Call Me Zelda by Erika Robuck

ballerinas, and they accepted it with hearty thanks and invited me in. I declined as they regarded my bruised face with curiosity, and I left them before they could ask any questions.
    By Friday, echoes of pain continued to shoot through my head, but I was ready to return to work. I’d spoken to Dr. Meyer by phone and he was glad to hear I was well enough to return, even if it was only for one day before the weekend. I decided to keep my attack a secret, and told the clinic that I’d had a bad cold. It was a traumatic experience, and I didn’t want Dr. Meyer to know about it and scrutinize me for it.
    When I got to work, I hung my coat in the nurses’ room and quickly started down the hall to Zelda. Anxiety and anticipation had my heart racing and my palms clammy. I gave her door a knock, counted to ten to allow her to ready herself for a visitor, and opened it. At first, I did not see her.
    “I’m in here, bathing, Mildred,” she called.
    My voice felt stuck in my throat. Mildred? When had Zelda and Dr. Squires gotten on such good terms? I felt a sudden pang of something I did not understand.
    “It’s me, Anna. Do you need assistance?”
    Silence was all that greeted me. I glanced around the room and saw several piles of papers. It looked as if she had many writing projects under way. I wondered whether she had written anything about her illness or her past for me to read. There were some sketches on an easel in the corner of the room closest to me, and an assortment of tubes of gouache paint. I stepped closer to the sketches and flipped through them.
    In the front rested several landscapes that appeared to be views from her window, though they were rather distorted. There was one strange drawing of a ballet dancer with such unusual lines and prominent feet that it looked as if the dancer were swollen with terrible pain. The last sketch was of Dr. Squires.
    My spirits sank. Zelda had transferred her trust to Dr. Squires while I was away.
    “Zelda, may I come in?”
    When I heard no answer in the affirmative or negative I began to worry. What if she couldn’t make a decision and needed my assistance? What if she’d hurt herself somehow?
    “Zelda, I’m coming in.”
    Still no response.
    When I stepped into the doorway of the bathroom, she was sitting in the bathtub with her arms around her knees, staring at the water.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    Her face was blank. She acted as if she hadn’t heard me. I felt like an apparition undetected by a human person. It was terribly unsettling.
    “May I help you out of the bath?”
    She sat still for another moment, and then she laughed as if I’d just said something funny. As quickly as she made the sound, it was over, and she looked troubled that she’d laughed at all. She finally looked at me and her gaze stopped me in my tracks. I had never been on the receiving end of such an accusatory, venomous glare.
    “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, with heavy sarcasm.
    My fears were well-founded. She’d felt abandoned by me.
    “Zelda,” I said, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here this week. I’ve been…ill.”
    She cocked her head to the side and regarded me suspiciously before looking away. I had prepared a lie for her, but I felt I owed her more than that. She was far too perceptive anyway.
    “I was attacked,” I said. “By a man at night.”
    That got her attention.
    “Anna,” she said. “Are you all right? Did he…”
    “No, no. Thank God,” I said. “My neighbor saw us out the window and came to help. Everything’s all right; I just hit my head and needed to rest for a few days.”
    This seemed to soften her.
    “And here I was thinking you were like all the rest,” she said. “What did Meyer say?”
    “I’m not going to tell him,” I said. “I have a feeling that he’d force me to take off more time and possibly suggest some kind of therapy, but I want to be here. With you.”
    She looked up at me with large, adoring eyes