was being restrained by an orderly while she shredded a piece of paper in her hands.
“Bastard. Goddamn him to hell!” she shouted.
Dr. Meyer ordered the attendant off Zelda and she slipped into the corner of the room and continued shredding the paper.
“I just gave her the mail and she started this,” said the man.
I stepped forward. “What is it, Zelda?”
She stopped shouting and started mumbling to herself. “No books, no fiction. ‘Stop your writing. You’ll put yourself over the edge.’ I’d rather hear that I’m his locked-tower princess than take all of his damned instructions and diagnosis.” She spit at the papers and flung them to the floor around her bare feet. Then she placed her head on her knees and exhaled. When she looked up again, her face was unlined and peaceful, as if nothing had just happened.
“What’s for supper this evening?” she asked. “I’d love a cucumber salad or some tomato sandwiches with a spray of parsley on the side to remind me of his eyelashes when I loved his eyes and they were like the Mediterranean Sea to me instead of the icy glare throwers they’ve become. I can see him looking out of the paper at me and I can’t stand it.”
At that moment, I had the eeriest feeling that Mr. Fitzgerald could see us. Zelda watched the goose bumps rise on my arms.
“You feel it, too,” she said. “I’m not alone.”
W e returned to her room after lunch, and she walked to her papers and ran her hands over them as if she were stroking a cat. I stood at the window and watched her until she looked up at me.
“I’m glad these are under lock and key with me in this big safe so he can’t steal them,” she said.
“Do you really think he would steal your work?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she said.
“What other times has he stolen your work?”
“ This Side of Paradise , The Beautiful and Damned, Gatsby… ”
“What are you saying?” I asked. “Did you write those?”
She stood to her full posture and suddenly became indignant.
“No,” she said. “No, you mustn’t think he’s not a great writer. He’s the finest writer of our generation.”
“I think he is a fine writer,” I replied, carefully choosing my words. “It’s just that I interpreted your words as an insinuation that he used your writing and passed it off as his own. I apologize if I misread you.”
“No, you didn’t. I flit like a butterfly. Can you keep up?”
“I can try,” I said.
She sat heavily on the bed and stared out the window. “But he is a plagiarist.”
That was a strong accusation. I didn’t want to further upset her, however, so I remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
“Sometimes I think if I could just find the diaries he stole…”
“He stole your diaries?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Yes,” she said. “I used to keep diaries, and when we first got married he took them and wouldn’t tell me where he’d put them. Said that I was done with all that now.”
“And have you seen them since?”
“No.”
“Do you think he still has them?”
“I hope so,” she said. “Otherwise there is no hope for me.”
“Why?”
“Because the roots of my soul are in those books. If they’re gone, so is my soul seed. I might as well die.”
My mind started racing. I felt something coming at me on a wave. Inevitability. A task. To restore her identity and present it to her.
“I have not forgotten what you asked of me,” she said. “Writing my past. My remembrances.”
“Aren’t you doing that in your novel?” I asked.
“I am, but it’s just a piddly small account of a portion of our timeline. I want to take you back, and I will. I just have to get this novel out of me.”
“I look forward to it,” I said. “But please know that there’s no pressure. Perhaps the novel will be enough.”
“It won’t be enough, because it’s for everyone. When I write for you, I will write only for you. My confessions.”
I
“Bastard. Goddamn him to hell!” she shouted.
Dr. Meyer ordered the attendant off Zelda and she slipped into the corner of the room and continued shredding the paper.
“I just gave her the mail and she started this,” said the man.
I stepped forward. “What is it, Zelda?”
She stopped shouting and started mumbling to herself. “No books, no fiction. ‘Stop your writing. You’ll put yourself over the edge.’ I’d rather hear that I’m his locked-tower princess than take all of his damned instructions and diagnosis.” She spit at the papers and flung them to the floor around her bare feet. Then she placed her head on her knees and exhaled. When she looked up again, her face was unlined and peaceful, as if nothing had just happened.
“What’s for supper this evening?” she asked. “I’d love a cucumber salad or some tomato sandwiches with a spray of parsley on the side to remind me of his eyelashes when I loved his eyes and they were like the Mediterranean Sea to me instead of the icy glare throwers they’ve become. I can see him looking out of the paper at me and I can’t stand it.”
At that moment, I had the eeriest feeling that Mr. Fitzgerald could see us. Zelda watched the goose bumps rise on my arms.
“You feel it, too,” she said. “I’m not alone.”
W e returned to her room after lunch, and she walked to her papers and ran her hands over them as if she were stroking a cat. I stood at the window and watched her until she looked up at me.
“I’m glad these are under lock and key with me in this big safe so he can’t steal them,” she said.
“Do you really think he would steal your work?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she said.
“What other times has he stolen your work?”
“ This Side of Paradise , The Beautiful and Damned, Gatsby… ”
“What are you saying?” I asked. “Did you write those?”
She stood to her full posture and suddenly became indignant.
“No,” she said. “No, you mustn’t think he’s not a great writer. He’s the finest writer of our generation.”
“I think he is a fine writer,” I replied, carefully choosing my words. “It’s just that I interpreted your words as an insinuation that he used your writing and passed it off as his own. I apologize if I misread you.”
“No, you didn’t. I flit like a butterfly. Can you keep up?”
“I can try,” I said.
She sat heavily on the bed and stared out the window. “But he is a plagiarist.”
That was a strong accusation. I didn’t want to further upset her, however, so I remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
“Sometimes I think if I could just find the diaries he stole…”
“He stole your diaries?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Yes,” she said. “I used to keep diaries, and when we first got married he took them and wouldn’t tell me where he’d put them. Said that I was done with all that now.”
“And have you seen them since?”
“No.”
“Do you think he still has them?”
“I hope so,” she said. “Otherwise there is no hope for me.”
“Why?”
“Because the roots of my soul are in those books. If they’re gone, so is my soul seed. I might as well die.”
My mind started racing. I felt something coming at me on a wave. Inevitability. A task. To restore her identity and present it to her.
“I have not forgotten what you asked of me,” she said. “Writing my past. My remembrances.”
“Aren’t you doing that in your novel?” I asked.
“I am, but it’s just a piddly small account of a portion of our timeline. I want to take you back, and I will. I just have to get this novel out of me.”
“I look forward to it,” I said. “But please know that there’s no pressure. Perhaps the novel will be enough.”
“It won’t be enough, because it’s for everyone. When I write for you, I will write only for you. My confessions.”
I
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