was staying at the hotel for a day or two because she had a sore throat.

  “Do you feel better?” Sabine asked.

  “Much,” Omama said. “And what about you, my girl? What will you do this evening?” Her voice sounded fainter than usual.

  “I’m making dinner for Tanner.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a bit more life. “Very good.” She stopped for a breath. “I remember something Fred told me, near the end of his life.” She paused. “He said that if a relationship went wrong, I always blamed the woman.” She chuckled.

  Sabine felt herself smile. It was such an Omama-ism. “Do you think he was right?”

  “Yes. I did blame the woman. I tended to be extreme in my beliefs. But I was not always correct.” There was both laughter and fatigue in that sentence. “At times a little more flexibility would have been in order. And you mustn’t be too hard on yourself if it’s not so perfect with your husband.” The last few words were barely audible.

  “You should rest,” Sabine said. “I can stop by later.”

  “No, I do not want you or the baby catching this. I will be mended in the morning.”

  “But if you do need something…”

  “I’m fine. Quite fine.”

  “Keith and Helen and Cece were asking about you.”

  “Very sweet,” Omama said. “Phone tomorrow.”

  “They all—” Sabine hesitated. “You know. Everyone likes you.” Now was the time for Sabine to tell her grandmother that she loved her. “I mean, I’ve never told you…”

  But Omama had already hung up.

  When Tanner came home at six, Sabine and Mia greeted him at the door. She felt a little like a housewife out of the nineteen fifties, but Tanner seemed pleasantly surprised.

  Sabine got him a beer, and they sat together on the green couch she’d found at a yard sale. Tanner made faces and noises that threw Mia into riotous giggles, and Sabine began to feel as if this really was her home.

  An hour later, when Sabine came back downstairs after putting Mia to bed, Tanner raised his eyebrows, tilted his head a little, and gave her something close to a wink. It was clear what he wanted. She did not want the same thing. She scurried through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “I’ll start dinner,” she called, as if she hadn’t noticed he had a different agenda.

  Tanner joined her, placed his beer on the counter and his arms around her waist as she turned on the tap to fill the pan.

  “You look good,” he said, nibbling at her neck.

  She nudged him gently with her elbow. “I have to boil the water.”

  “The water can wait.”

  “I’m supposed to be back at McLean at nine.” She moved the pot to the stove and lit the gas. Tanner stayed behind her.

  “You know what they say about watching pots,” he said.

  Sabine smiled and swooshed his hand away as she moved toward the fridge. “I have to make the salad.”

  He pretended to mope, but backed off and retreated to the living room, where he watched the news. She felt relieved he’d taken her rejection so well. Maybe he would be more understanding than she’d anticipated. Maybe she hadn’t been giving him enough credit.

  The spaghetti sauce was thick with hamburger meat the way Tanner liked it. When dinner was ready, she poured him a glass of beer and sat across from him at their small butcher-block table drinking a Diet Coke.

  Tanner held up his glass. “Cheers.” And then: “Where’s Omama tonight? Hot date?”

  Sabine smiled, although she didn’t find it particularly funny. “Omama’s at the hotel. She isn’t feeling great. She has a sore throat.”

  “Tell her I’m sorry, and if she needs anything, I’d be more than happy to bring it to her.”

  “I will.”

  As Tanner had a few bites of spaghetti, Sabine contemplated how to start the conversation about sleeping in separate bedrooms.

  “It’s weird,” she said. “Don’t you think, that Omama had a sister who was mentally ill, and that no one ever talked about it?” It seemed a good place to begin. The topic was serious but not personally threatening to Tanner.

  He shrugged. “People were sicker back then. Lots of them didn’t make it.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago,” Sabine said. “Plus, Omama seemed to be really close to her.”

  “I think you’re giving all of this stuff too much attention.”

  She felt chastised for talking about herself—her problems, her illness, her family. “Maybe. How’s planning for the ski trip?” she asked.

  “What I meant was that sometimes you have to get outside of your own head. Don’t just surround yourself with yourself.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I guess having therapy five days a week can lead to some self-absorption.” She smiled and twirled a forkful of spaghetti. “So you are still going skiing, right?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t noticed,” he said.

  She set down her fork and backed up her chair a little, feeling confused. “Noticed?”

  “That you are not interested in me.” His round eyes looked straight at her. There was nothing laid back or easygoing about them.

  She took a deep breath. “I am interested in you. I keep trying to ask about skiing.”

  “You really want to talk about that?” He chuckled disdainfully.

  “OK, I get it. I mean I know I’m in the middle of psychotherapy and I’m trying to figure out myself. But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of you and your needs.”

  “You pushed me away a few minutes ago.” He pointed his fork toward the kitchen counter.

  “That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not about you. It’s that I have this work to do, and I’m just not ready yet. To, you know, to be with you that way.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

  “I was thinking that maybe I should sleep in the guest room when I first come home. I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep, and I think if I was in there I wouldn’t feel so anxious.”

  He gave a hard grin. “And you think this is not about me?”

  “It’s not.”

  “How long am I supposed to wait?”

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered.

  “A week?”

  A week seemed way too soon. “Maybe a month.”

  He shook his head, coiled some spaghetti around his fork, then held it midair with the noodles swinging. His eyes looked like stones.

  “Just so you know, if you ever try to divorce me, I will tell the judge that you were locked in a mental hospital, and I will get full custody of Mia.”

  “What?” She must have misheard.

  “If you ever…”

  She held up a hand. “No, I know what you said.”

  She inched her chair further back. She needed space and time, and someone to tell her who this man sitting across from her really was. Why was he being so mean?

  One side of his mouth curled a little. “You think it’s not obvious that you’d rather be with your friends in the nuthouse than me? Yo
u think I don’t feel anything when you keep pushing me away? You think it’s easy for me to take care of this house and Mia and get nothing from you?”

  She’d felt inklings of his anger, little warning bells, but she’d ignored the signs, hoping that his core was truly laidback.

  “I know it’s been hard,” she said, wanting to get to level ground. “But things will change.”

  “Sabine, they’ve already changed. You just don’t want to look at it yet.”

  “I’m talking about in therapy.”

  “Listen,” he said. “All I’m saying is that if you try, I will get custody.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ll fight,” she whispered. “I’ll get Dr. Lincoln to write a letter. I’ll get all the proof I need to show that I’m totally healthy.”

  “Ha,” he chortled. “You can’t just erase what happened.”

  “It’s no different than being in the hospital to get your tonsils out. No judge is going to hold that against a mother.”

  “Seriously—tonsils?” Tanner laughed.

  “I just don’t get why you’d be so cruel.”

  “Because I’ve worked for all of this.” He swooped a hand through the air. “I pay our mortgage. I’ve invested in stocks. I’ve started something, and I’m not just going to let you tear it down.” She’d threatened his manhood and his wallet.

  “I’m not going to tear anything down.”

  “The law says fifty-fifty. We’d have to sell the house, split the bank accounts.”

  “You can have the house and the money,” she told him. Her face felt hot, and her legs weak. She was trapped in a negotiation for which she’d not prepared in the least.

  Tanner’s fork scraped the bottom of the plate. “You’ll put that in writing?” he asked.

  Sabine remembered a party she and Tanner had gone to in college. They sat around a campfire on the beach. Buddy, a short, popular preppy, was holding court. He wore a pink Lacoste shirt with the collar turned up and played a version of Lord of the Flies, passing around a conch shell, asking people about their first sexual experience. Thankfully he skipped over Sabine. Tanner, who was drinking too much, kept sprawling, kept taking up more space, expecting Buddy to choose him. But Buddy purposefully avoided Tanner, and later that night, when Tanner and Sabine were in bed in her dorm room, he said he would show that asshole one day. Buddy was right forward on the hockey team, and Tanner, who played center, never passed the puck to Buddy again.