understand you questioning the love you have for
your wife, but you are wrong to hate her, Mr Stanbury. She is ill.” Dr Savage
comes around his desk, placing a hand upon my shoulder.
“But she does not appear so.” All the women I saw on the way
back to the office looked insane: a woman in a corner cackling away to herself,
another screeching as she ran down the corridor imitating a bird, or a cat, I'm
not sure which. I look at my wife and I don't see a crazy person, I just see
the woman I love: changed, somehow.
Wait.
Love, or loved?
Either way, the doctor's platitudes ring empty.
“Most lunatics don’t, Stanbury. Most of them look as sane as
you and I.” He pats me firmly before moving around to his chair and lighting a
cigar. Without waiting for a response, he blows smoke at the ceiling and
continues. “Someday, you will be able to forgive her. Your wife is suffering as
much as you are, but in a different way. Wait until she remembers what she has
done...Would you care for a smoke? These are from Cuba. One of the governors
brings back boxes of them every time he goes to America. The best quality in
the world.” He holds out the tin box, tapping it with a fingernail.
I accept, it might help with my breathing. Lifting it to my
mouth, I pause. Strange; dust covers the palms of my hands. I wipe them on my
trousers before cutting and lighting the cigar.
“Perhaps if I understood, Doctor, why she murdered my son,
maybe I could forgive her.” How can he not understand the severity of the
situation? My wife didn't start having affairs, or become lazy with regards to
her wifely duties. She didn't start cutting the grass with clippers or
something equally innocuous, like painting her face with flour, as had one
patient I saw in the corridor. “She killed a person, doctor, a child. A baby.
My baby. My son, my John.” I start crying again and shame forces me to turn my
head away. John's blue eyes stare at me inside my mind, and I remember the
first time he really looked at me with them, focused. His first smile. I
remember everything about him, yet the memories bring me great pain, a twisting
sickness that agonizes my body and soul.
The doctor sits back and exhales loudly, looking almost
annoyed at my incomprehension. Yet he quickly rights himself, sitting up tall
and composing his features into something that aptly suits the situation, and I
wonder if I imagined it.
“She is mentally ill, Stanbury. May I call you Stanbury, or
do you prefer a prefix? I believe we are going to end up friends, you and I.”
“Stanbury is fine,” I say, not much caring about titles or
names anymore.
“Right. Good. Stanbury, you are the person that
unfortunately, is in the most pain at the moment. When Anne remembers her
crime, well...the agony of remembrance is too much for many women. When we
reach that point, we will be keeping a close eye on her indeed. You never know
what a mother will do to themselves when they realize they've killed their own
child.” He offers me the ashtray and I notice belatedly that my cigar has burned
out. I barely smoked it.
I panic. She can't. She can't take something else away from
me.
“Are you suggesting she might try to kill herself?”
He shrugs.
“She may. She may not. I never can tell which ones go on to
try it, and which one's don't. In that respect, we pay close attention to them
all.”
But...
“Why doesn't she remember now? Why has she forgotten us?”
“Amnesia,” he says absently, opening a brown folder and
searching in the desk's drawer for something. “Aha, here. Right. Yes, she has
amnesia, Stanbury. Though I don't expect it will last too long, it never does.”
“Am-what?”
“Amnesia. Puerperal Mania is an umbrella term for symptoms,
one of which in Anne's case is amnesia. A loss of memory. A most wonderful
psychological defence mechanism.”
Behind him, a potted plant lays dead on the windowsill. A
rotten petal falls crisply to the floor in the silence that
your wife, but you are wrong to hate her, Mr Stanbury. She is ill.” Dr Savage
comes around his desk, placing a hand upon my shoulder.
“But she does not appear so.” All the women I saw on the way
back to the office looked insane: a woman in a corner cackling away to herself,
another screeching as she ran down the corridor imitating a bird, or a cat, I'm
not sure which. I look at my wife and I don't see a crazy person, I just see
the woman I love: changed, somehow.
Wait.
Love, or loved?
Either way, the doctor's platitudes ring empty.
“Most lunatics don’t, Stanbury. Most of them look as sane as
you and I.” He pats me firmly before moving around to his chair and lighting a
cigar. Without waiting for a response, he blows smoke at the ceiling and
continues. “Someday, you will be able to forgive her. Your wife is suffering as
much as you are, but in a different way. Wait until she remembers what she has
done...Would you care for a smoke? These are from Cuba. One of the governors
brings back boxes of them every time he goes to America. The best quality in
the world.” He holds out the tin box, tapping it with a fingernail.
I accept, it might help with my breathing. Lifting it to my
mouth, I pause. Strange; dust covers the palms of my hands. I wipe them on my
trousers before cutting and lighting the cigar.
“Perhaps if I understood, Doctor, why she murdered my son,
maybe I could forgive her.” How can he not understand the severity of the
situation? My wife didn't start having affairs, or become lazy with regards to
her wifely duties. She didn't start cutting the grass with clippers or
something equally innocuous, like painting her face with flour, as had one
patient I saw in the corridor. “She killed a person, doctor, a child. A baby.
My baby. My son, my John.” I start crying again and shame forces me to turn my
head away. John's blue eyes stare at me inside my mind, and I remember the
first time he really looked at me with them, focused. His first smile. I
remember everything about him, yet the memories bring me great pain, a twisting
sickness that agonizes my body and soul.
The doctor sits back and exhales loudly, looking almost
annoyed at my incomprehension. Yet he quickly rights himself, sitting up tall
and composing his features into something that aptly suits the situation, and I
wonder if I imagined it.
“She is mentally ill, Stanbury. May I call you Stanbury, or
do you prefer a prefix? I believe we are going to end up friends, you and I.”
“Stanbury is fine,” I say, not much caring about titles or
names anymore.
“Right. Good. Stanbury, you are the person that
unfortunately, is in the most pain at the moment. When Anne remembers her
crime, well...the agony of remembrance is too much for many women. When we
reach that point, we will be keeping a close eye on her indeed. You never know
what a mother will do to themselves when they realize they've killed their own
child.” He offers me the ashtray and I notice belatedly that my cigar has burned
out. I barely smoked it.
I panic. She can't. She can't take something else away from
me.
“Are you suggesting she might try to kill herself?”
He shrugs.
“She may. She may not. I never can tell which ones go on to
try it, and which one's don't. In that respect, we pay close attention to them
all.”
But...
“Why doesn't she remember now? Why has she forgotten us?”
“Amnesia,” he says absently, opening a brown folder and
searching in the desk's drawer for something. “Aha, here. Right. Yes, she has
amnesia, Stanbury. Though I don't expect it will last too long, it never does.”
“Am-what?”
“Amnesia. Puerperal Mania is an umbrella term for symptoms,
one of which in Anne's case is amnesia. A loss of memory. A most wonderful
psychological defence mechanism.”
Behind him, a potted plant lays dead on the windowsill. A
rotten petal falls crisply to the floor in the silence that
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