Crossings by Betty Lambert

I’ll remember. ‘Let’s go down and see!’ I said, excited all of a sudden.
    Ben was perfectly willing. We started down. It was I who got asthma. It was I who made us turn back.
    One night, waking, is that Ben above me, staring down into my face, propped on one elbow, his hand
    No. I read that in a story. I imagined it. It was one of my hypnagogic things. But I did become afraid of spiders, as if Ben’s fear were contagious. I had never been afraid of spiders. I would carry them out into the garden. I still do. I do again, I mean. But then, I was afraid. I would dream of them scampering, furry legs, over my face as I slept. And I wake and I see Ben above me, staring down into my
    I see his hand and it has a thread dangling from it. But that must be a lie.
    A year later I signed the papers to commit me to Essondale. In the meantime, we had come back to Vancouver, I had become pregnant. I had had an abortion.
    Now I was enormous. Huge. I weighed one hundred and fifty-eight pounds. We agreed it was a symptom. We agreed I should commit myself.
    The psychiatrist was a nice young sandy-haired man named Dr Hutchinson. Ben explained everything to him and he filled in the forms and I signed where he marked, in light pencil, X.
    Ben was explaining that I understood this was a decision made of my own free will. This was voluntary committal, and I understood the significance of that.
    I was very tired.
    The doctor said would I leave for a few minutes, he had something to discuss with Mr Ferris.
    I left. I sat in the waiting room. I didn’t read. A long time seemed to go by, but then that might be me.
    Ben came out, his face quite white. He looked shaken. I felt frightened.
    â€˜Would you mind stepping in here again, Mrs Ferris?’
    I looked at Ben, but I couldn’t tell what was wrong.
    â€˜Please. Sit down.’ Everything had changed. ‘Please.’ I sat down. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’
    â€˜I don’t smoke.’
    The psychiatrist gave what sounded like a laugh. But that might be me.
    â€˜There’s just one or two things I’m not quite clear on,’ he said. ‘What would you do if you didn’t go to Essondale?’
    â€˜What I was doing,’ I said.
    â€˜And what was that?’
    I held out my hands. They were covered with blue and white paint. Green enamel. ‘The house.’
    â€˜You have taken a house I understand.’
    â€˜Yes. I’ve been painting it.’ I kept my hands out as if he wouldn’t believe me otherwise.
    â€˜You were going to move in, when?’
    â€˜End of the month.’
    â€˜One week, that is.’
    â€˜Yes. With my sister.’
    â€˜I see. You were going to leave Mr Ferris.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You do realize, Mrs Ferris? You do
know
you’re not having a baby?’
    â€˜Yes. I realize.’ I wished he wouldn’t smoke. It was bad for the baby.
    He gave another short sound that might have been a laugh.
    â€˜You don’t have to worry,’ I said. ‘I can write anywhere. Ben will be all right.’
    â€˜All right?’
    â€˜I mean, I can still support him.’
    He didn’t answer for a minute. ‘Mrs Ferris,’ he said finally, not looking at me, ‘we don’t like to put people in Crease if they’re functioning.’
    Crease. It was Crease. Not Essondale. Essondale is for the involuntary.
    â€˜You see, you are still functioning.’ He seemed to be safe with the word. He used it again. ‘So long as you can function, I wouldn’t really like to see you go to Crease …’
    â€˜All right,’ I said. ‘But I do want to leave him, you see.’ I wanted to be absolutely honest. I was quite mad. I wanted him to understand the full extent of my madness.
    â€˜You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve read about these cases, but I have never actually seen one before.’ This time I was sure. It was a laugh. ‘I