before her face darkened. She looked as if she wanted to cry.
“My friend. My dear friend,” she said. “Poor Anna.”
She stood up from the water and stepped onto the tile. I moved to wrap a towel around her and pressed it into her skin to absorb the water. She allowed me to help her dry off, but put on her underclothes and dressed herself. Then she sat at the mirror and handed me the brush. I began brushing her tawny blond hair away from her face, and she closed her eyes and put her head back.
W hile Zelda wrote that morning, I sat in a staff meeting with Dr. Meyer and Dr. Squires, and they briefed me on what had gone on in my absence.
“Zelda’s making incredible progress on her novel,” said Dr.Squires. “She’s allowed me to read it and it’s quite good. She’s calling it Save Me the Waltz .”
I felt the pang again, and forced a smile. “Really? How nice.”
“Yes, it’s quite unique and unlike anything I’ve ever read,” she continued. “It has a rambling, conversational tone to it, but is also highly literary. I’m afraid I can’t explain it.”
“Perhaps she’ll let Nurse Howard read it sometime,” said Dr. Meyer. “I know she won’t let me. She seems to have a deep distrust of men.”
“And yet a dependence on them,” said Dr. Squires. “It’s as if she both craves and resents the men in her life.”
I was interested to hear Dr. Squires expand on this.
“Has she spoken to you of the past yet?” I asked.
“No, not actually,” said Dr. Squires. “Her novel, though, is autobiographical. I’m learning a lot about her past through it.”
So Zelda did feel comfortable expressing herself on the page. I longed to read the book and at once recognized the pang I’d felt. It was jealousy gnawing at my belly. I could not loathe Dr. Squires, however. She was kind and open, and her support of Zelda was a good thing. I just hoped there was room for both of us in Zelda’s attention.
The meeting came to a conclusion and we all stood.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” said Dr. Squires just before she left Meyer’s office.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”
Dr. Squires squeezed my hand and walked out the door, heading to her next patient meeting. I started to leave when Dr. Meyer called to me.
“Nurse Howard,” he said. “Please close the door.”
I did so, hoping he’d reveal something new to me about Zelda. Instead, I was the subject of his observation.
“Your headaches and cold,” he said with concern. “Are they better?”
I willed myself to keep eye contact with him. “Yes, Dr. Meyer. I hated being away for so long.”
“I see,” he said. “And how did you get that bruise on your cheek?”
I reached up and touched the fist-size, yellowing bruise. I’d prepared a story, but as I faced Dr. Meyer, it seemed preposterous. Still, I could not speak of the attack. In my years of psychiatric nurse training, my instructors focused so strongly on maintaining boundaries in clinical relationships. Without limits, relationships could become ambiguous or even corrosive to all parties involved. I told myself that these boundaries needed to extend to my relationship with Dr. Meyer to keep his confidence. I wouldn’t want him to think I was suffering emotionally. What I wouldn’t allow myself to recognize, however, was that I couldn’t stand the thought of being separated from Zelda.
“It happened at my parents’ place,” I said. “I ran right into a barn beam.”
“Really,” he said. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a clumsy one.”
“It was muddy.”
He smiled a little, as if I’d reassured him. “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”
I felt a pang of guilt over the lie and was able to manage only a nod. He turned from me and began shuffling papers on his desk.
Suddenly, an animal-like howl rent the quiet. We ran out of the office and started down the hall to Zelda’s room, where the sound originated. We reached the room just as Zelda
“My friend. My dear friend,” she said. “Poor Anna.”
She stood up from the water and stepped onto the tile. I moved to wrap a towel around her and pressed it into her skin to absorb the water. She allowed me to help her dry off, but put on her underclothes and dressed herself. Then she sat at the mirror and handed me the brush. I began brushing her tawny blond hair away from her face, and she closed her eyes and put her head back.
W hile Zelda wrote that morning, I sat in a staff meeting with Dr. Meyer and Dr. Squires, and they briefed me on what had gone on in my absence.
“Zelda’s making incredible progress on her novel,” said Dr.Squires. “She’s allowed me to read it and it’s quite good. She’s calling it Save Me the Waltz .”
I felt the pang again, and forced a smile. “Really? How nice.”
“Yes, it’s quite unique and unlike anything I’ve ever read,” she continued. “It has a rambling, conversational tone to it, but is also highly literary. I’m afraid I can’t explain it.”
“Perhaps she’ll let Nurse Howard read it sometime,” said Dr. Meyer. “I know she won’t let me. She seems to have a deep distrust of men.”
“And yet a dependence on them,” said Dr. Squires. “It’s as if she both craves and resents the men in her life.”
I was interested to hear Dr. Squires expand on this.
“Has she spoken to you of the past yet?” I asked.
“No, not actually,” said Dr. Squires. “Her novel, though, is autobiographical. I’m learning a lot about her past through it.”
So Zelda did feel comfortable expressing herself on the page. I longed to read the book and at once recognized the pang I’d felt. It was jealousy gnawing at my belly. I could not loathe Dr. Squires, however. She was kind and open, and her support of Zelda was a good thing. I just hoped there was room for both of us in Zelda’s attention.
The meeting came to a conclusion and we all stood.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” said Dr. Squires just before she left Meyer’s office.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”
Dr. Squires squeezed my hand and walked out the door, heading to her next patient meeting. I started to leave when Dr. Meyer called to me.
“Nurse Howard,” he said. “Please close the door.”
I did so, hoping he’d reveal something new to me about Zelda. Instead, I was the subject of his observation.
“Your headaches and cold,” he said with concern. “Are they better?”
I willed myself to keep eye contact with him. “Yes, Dr. Meyer. I hated being away for so long.”
“I see,” he said. “And how did you get that bruise on your cheek?”
I reached up and touched the fist-size, yellowing bruise. I’d prepared a story, but as I faced Dr. Meyer, it seemed preposterous. Still, I could not speak of the attack. In my years of psychiatric nurse training, my instructors focused so strongly on maintaining boundaries in clinical relationships. Without limits, relationships could become ambiguous or even corrosive to all parties involved. I told myself that these boundaries needed to extend to my relationship with Dr. Meyer to keep his confidence. I wouldn’t want him to think I was suffering emotionally. What I wouldn’t allow myself to recognize, however, was that I couldn’t stand the thought of being separated from Zelda.
“It happened at my parents’ place,” I said. “I ran right into a barn beam.”
“Really,” he said. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a clumsy one.”
“It was muddy.”
He smiled a little, as if I’d reassured him. “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”
I felt a pang of guilt over the lie and was able to manage only a nod. He turned from me and began shuffling papers on his desk.
Suddenly, an animal-like howl rent the quiet. We ran out of the office and started down the hall to Zelda’s room, where the sound originated. We reached the room just as Zelda
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