Ballad of the Black and Blue Mind by Anne Roiphe

blood, yellow urine, eyelashes, hair follicles, nails that grew and grew, teeth that sat in the gums until they didn’t. Charon ferried the newly dead across the river to their eternal home. Fritz looked at Anna and saw that she was in her own boat, stranded in between the shores, floating in the river’s current, but moving no closer to one shore or the other. She was a small figure far out in the waters. He had no boat. He waved, he signaled to her, row, row back toward me. She didn’t hear him.
    A new Woody Allen movie opened in the art theater on Broadway. Fritz asked Anna to go with him. No, she said. I don’t like Woody Allen movies. How is that possible? said Fritz. On what planet are you living? he added. Not yours, she said and went into her room and closed the door.
    3 a.m. It wasn’t that Anna felt terrible. As she rinsed the towel she had used to blot the red blood that spurted from a particularly deep cut in her forearm, Anna noticed that she felt relief, peaceful, calm, ordinary, herself. It was as if she had vomited after a long nausea and now felt well again, her stomach settling back to its usual unannounced activities. It was odd, this peace that seemed to flow from her wounds, little wounds, almost pretend wounds, “just a game” wounds, but wounds.
    Perhaps we should send her to one of those wilderness camps where they teach survival techniques if you’re lost in the canyons or trapped in a landslide? he said to Beth. Fritz had looked them up online. He couldn’t concentrate on his own research. He itched, he paced, he took quick naps, he worked out at the gym, he bought a new printer and then returned it. He reread T. S. Eliot. The poet was an anti-Semite and Fritz’s anger rose, as new as the soft spot in a baby’s head, as familiar as his own face in the mirror. And then he wrote an essay about the causes of anti-Semitism. He tore up his essay. He had nothing to say that hadn’t been said a thousand times before. In the privacy of his office he considered that all the words he had written were washing away faster than he could write them. From dust to dust was not meant to refer to books, but how apt, how perfect a phrase, even if everything was digitized and the capacity of the machines was as large as the distance between earth and the sun or longer and wider, it wouldn’t matter because the infinite collection of words, observations, pithy thoughts would soon become electronic waste, jumbled together, in long lines of zeros and ones, ignored by the living who would have other distractions, their own ones and zeros.
    It was 11:15. The bell rang. Dr. Berman opened the door. The girl standing there looked familiar. She walked into the office and sat down in the patient’s chair. She must be a patient, but who? The appointment book was across the room on her desk. Dr. Berman took her own chair and looked expectantly at the girl, waiting for her to begin. Her name would come to her. Everything would return. It usually did. She would not panic. She could manage this session. The name began with an A, Aster, Abigail, Alice. No, she thought, not that. B, Betsy, Barbara, Brenda?
    Anna said, I had a dream last night that Meyer was waiting outside my door with a steak knife and he wanted to stab me in the heart.
    Meyer was who?
    Dr. Berman said, You must hate someone. Who is it you hate?
    Anna smiled, a small smile. She took the word hate as a gift, as a treasure passed from mother to daughter, as a kindness on the part of her therapist. Hate, she said. I do, I do hate someone.
    Everyone hates, said Dr. Berman.
    Anna smiled again. She said, I’m good at hating. I’m really good at hating.

 
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    three
    There was a long list in Dr. Z.’s head of things he didn’t believe. It was far longer than the list of things he did believe. It began with the resurrection of Jesus, the power of prayer, the good intentions of the state, the