A literary mystery, set in the 1990s: How did Molly, a promising musician and graduate student, end up in a Baltimore psychiatric hospital calling herself Lucia? Readers unravel the clues as hospital scenes alternate with Molly's journals. A story about memory, trauma, and Lucia Joyce -- the daughter of Irish writer James Joyce, who died in 1982 in the lasr of the mental hospitals where she'd lived for more than 40 years. For fans of The Secret History and The Archivist, as well as Girl, Interrupted.
A literary mystery, set in the 1990s: How did Molly, a promising musician and graduate student, end up in a Baltimore psychiatric hospital calling herself Lucia? Readers unravel the clues as hospital scenes alternate with Molly's journals. A story about memory, trauma, and Lucia Joyce -- the daughter of Irish writer James Joyce, who died in 1982 in the lasr of the mental hospitals where she'd lived for more than 40 years. For fans of The Secret History and The Archivist, as well as Girl, Interrupted.
Not very many people heard the impact: a car hitting a human body doesnât make that much noise.
But everyone heard the girl singing.
The station wagon had disappeared silently, invisibly into the night, leaving other people or vehicles unaffected. (Besides, at two a.m. most people were in bed and not after troubleânot in 1993, not on a hot August night in East Baltimore, not in a neighborhood with two drive-by shootings in the past three weeks.) But the spiraling, whistle-like cries were distinctive enough to bring people out of their skinny row houses.
âMy word, who is that crying so loud, waking the dead.â
âThat fool girl jogger . . .!â
They gathered around her in robes and blue jeans, carrying flashlights and baseball bats, ready to fight or help. She lay on her side, bleeding from her left elbowâher cries coming out staccato as she gasped for breath.
âMiss? You all right?â a brave teenager knelt beside her to ask. âMy mom just called 911, is there somebody else?â
âYou leave her alone; canât you see sheâs too hurt to talk?â An older man, putting down his baseball bat to examine the girlâs ankle.
âHey, I know herâshe runs all over Baltimore, didnât you see her down by the harbor that time? Hopkins kids think nothing will ever hurt them.â
The young woman fell silent; then quietly, her lips began to move again, her upper body still shaking. From her throat came almost inaudible, unpleasantly high-pitched sounds.
âHey listen!â
The group stopped talking to listen to the new soundâa feeble soprano wail, the words incomprehensible, the melody slow and wavering within its own rhythm. Each time she stopped to take a breath she would begin to cry again, and then stop quickly, the weeping merged and then submerged in her song.
âAnyone know Spanish?â
âNo, Dina speaks Spanish, thatâs something else.â
The siren of the ambulance, though far louder than her voice, screamed a similar pitch, as if it had been summoned not by a phone call but by her otherworldly, off-key cries
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âWell, his affect is flat, so weâre titrating his lithiumâcarefully, so he doesnât flip into mania.â
âOh please . . . one rerun of last week and itâll be Xanax all around!â
Anne-Marie Krieger bent her head, as if to protect herself from the volleys of jargon being tossed across the conference table. She wrote on her legal pad in a careful, rounded hand. âWhat happened last week?â she asked.
The head nurse grimaced. âOh, a fight at Chatham over some TV program. Chairs overturned, a couple black eyes. Welcome to Pearlstone, Miss Krieger.â
âDo they have their TV rights back?â asked a student nurse.
âAnd how! You can hear it all the way here.â
Anne-Marie stared at the intern, before she realized he was joking. Even she knew it was impossible to hear the locked ward from this paneled conference room: five hundred yards of pathway and a stand of weeping willow trees separated Chatham Hall, the former younger boysâ dorm of Hillsdale Preparatory Academy, from the schoolâs former classroom building, now the main building of Jacob Pearlstone Psychiatric Institute. In 1993, the smell of chalkboards a half-century earlier seemed to linger.
Anne-Marie had nearly gotten lost on her way to her very first daily briefing; sheâd had trouble finding the conference room, a wax-polished enclave that seemed still to smell of faculty cigarettes. The air conditioning enclosed the group in its quiet, white noise, drowning out even the murmurs from the few birds still braving the August heat; the assembled non-psychiatric staff (senior nursing staff, volunteers, therapists, social workers like Anne-Marie) similarly quieted. It was all quite the contrast to where sheâd interned before graduating, an underfunded, chaotic city mental-health center full of noise and need. Here, she hoped, the treatment plans were as resourced as staff salaries. The only sound under Gail Ryanâs words was the soft, occasional âbeepâ from a secretaryâs word processor next door.
The nameplate on Gailâs silk blouse said G. RYAN, THERAPY COORDINATOR. She turned a page in her blue binder, going on to the next patient. âFrank Morrison still refuses lithium, says it slows him down. Doesnât object to the Mellarilââ
âWhatâs the dosage on that?â one of the student nurses asked, cramming her notes on a steno pad in tiny handwriting.
â1240 milligrams, right now. We think itâs halting the thought insertions, but heâs still sullen, uncooperative. Calls his lawyer a lot.â Gail issued a careful, tolerant smile and closed her blue binder.
âIs that it?â The head nurse was looking at her watch. âDidnât we have a new admission?â Anne-Marie wrote in her legal pad, current patients discussed first.
Gail grinned, opening the red binder. âOh yes . . . our mystery patient.â
âThe singing jogger?â asked a volunteer with a PORSCHE T-shirt, whose arm muscles boasted of hours at the gym.
âAh! Youâve met her, Steve?â
âI moved her in,â he said. âGot the whole morning concert.â
Gail addressed the rest of the group. âNew patient: they called her âthe singing joggerâ over at Homewood Hospital, where she was brought last Friday at three-thirty in the morningâappeared to be a hit-and-run accident. They have her down as Lucy Doe, and so do we, for now.â
âHoo-ee, bet the legal department loves that. Not to mention accounts payable!â
Gail nodded and read aloud. âCaucasian woman, mid-twenties, with a fractured arm and bruised ribs. Accident occurred while patient was out jogging by Clifton Park.â
âAt three oâclock in the morning? Thatâs a 622 right there!â
Amid the scattered laughter in the conference room, Anne-Marie whispered to the nurse next to her, â622?â
âDanger to self or others,â the nurse replied, not looking at her.
âOh right.â Anne-Marie underlined the words thickly, circling the phrase as if drawing a highway exit sign.
âPatient couldnât seem to stop crying . . . She was in physical pain, of course, but mixed with her crying was this singing.â
âReal off-key, too,â added Steve, the volunteer. âA nurse recognized it from some Italian opera.â
âWhich one?â Anne-Marie asked. Gail looked at her strangely, as if it were an odd, irrelevant question.
âI donât know, but the nurse said she was singing, Death is good for me, Death is good for me, Death is good for me.â The translation passed a collective âohâ along the table, a few half-suppressed laughs.
âBingo,â said a volunteer. âThen the car accidentââ
âIs down as a suicide attempt.â
âAre you sure?â asked an intern. âNot organic damage from the accident itself?â
âPatient wouldnât cooperate with a neuro exam, but they did get a drip into her and took a CAT scan. It came up negative, no brain or spinal cord injuries. So they sent her here, with a 21-day certificationâlong enough for us to take a look at her.â
âHow do we plan on learning who she is?â
Gail sighed. âPolice have taken a description; theyâll try to match it with missing-persons reports.â
âOh greatâin summertime, how longâs it gonna take for some student to get reported missing?â The head nurse shook her head. âMeantime, why Lucy instead of Jane?â
âBecause when they asked, the only name she kept saying was âLucia,â over and over.â
âCould she be Italian, some immigrant?â A student nurse with long legs and large gestures, his Louisiana origins betrayed by his âEye-talian.â
âNo. Dan Keplerâs her doctor here, and he says sheâs as American as you or I. Speechââ Gail squinted to read the admission report. âGod, Keplerâs handwritingâspeech is bizarre, dissociative: neologisms, clang formations, the works. Prelim diagnosis is schizoaffective or schizophreniform disorder.â The air conditioner stopped, having brought the room to its desired coldness: her voice was suddenly loud in the silence.
Anne-Marie was still getting down the three phrases when an intern asked, âTreatment plan?â Everyone at the table seemed to lean forward at the question.
âTo start: Trilafon, 500 mg t.i.d. and Prozac, 200 mg, b.i.d. Level D for now; sheâs pretty low-functioning but we can try her in some very simple groups.â
âLike what?â asked Anne-Marie.
Gail turned to the hospitalâs newest staff member, noting to herself to assign her only to female patients for a while: the young redhead was short and a little too curvy. âThe most logical, of course, would be to invite her to our weekly sing-alongs.â Gailâs smile turned elfin. âIf sheâll consent to sing along with the rest of us.â Anne-Marie nodded her thanks, writing more quickly.
âSo the stateâs paying for all this?â The head nurseâs voice was skeptical. âSome student from out of town?â
âAt least until we find some family for her.â Gail sighed and turned the page in her binder. âOnward, my friends . . . it looks like itâs gonna be a long week.â
Anne-Marie took a deep breath, while all around her briefcases closed, chairs were pushed back from the table. The laser printer from the office next door began to churn out pages, a soft whoosh! the only response to Gailâs words.
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âMy eyes are blackened by the punch of sleeplessness.â Lucy Doeâs words were soft, blotted by the noise in the corridor. âI toss . . . on the couch of separation.â
Chatham Hall, the locked unit, had once been a boysâ dorm. Its hallways were cloaked in patientsâ voices, shouting over the TV in the dayroom, and soft imprecations from the nurses.
Anne-Marie Krieger stood shyly, uncomprehending, in the doorway of Lucy Doeâs room, facing the former âsinging jogger.â She moved closer to the tall, angular patient lying on her back, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, her left arm rigid in a cast from wrist to just above the elbow. Through the thin T-shirt, her ribs were clearly visible. Lucy looked back up at Anne-Marie, singing softly under her breath; her gray-blue eyes were both fatigued and questioning, some sort of private plea.
Anne-Marie felt clumsy clutching her legal pad, a pen, and a copy of one of the intake questionnaires. âIâm sorry you havenât been able to sleep, Lucy . . . do you remember meeting me yesterday? Iâm Anne-Marie.â When Lucy gave no reply she continued, âIâm kinda new hereâso they thought theyâd let me meet you and do some of the nursesâ work for them. Is it okay if I ask a few questions?â
She had to bend to hear the other womanâs reply, and almost missed it. âYou can,â Lucy sighed. âYou or anyone at all can.â
Anne-Marie sat shyly and opened the questionnaire. âThese are questions to help us figure out how to help you get better,â she read aloud from the prepared script. Then she looked down at the patient and took another deep breath. âCould you sit up for me?â
The girl pulled herself up, slowly, grimacing. The plea was still there, in her eyes, in the tentative hunch in her shoulders. She spoke slowly, her eyes scanning Anne-Marieâs face. âHelp me, help me, so thatâs your mission.â Dark cynicism in the soft murmur, âTalk of molniacsâ manias and missions for mades!â
âIâm sure we can help you,â Anne-Marie heard her mouth say, before she saw the young womanâs hands held tightly to the bedframe. âDonât be scared,â she said, whether to Lucy or herself she wasnât sure. âListen, itâs up to youâif you donât feel well enough for this right now, I can come back later.â
The young woman sighed. âAnd tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.â She motioned to Anne-Marie to come closer, as if she were disclosing a secret, and looked very carefully and directly into the social workerâs eyes. She was still asking, still pleading, but her request had grown in intensity, become all-encompassing. âListen. What canât be coded can be decoded, if your eye seizes what no eye ere grieved for.â Anne-Marie wished she could do it, wished she could decode Lucyâs song.
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Instead, she noted those words as âfractured speech,â using the COMMENTS space on the formâs third page. Then she flipped to the beginning, feeling a little foolish. âIn doing daily activities,â she read aloud, âdo you have difficulty with any of the following aspects of task performanceânow hereâs a list.â
Lucy sighed, and sat up straighter; no longer pleading, she seemed simply to be observing.
âAttention span, concentration?â
Lucy Doe shook her head, then lowered it to her chest and began to move it in a slow circle, a yogi stretching before a sun salutation. She reversed the direction, her eyes closed.
âFollowing directions?â
She opened her eyes and shrugged, a quick gesture that then repeated in another stretchâa slower, elongated lifting of both shoulders. She was singing again: Anne-Marie tried to screen out the TV noise from the dayroom next door, recognizing a few of the Italian words: âquesta vita disperata.â She scribbled on the last page of the form, desperate life?
At the next item, Anne-Marie had to fight the urge to put the form in her pocket and go away. âTask planning and organization?â At Lucyâs blank stare she elaborated, raising her voice over the girlâs song. âDo you have trouble deciding when to do what you need to do?â
As if on cue the door opened and a nurse entered, followed by Gail Ryan. The nurse held a small cup of water, two tablets and two capsules. âShould I come back?â she asked Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie looked at Gail, who waved her on with a big smile.
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âNo, no, go ahead.â The words in her own voice seemed to come from somewhere else.
Lucy took the pills into her hand and looked at them, holding her hand to the light so that the blue gelatin capsules glistened. The capsules were nearly the same shade of blue as the walls of the room, both lightening her eyes. âCâmon honey,â the nurse said in her bright voice, âbottoms up.â âThey might make you feel a lot better,â Gail added.
âWhat are they?â Lucy asked. âThorazine?â
Anne-Marie was startled; Familiarity with meds: previous hospitalizations? While Anne-Marie wrote, Gail squatted by the girlâs upraised palm. âThose two are Trilafon,â she said brightly, âtheyâre sort of like Thorazine. The other two are Prozac. Because youâve been so sad.â
Lucy Doe closed her eyes as she took the pills, her eyelashes casting black strokes against her creamy skin. âTi abbracio, Lucia,â a half-whispered prayer.
Anne-Marie took a deep breath. âWho is Lucia? Can I find her for you?â Behind her Gail smiled hugely, sat in a chair in one corner of the room.
When Lucy opened her eyes, she looked up, beyond Anne-Marie, and met Gailâs eyes: her voice was playful, challenging. âLook around you . . . we are all Lucia.â
âReally?â Anne-Marie wrote in her notepad, huge question marks curling the red lines of the margins on yellow paper. âWhy do you say that, Lucy?â
Lucy shrugged. âAnnie died the other day,â she said, as if that explained what she meant.
Anne-Marie looked at her notes before she persisted, her words slow, measured. âSo . . . were you Annie, and now youâre Lucia?â
Lucy Doe smiled; her manner had changed markedly, as if the Prozac were taking instantaneous effect. She tossed her head, as if her razor-short hair were instead a mane. âAccording to recent rumors,â she declared, âIâm the insufficiently malestimated notesnatcher. Iâm Shem the Penman!â
Anne-Marie shook her head. âIâll stick to Lucy for right now, okay?â Under COMMENTS she wrote: Gender confusion? Multiple personality disorder? She looked down at the form, wondering if she should bother to try to complete it: she looked over at Gail and saw her supervisor nod. âI was asking if you had trouble managing your time.â
âOf course not, my deepseep darling,â Lucyâs voice now lilting, the quick trill of a flute. âYou do it for me! You know, Take this pill, Itâs breakfast time.â
âI mean outside the hospital. Before you came here.â
Lucy closed her eyes again and was still for so long that Anne-Marie feared she had lost her; when she spoke her voice was younger, a wounded child. âThatâs up to them, isnât it?â
âUp to who, Lucy?â Anne-Marie saw Gail shake her head: those questions were for psychiatrists.
âMy mother and father, of course. Time we started: train wonât wait. Going to London to get married.â She opened her eyes and began to chant, tears in her throat. âWoo me, win me, wed me, ah weary me!â
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On her way out, Gail gestured for Anne-Marie to skip to the last page of the questionnaire. Anne-Marie looked down: of course, this was the answer they were all waiting for. âLucy, before you came here, where did you live? And with whom?â
Lucy Doe lay back on her bed, fixing on the ceiling again: this time the answer came from deep in her throat, the voice of a French cafĂ© singer at two in the morning. âBoulevard Raspail, number two, Paris, France. Square Robiac. Zurich. Back to Paris . . . Rue Galilee.â She turned on her side and looked at the floor, her words slower. âNyon, at Les Rives des Prangins. Ivry, near the Bois de Vincennes.â Anne-Marie wrote furiously, dredging up her undergraduate French.
Then Lucy sat up, looking directly at Anne-Marie. âNo! Try Ravenswood Castle, Scotland. Bray, Ireland.â She pointed to the wall, as if there were a window to the outside world. âBaltiskeeamore.â Then suddenly, angrily: âBoston, Mass.â
Anne-Marie folded the assessment form, feeling stupid, useless. âMaybe we should try this another time, Lucy. Itâs been very nice meeting you.â
Back in the corridors Anne-Marie breathed shallowly, still unused to the ward-smell of sweetened ammonia, disinfectant masking excretions. Gail was waiting for her; a cacophony of voices swirled through the hallway that separated the dayroom and the nurseâs station. A dramatic, childish moan grew louder as Anne-Marie passed, coming from a slight woman who looked no older than seventeen. Gail gestured to keep moving, until the girl pulled on her blouse.
âShana, is there something I can do for you?â Gail asked.
Shana stopped moaning and said in a high-pitched wheedle, âMy baby.â
âYour babyâs safe, Shana.â
âMy babyâs birthday. Today!â Her voice singsong, suddenly cheerful.
âIs it really? How old is she?â
âTwo!â The eyes huge, the smile revealing perfect teeth.
âSheâs two today? Thatâs exciting!â
âYes, two.â She pointed at Gailâs eyes. âAnd two eyes. And two legs. And two thighs. And . . . Tuesday!â
âItâs Friday, Shana. And Anne-Marie and I have to go now. I hope youâre coming to art today. After lunch.â
Leaving was an exit into suffocating humidity: Gail fanned herself as she turned to Anne-Marie. âBoy, is it silly season at Chatham today.â
Anne-Marie was silent, pulling her hair behind her.
âI havenât seen Shanaâs little-girl act in a whileâand my lord, is Lucy Doe grossly psychotic! Even with all that Trilafon.â Gail fanned herself with the papers she carried.
After Anne-Marie finished pinning up her hair, she turned to her supervisor, her voice low. âWhen does she get assigned a psychiatrist?â
âShould be soon, maybe today. Listen I gotta sprint, thereâs a meeting about the Harvest Picnic. Iâll see you back there.â
Anne-Marie watched Gail move down the path, the senior therapist walking briskly, as if she were in some other climate. Then Anne-Marie walked more slowly among the weeping willow trees, letting the humid air envelop her, an invisible bath washing the locked ward from her skin.
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The patientsâ lunchroom was in the basement of the main building, a few floors below the conference room and directly underneath the main therapy rooms. Patientsâ chatter mingled with the noise of lunch carts; the radio was tuned to âsoft favorites,â Shana dancing in her seat to the sound of the Supremes.
It was Steve, the hefty volunteer, who escorted Lucy Doe into the lunchroom, lagging behind the others from Chatham. The mingled chatter of the lunchroom stopped dead as they walked in, the new patient following slowly, holding her left arm in its cast like a heavy foreign object.
âSit here! By me, by me,â Shana cooed.
Lucy Doeâs appearance at the lunchroom was brief, that first day: as Steve lifted the tray and began to cut her meat, her chest began to heave. In a seeming instant they were on their way out, as if they had never arrived. âItâs okay Lucy, do you need a bathroom before I take you back?â As soon as they were out of earshot, the review of the new arrival began.
Frank the sociologist was impressed by her height, while others favored her figure or her shining (if messy) short black hair. Soft voices and loud, slow comments and fast, theme and counterpoint to the sound of lunch trays being taken away.
âSheâs so young, so pretty, Iâm surprised to see somebody like that here.â
âToo skinny . . . I bet she has AIDS.â
âNo, her colorâs too good. Remember Fred, how pale he was? And those leg muscles! The singing jogger, remember?â
âA Jane Doe, did you hear? Like on TV.â
âJane Doe, with skin like snow,â Shana rhymed, her voice close to an actual song. âLucy Doe, who I donât know.â Shanaâs brown eyes were soft, her smile always on the verge of a grin; she stood up cheerfully as the volunteers came to return the groups to their respective wards or therapy appointments.
âGive Lucy Doe my love,â Frank said to Shana, as he was led to his psychiatrist.
âLucy Doe-oh,â Shana sang, echoing the radio. âLucy Doe-oh, where did our love go?â
The first two times a resident came to evaluate Lucy Doe, she was throwing up: first at the foot of her bed, then into the toilet, Steve holding her head. These incidents produced one line on her chart: Trilafon contraindicated. New regime: Prolix 1000 mg. t.i.d. and Haldol 50 mg. b.i.d. . . . watch Prozac.
The third time she was sitting up, staring at the cast on her left arm. She didnât meet the doctorâs eyes, but he was used to that.
âLucy, Iâm going to ask you to do some things so we can make sure your nerves are working. Weâre wondering if maybe youâre feeling bad because your head got hurt in the accident.â He spoke slowly, as to a child. No response.
âCome on, Lucy. This wonât be hard, I promise.â
âThis is hard.â The blue eyes closed, and Lucyâs slim, long-fingered hand was at the back of her neck.
âDo you mean a squeezing feeling, Lucy?â No answer, but the young medical student wrote on a clean new page, dystonic reaction? While he was writing, Lucy stood up, her motions suddenly quick, determined. âLucy, where are you going?â
âLoonely in me me loneness,â she sang out, not looking at him, âI am passing out.â Her voice rose as she exited the room, calling out, âNuee! Nuee!â
Entry in chart: Mania, resistance to evaluation. Rec. Li 40 mg. b.i.d. The next day, there was a new pill in the nurseâs hand; after that, the new girl slowed down, and slept even more.
Three days later the police officer arrived, a quiet, small-boned woman in plain clothes walking softly as a spy into Lucy Doeâs room. The patientâs cast had been removed, arm now in a sling; she flipped through a womenâs magazine, staring as if struggling to focus her eyes. Before saying a word, the police officer took out a small camera and clicked the shutter, one, two, three times.
Lucyâs hand went to her face at the first click, shading one eye for the second and third shots. As the officer sat in a chair near hers, together they looked at glossy models playacting, laughing, and women in wisps of silk kissing men in tuxedos. âYouâre thinner than they are,â the police officer observed.
Lucy ignored her, reaching across her for a sip of water as if the other woman did not exist.
After a few moments, the officer tried again. âMy name is Nancy Hamilton. Howâs your arm?â
As if sheâd heard the word âarmâ from the soap opera next door, Lucy Doe reached over and massaged her wrist, absentmindedly, leaving the magazine in her lap.
Deep breath. âWhereâd you get those clothes?â pointing to her baggy jeans and Radcliffe T-shirt. No response.
Finally, Officer Hamilton reached over and placed one hand over the magazine, looking straight into Lucy Doeâs eyes. âLucy. Iâm trying to talk to you.â
Lucy Doe looked at her blankly, then pointed to the camera. âAlis, alas, you broke the glass!â she said softly, looking at the camera lens. âBut ours,â she shook her head, âours is a mystery of pain.â
âIâm just trying to help,â said Nancy Hamilton. âSo your family can find you. Wouldnât you like that?â
The eyes widened, met the policewomanâs eyes for the first time. âMy father,â Lucy said slowly and distinctly, âhad blood in his eyes. I cannot but choose to weep, to think they should lay him in the cold ground.â
âLucy? Do you mean that your fatherâs dead?â
Lucy Doe did not reply, instead closing her eyes. Then she began to sing, âThose are pearls that were his eyes . . .â
The police officer waited patiently, but the singing did not stop.
When an aide came to get the patient for lunch, he said, âOh, sheâs at that again.
Good luck, maâam, she can keep it up for hours.â
Hamilton looked at her watch, shaking her head. âIâm running forty-five minutes late as it is . . . Listen, tell them Iâll come back when you guys have managed to run a full psychiatric evaluation. I need more to go on than this mumbo jumbo.â She handed him a slip of printed legal instructions, stapled to the green sheet Gail Ryan had given her. âMeantime weâll spread her picture around, now that schoolâs starting again. You got that?â
As Officer Hamiltonâs steps faded down the hall, Lucy continued her song, the melody simple, almost liturgical despite the secular words.
âFull fathom five thy father lies
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange, into something rich and strange.â
Five days of slumber and singing, five days in which Lucy Doe seemed either not to notice people speaking to her or to examine them with unnatural concentration, as if she were trying to recognize a half-remembered friend. Sometimes she would stand and run her fingers lightly over the edges of the furniture, trace the walls with her slim fingertips, hold the cool surface of a glass to her cheek before she drank gratefully, washing down her medications with the relief of an addict. Then she would return to bed, to sleep with her head under blankets, defying both heat and the air conditioning.
On the sixth day the singing jogger got out of bed and went to the nursesâ station, surprising them by saying a normal sentence. âI want pen and paper,â she said, as if she talked like that every day.
The nurseâs eyes widened. âIâll ask Nurse Diamond.â
âWe donât get pens,â Frank called from the pay phone. âTheyâre afraid youâll stick the tip through your wrist or up your nose into your brain or something.â
A few minutes later Gail arrived, red binder under one arm. âLucy, itâs so nice to see you feeling better! And it sounds like youâre finally ready to talk to your doctorâdonât you think?â
Daniel Kepler, the youngest of the staff psychiatrists, dressed like an extra in the recent movie Wall Street: sandy hair slicked back, his tie a startling red. When he arrived at Lucy Doeâs room, she was absorbed with the notepad in her lap, her reward for agreeing to see him. When he finally got her attention, he asked her to put the pads aside; instead, she agreed to let them lay still in her lap.
The doctor asked Lucy to touch his finger, then her nose, then his finger, then her nose: then he watched the young womanâs eyes follow his finger as he traced a wide arc in the air. Lucy laughed.
âWhatâs so funny?â
âThe music. Mozart. I think, itâs in two. Zauberflöte?â Kepler turned and wrote in his own small spiral notebook.
She laughed harder. âNo, no! Youâre a conductor, get it?â
Kepler wrote all neurological signs normal, but tangential thought patterns. She responded docilely when asked about the food, the temperature of the ward. Then the doctor risked it, asked her name, using the same smooth voice, smooth enough for a TV commercial.
Lucy shook her head. âI told youâShem the Penman. Youâd better find some more abcedminded practitioner to talk to meâNo, thatâs a-b-c-e-d minded, there, there now youâve got it, scribbledehobble!â
Kepler was writing quickly, in large aggressive strokes. MPD with schizoid features?
When he left, she turned again to her large drawing tablet, writing with the long, very soft pencil they had given herâmore like a crayon or pastel stick.
A quick rap on the door and Gail Ryan entered, not waiting for a response. âComing to group this afternoon?â Her voice was energetic, verging on frantic.
Lucyâs back stiffened. âWill we sing?â
Gailâs smile was a wide, high-caffeine grin. âNo, this morning weâre just going to do a little movement.â She waved both arms, to demonstrate.
âI used to love gymnastics,â Lucy said. âI could do the long jump.â
By the end of the sentence she was lying down and whispering the word âjump.â
Gail sat at the edge of Lucyâs bed. âIf you come,â she coaxed, âIâm sure youâll have a wonderful time.â
Lucy opened her eyes abruptly, this time speaking with a girlish lilt. âMy teacher danced better than Isadora Duncan herself,â she said. She sat up with a deep sigh, running her fingers through her hair. âAnd Samuel Beckett said I danced very well.â
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Gailâs report the next morning held a barely-suppressed laugh. âSo she gets up in the middle of group,â the therapist stood to demonstrate. âShe kind of leans back, one arm arching around, the other oneâs in the sling, it was ridiculous, she kept trying to demonstrate some special dance.â
âWhat did she say?â Anne-Marie asked, but she was interrupted by the dance therapy intern saying, âShe also got to show off her French . . . she kept saying over and over, Rythme et Couleur, ârhythm and color.â Her accent was pretty good.â
âItalian, French, what next?â Gailâs smile was faint, tolerant. âWhat a mess, what with Frank Morrison doing his Motown thing again . . .â
Steve grimaced. âGod, that man . . . is he cheeking his meds, or what?â
The head nurse sighed. âWe think so. Thatâs why Russell ordered the blood tests.â
âYou mean not swallowing?â asked Anne-Marie, yielding to the knowing smiles all around her.
âIâm curious to see how his blood levels turn out,â Gail said. âAs for Lucy Doe . . . so much for her so-called improvement.â
âWhat can we do to help her?â Anne-Marieâs voice sweet inquiry, her poised pen peeking from between her red curls.
Gail looked back down at the binder. âKepler might up her lithium. At least we seem to have stopped the crying, if not all the singing.â
âWhat do we do if the 21 days runs out and we still havenât found out who she is?â
âShe walks, Ms. Krieger. Into the streets, unless she tries to hurt herselfâthen we can try to find a judge to let us keep her.â Gailâs voice was stressed suddenly, a warrior preparing for a fight. âSpeaking of which, did anybody here actually see Frank Morrison smash that lamp against the dayroom wall?â
Â
âI know this one.â Frank Morrison led Lucy Doe into the dayroom, the former jogger following on slow, halting steps; he gestured for her to sit down on the sofa near the door, before he sat beside her. âI saw this movie with my wife, when I had one.â
âWell, donât tell us the ending, sâil-vous-plait.â Karen Hightower, a tall, elegantly dressed woman with beautifully applied eye makeup, let Shana comb her dyed red hair as they watched. Ever since her admission, Karen had guaranteed a steady stream of rented films at Chatham; she seemed to regard her stay at Pearlstone as a sort of extended restful vacation, while she recovered from the cuts on her wrists. On screen the Manhattan skyline appeared in gracious, black-and-white silhouette, the music of George Gershwin swelling below it.
âBoy, Lucy, you sure donât like the lunch around here,â said Shana. âYou eat anything besides the lettuce?â
âI eat the air, promise-crammed,â Lucy replied, slumping back in her seat. The television showed Woody Allenâs familiar, morose face in black and white shadow, his shoulders hunched as talked to a teenage girl.
âOh no, I didnât mean to rent this one,â Karen exclaimed. âI cannot watch that man any moreânot especially since le scandale,â an exaggerated French accent. She left abruptly, trailing the scent of Obsession behind her.
âHow old is that girl? Thirteen?â Shana always talked through movies; everyone was used to it. They watched Woody Allen walk through Central Park with the young woman, her dark eyes alive below strong black eyebrows. Shana pointed to the screen, and then to Lucy Doe. âLook at them eyebrows! Like yours, Lucy, like yours!â
Lucy Doe did not reply: her eyes filled, still fixed on the screen. She whispered something, but it was obscured by Rhapsody in Blue, so that out of her mouth instead seemed to come a low, throbbing piano melody.
âI never been to New York,â Shana continued. âHow about you?â
âHa! Been there?â Frank laughed. âI would venture to guess that a graceful young ladylike our Lucy usually lives in New York . . . she certainly doesnât seem bred in this burg. Am I right, Miss Doe?â
She nodded, closing her eyes; tears leaked out from under the black eyelashes. When she opened them again, the medication nurse was standing before her. âYou want something to take these with?â
âHey, can I have some?â Shana asked, loudly enough for several of the others to shush her. âCâmon Lucy, you know weâre supposed to share.â
Lucy received the pills in her palm, looking at them for a long moment before she took them and swallowed. She turned to Shana, her voice tight. âYou cannot take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal . . . except my life, except my life, except my life,â by the third repetition her voice was down to a whisper.
Frank watched as the nurse left, hurrying to unlock the door of a small side room, lined by shelves packed with thick binders. He turned to Lucy and whispered, âHurry look, sheâs writing it in your chart! âQuotes Shakespeare under stress.â No, sheâs probably writing âsuicidal ideation,â if I know them. They donât understand educated people.â
Lucy ignored him, staring at the screen. After a while, her face slackened as the medication took effect, the pupils dilating till they seemed to fill her eyes.
âYou lived there?â Shana pointed to a fancy brownstone, made dreamlike by the filmâs lighting. Then she looked at Dr. Kepler, who had just appeared behind Lucyâs chair. âShe lived in that fancy house!â
âLucy,â Dr. Kepler said, âcan you come with me a minute, so we can talk?â He remained standing behind her, but she kept her eyes fixed forward. âHow are you today?â
Lucy Doe reached for her neck and squeezed it, still facing the screen.
âI can get you something for that, if youâll come talk to me.â
âYou donât have a choice,â Frank explained. âThey pretend you do, but you donât.â
âFrank, please be quiet,â Kepler said impatiently.
Lucy finally lifted her head to look at him. âOh! Itâs you, the big white cat.â Her voice soft, relaxed, almost dreamlike. âThey said you were a doctor, but as long as youâre a cat, thatâs different.â She stood up, wobbling as if from the weight of the arm strapped to her chest, and followed him out of the dayroom.
Â
Lucy Doeâs room contained three neatly made beds, two of them vacant. Unlike most of the othersâ, it contained not a single personal item, no photographs or flowers or clothes.
âHow are you feeling today, Lucy?â
Lucy sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes closed; when she winced, Kepler called to a nurse, âBenadryl and orange juice, please . . . This should help your neck, Lucy. Howâs your rib?â
She lifted her shirt and showed him: the body still unnaturally thin, nipples and skin stretched tight over the ribs. She saw his eyes widen, and explained, âWhen youâre bled till youâre bone, it crops out in your flesh.â
âIs that why you got so thin, Lucy? Because you felt bad?â The secondary diagnosis of anorexia was no longer a question mark on Lucy Doeâs chart.
The singing jogger covered her face with her hands, fingertips buried in her hair; she closed her eyes, like a three-year-old hoping it would make him disappear. Kepler watched her from one of the empty beds until the nurse arrived with the Benadryl; then he tapped one of her knees, watched as she drank the orange juice.
Kepler sighed. âListen to me, Lucy.â
Lucy Doe responded by leaning forward, her blue eyes focused on his.
âAll I want, Lucy,â Kepler said, âis to help you get better. Thatâs the only reason Iâm sitting here. But I canât help you if you wonât talk to me or cooperate in groups.â
âGroups?â Lucy spat the word, standing unsteadily. âThey made me stop! Just when I was remembering Rythme et Couleur!â
Kepler was careful with the French words. âRythme? Couleur?â
âI cried a month of tears when I had to leave, you know.â
Keplerâs right hand twitched, preparing his ballpoint pen. âThen why did you? Why did you leave Rythme et Couleur?â
Lucy looked down at the floor. âBabbo needed me.â
âBabbo? Who is that?â
âMy father, the famous Irish writer.â
Kepler finally opened his tiny spiral pad, writing furious short strokes. âWhat do other people call him, Lucy?â
âSender: Boston, Mass.â The girl spat the words as if in heresy or rage. She extended her leg and bent over it, a classic runnerâs stretch. âWhat is his name, what is your name, the cool cool water of her Christian name. Dick and Nicole equals âDicole.ââ
âWhoâs Nicole, Lucy? Is that you?â
âOh for Godâs sake, of course it is. Nicole Diver, havenât you heard of us?â Lucy lay on her back, ignoring him.
Dr. Kepler sat up straight and wrote Nicole Diver on his legal pad. âAny other names I could use for you, Lucy?â
The silence was so long, he thought she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Finally Lucy rolled over to face him, and whispered, âChristine Beauchamp.â
âCan you spell that?â
âIssy-la-Chappelle. Sally. Ophelia. Nuvoletta. Shem the Penman.â The chant a song, breathy like her opera excerpts: then her eyes did close, and she retreated from him entirely, her body flaccid, her fingertips brushing the gray steel of the bedframe.
The silence was filled by Gershwin music punctuated by Shanaâs loud voice; by the competing Mozart coming from the rear dayroom; by Karen Hightower, crying in her private therapy session next door.
Kepler could feel Karenâs doctor waiting it out, just as he himself was doing; but the cries just escalated until they seemed to fill the room, became the cries that could no longer come from the catatonic Lucy.
Â
âNicole Diver! Thatâs F. Scott Fitzgerald,â Anne-Marie exclaimed the next morning. âTender is the Night. Maybe heâs the famous Irish writer?â
The air was thick with strong coffee: these heavy-caffeine briefings always echoed the students recovering from partying or studying, older staff from trying to juggle multiple responsibilities. Anne-Marie stuck chastely to her apple juice, sipped delicately with a straw from a glass bottle.
âInteresting,â Gail wrote a quick note in the margin of the daily report. âBut they already checked, and thereâs neither a Nicole Diver or Christine Beauchamp in the phone book or registered at any of the universities . . . Probably Christineâs just another name, sheâs using, for one of her personalities.â
âWhat a mess!â the head nurse exclaimed. âIâve never heard of an MPD with such strong psychotic symptomatologyâas if one or two of the selves were schizophrenic.â
âI know, this is the case of the dancing diagnosis.â Gail drained her coffee mug in one quick gesture. âThereâs even suspicion of malingeringâthat for her own reasons, sheâs somehow faking the whole thing.â
âFaking catatonia?â
Gail sighed. âSounds unlikely to me, too. But until we get a diagnosis, thereâs a lot that canât happen . . . So Kepler has suggested lowering the Prolixin and the lithium, and see what happens; I think the judge will give us another sixty days with her, perhaps under the âgravely disabledâ clause. I certainly wouldnât trust her to care for herself.â
âThen what?â asked Clay Jones, a newer nurse.
âWell, we finally got the evoked potentials test scheduledâthatâs often a more definitive diagnostic for schizophrenia. Meanwhile, needless to sayââ Gail made a dismissive gestureââsheâs down at Level E.â She wrote Lucy Doeâs name in one of the intersecting triangles that made up the daily chart, assigning each patient to the right groupâor, as in Lucyâs case, consigning the lowest functioning to some never-never land of To Be Watched Carefully.
Â
Karen Hightower ran a carefully polished fingernail over the croissant on her breakfast tray. âI didnât order a croissant,â she said loudly in a faux French accent. âI would never order something so high in fat. What are you all trying to do to me?â
The dietary aide pointed to the menu sitting next to the tray. âThat looks like youâre writing. See, you wrote no butter. And there it is, you circled croissant.â
âWell, I never.â Karen folded her arms. âYou donât even make good croissant around here. Iâd more readily order something likeâoh, an ice cream sundae!â She pointed to the mural on the wall just above Lucy Doeâs head, a huge collage made by the âlow-functioningâ group during art class. Lucy Doe ignored them both, head bent to her tray.
Across the top was the word âSummer,â above four or five distinct groups of clippings from magazines: balloons, rock and roll stars, ice cream sundaes, and many, many fast cars and womenâbeach bunnies from lemonade ads, elegant fashion models cut out from Vogue or Elle. Next to one of the models, three words collaged together: âKEEPING Magnanimous Women.
âAwful quiet in here this morning,â Frank Morrison said as he walked in. âWhereâs Shana?â
âSheâs in seclusion,â said the dietary aide.
âIn seclusion? Since when?â Frank demanded.
âLast night. And donât ask me why, I couldnât tell you even if I knew.â
âSeclusion?â Lucy Doeâs eyes widened. âWhere is that?â
Frank laughed. âNow thereâs a hospital virgin. If Shana were here, sheâd be dancing around the room singing, she doesnât know about seclusion, she doesnât know about seclusion!â
Karen Hightower spoke softly. âHoney, seclusion is a little room with soft walls and a mattress on the floor. They put you there if you do something like try to climb out the window, make the nurses angry.â She stretched an arm to the ceiling. âItâs a good place for a nap, anyway.â
âIâm gonna ask a nurse why she was put in there,â Frank said. âIf all she did was talk back to a doctor, itâs a violation of patientsâ rights and Iâll talk to my lawyer. Sheâs coming this afternoon anyway, to talk about my lawsuit against the University of Maryland.â He leaned against the mural, his elbow touching two phrases collaged together: âTRUE BELIEVER to make it on their own.â
After breakfast, Frank and Karen stopped at the nursesâ station as they entered Chatham, while the others, including Lucy Doe, went to the dayroom and watched TV, pretending not to listen.
âWhen did she go in? Last night?â The nurse looked puzzled. âI just came on, let me check.â She read the chart carefully, then saying in a neutral tone, âSometimes Shana gets overexcited. She doesnât know how to be quiet. And she . . . makes sexual overtures when itâs quite inappropriate. So we think itâs better for her to be somewhere where she can just calm down. âAh,â said Karen, âI see.â
âQuite inappropriate,â Frank repeated the phrase loudly. âIsnât that what you call hypersexual? I got called that last time I was in here, just for kissing that Italian girl at the end of the hall.â His voice, trained for teaching, filled the hallway despite Karenâs best efforts to shush him. In the dayroom, Lucy Doe was quietly hyperventilating, her crutch held-close like a long-missed child.
After the nurse had put away her charts, Frank went off to call his lawyer; Karen went into the dayroom, where Lucy Doe had started to cry. âAre you okay, Lucy? Feeling sorry for Shana?â
Lucy Doe lifted her head and stared at the nurse, her lips moving but forming no words.
Karen tried again. âItâs one of the things they just donât allow hereâthey donât let you fall in love.â She tossed her head, with a big dramatic sigh; Lucy Doe cried harder, then began to speak in a singsong chant.
âWhy, why, why . . . Weh, oh weh! Iâse so silly to be flowing but I no canna stay!â She drew her knees to her chin and kept sobbing. Karen stroked her hair, gently.
âNo touching, Karen, remember?â The nurse spoke quietly, but with the firmness of an elementary-school teacher. âYou know that by now.â
Karenâs eyes widened; she stood up in a huff and strode out of the room. âThey wonât even let me comfort a girl in love!â The nurse didnât follow her; instead, she squatted to face Lucy Doe.
âLucy?â the nurse tried softly, tentatively. Then, remembering the morning briefings, she tried, âNicole? Christine? Shem?â
That got the girl laughing, her head up. âLucia,â she said, still crying. âOnly Lucia, her little breaths and her climbing color.â Then she started to sing, this time leaving opera behind for a lower register, the soft raspy moaning sound of the blues.
Â
âOkay here we go, everybodyâs favorite TV show: the squares.â The doctor had dyed blonde hair and big doe eyes. Her nameplate said MERCEDES SOTO, M.D.; her heavily accented voice was soothing and merry at the same time, like that of a kindergarten teacher. Behind her head a window showed North Charles Street, black behemoth buses sharing a street with automobiles and slim racer bicycles: Baltimore, a small urban hospital.
Lucy Doe sat up straight, watching the street instead of the TV screen. A technician was busy attaching electrodes to her head, massaging her scalp with rough white adhesive. He made her turn her head to the attach the last one; Lucy reached up and traced the thin, curly wires, delicate as angel-hair pasta. âWhy?â
âJust a test, your doctor requested it a long time ago,â Dr. Soto stretched âlongâ with one slow, sensuous vowel. âA very popular machine, everybody in town want to get into this show. Now just look ahead, think about the weather or something, relax . . . no, no, no,, donât look at the weather, watch the TV.â
On the screen a hyperexcited chessboard: dozens of tiny squares in neat little rows, greyish-black and bluish white. Lucy lapsed into silence, the room filling with street sounds, lumbering buses and the conversations of undergraduates. The only sound in the room was the hysterical scratching of the EEG needle, as it recorded the girlâs neurologic response to the images.
Finally, Lucy sat up straight, pointed to the machine. âI know! Itâs the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black!â She turned, pointing to the yards of paper pouring onto the floor. âYes?â
Soto laughed. âNo, just a little old squiggle. Just a few more minutes.â
As if to amuse herself, the girl began to sing: the singing joggerâs soprano was audible only as a high-pitched extension of the âhmmmâ of the machine.
âAh! Spargi dâamaro pianto, il mio terrestre velo
Ah! châio spiri accanto a te . . . appresso a te!â
Each Ah! line sparked a string of attempted cadenzas, dwindling into air as they surpassed her range. Mercedes Soto listened, distracted momentarily by the half-understood words, punctuated by hiccups and gasps for breath. She scribbled notes on the bottom of the form.
Soto turned off the TV. âShowâs over! Now the noises.â She put a pair of earphones on Lucy Doeâs head, with large rubber cups that nestled in her hair.
Lucy stopped singing. âTheyâre too big,â she said, pointing to the speakers. âWe should use my Walkman. I run every day with its music . . . Bach or the blues.â
Soto waited until the patient had finished crying before she turned up the sounds. Lucy Doeâs eyes widened.
âScratch scratch!â She smiled, for the first time. âTin tin. Fin fin.â
Soto smiled back. âI know, them little scratchy sounds drive youââ she bit down on the word âcrazyâ just as her patient continued her recitation.
âWith regards from cinder Christinette!â Lucy bent and made notes in her little notepad.
Soto checked the printouts. âOkay honey, youâre done now. Iâll call for someone to come get you.â
In the van that took her back from Homewood Hospital, the girl kept her head down, singing and writing. Steve, who had accompanied her, looked down with interest. âWhat are you writing?â he asked.
She stopped singing to look up at him and say, âMy nonday diary, what else? Perhaps someday youâll read it.â
âPlanning on publishing it?â
âNo no no,â Lucy shook her head. âBut copies might end up in libraries, all over the world.â
Steve had begun to keep his own notebook: he wrote a note to Kepler, delusions of grandeur?
When they got to Pearlstone, Steve led Lucy along the path toward Chatham. As he unlocked the door, three women were standing in a clump by the nursesâ station, talking to Dr. Kepler. One was Nancy Hamilton, the police officer who had come to see Lucy a few times. The other two stared as they saw Lucy Doe enter, jerking a little with her cane, her chin-length hair still full of white adhesive.
Another woman was tall, nearly as thin as Lucy, in black Bermuda shorts, a loose black T-shirt and high-top laced black shoes. Her head was shaven, with an olive-complected scalp that matched her face and dark-lined eyes; she wore four earrings in one ear and large, carved ceramic African bracelets on each wrist. The otherâs long blonde hair was held back by a braid, her eyes alert behind oversized glasses.
Dr. Kepler was beside them, a half-suppressed smile on his lips. âIs that your roommate?â he asked the blonde woman, looking at Lucy Doe.
Lucy leaned against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she looked very, very tired. âRachel,â she said.
âOh, Molly!â Rachel ran forward and hugged her, holding tight for a minute or two. âWeâve been so worried about you!â Lucy DoeâMollyâbegan to shake, soundlessly.
When they separated, Dr. Kepler approached the patient with a genuine smile. âGood afternoon, Molly OâDonnell,â he said. âItâs nice to finally meet you.â He reached out his hand in greeting.
âYou know me better than they do,â Molly said slowly. âYou know Lucia . . . you know Shem.â It was then that she shouted, a sudden shock to all assembled, a wail that slammed against the corridor walls. âA hundred cares and a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me?â
The energy in the shout seemed to exhaust her; a nurse came by, but Kepler waved her away, let the bald woman approach Molly with careful steps.
Rachel took a deep breath. âIâve never heard James Joyce shouted like that. Her thesis in schoolââ She broke off and turned to her friend. âFelicia, do you have the Boston phone numbers?â
Felicia was still looking at Molly; she nodded, without turning her head. âI have Emmaâs number, anyway.â She looked over at Dr. Kepler. âCan Molly and I talk privately for a moment?â
Kepler looked disapprovingly from Feliciaâs bald head to Mollyâs tearful face. âOf course,â he said. âMolly, do you want to take Felicia into your room, or will the dayroom do?â
Molly raised an eyebrow and pointed at the dayroom, where Karen and the others were watching Wheel of Fortune; then she gestured to Felicia, pointing down the hall to her room. Rachel and Kepler followed at a discreet distance.
âSo how long have you known Molly?â Kepler leaned against the wall, his Visined eyes betraying a lack of sleep.
âLemme think . . . around this time last year, school was just getting started when she moved in.â Rachelâs eyes were focused on nothing, as if she could see that day she named. âI was happy to have another grad student in the house.â
Kepler looked down at his notes, reflectively. âStudying James Joyce,â he said softly, as if to himself. âJames Joyce, the famous Irish writer.â Mollyâs words from last week echoed against the glass, bypassing Rachel entirely. âAnd Lucia was Joyceâs daughter?â
Rachel nodded. âI canât believe youâve been calling her LucyââShe stopped as Felicia and Molly emerged from the room, Feliciaâs hand on Mollyâs shoulder.
âI want to take her home,â Felicia said to Kepler. âThatâs legal, isnât it?â
âDo you want that, Molly?â Kepler asked. âAre you sure?â
Molly turned her eyes on Kepler, her laugh bitter. âMolly is gone . . . you know better, calling me Lucy Doe.â
âFelicia!â Rachel went to Feliciaâs side, a stage whisper into her ear: âShouldnât we wait until her family comes?â
âWho, her alcoholic mother?â Feliciaâs back was tense. âWhoâs gonna cast the first stone?â
âAt least Emma,â Rachel said. âJust a few more days. Do you want to be responsible if she gets hurt again?â
And it was then that they heard it: Mollyâs song, first just as a faint whisper, then growing larger until they could make out the words. âAh, mi togli, eterno Iddio, questa vita disperata, che la morte e un ben per me, si, la morte e un ben per me.â Molly was no longer looking at any of them; she sang to the floor and the walls, the motes of sunlight making their way from the dayroom.
Felicia stared at the floor, its well-polished surface distorting her reflected face while elongating the African images on her bracelets. Then she looked from Rachel to Dr. Kepler. âOkay,â she said in a low voice. âYou win.â
Â
Usually, no one at Chatham took much notice of the sunriseâespecially in the summer, when it occurred at five-thirty a.m., just when the nurses on midnight shift were at their most overtired. Sunrise always came too early for most of the patients, still under the influence of their nighttime meds.
The morning after she received her new ID bracelet, Molly OâDonnell left her room at five oâclock and went to the rear dayroom, turning the radio to classical music. The night nurse wrote in her chart, Slept only 5 hours: li. level ok?
Molly stood by the window, her fingertips touching the glass; one of the aides sat on the sofa nearby, watching the sun rise on the hospital grounds for, he thought, the first time.
Beyond the weeping willows and hospital buildings the Maryland hills did not roll so much as ripple gently, distant highways and housing tracts teasing the idea of ancient sculptures carved into the land. The main building had huge plate-glass windows, protected now by special double shatter-resistant surfaces that did not reflect the sunlight so much as diffuse it, spinning rose and gold into pale yellows.
When the sun had finally illuminated the hills, Molly turned from the window and looked at the floor, her body still, fingertips shaking. âWhatâs the matter?â the aide asked. âItâs beautiful, isnât it?â
âWhere is she?â Molly asked.
âWhere is who, Molly?â
âLucia. I used to see her every morning, when I went running by the baseball stadium. Or by the waterâthe Inner Harbor, the Seine, swimming naked in the sea in Ireland. Where is she? I can help her, when she comes.â She pulled out of her pocket the old strip of plastic cut from her wrist the afternoon before, the one that read DOE, LUCY. âSee, this is hers.â
Then she turned back to the window, crossed her arms and lay them against the glass, to rest her chin. The aide moved closer, in case she intended a violent move. But she was only staring, her eyes urgent, searching, as if she could somehow bring her lost Lucia right into the dayroomâor else herself cross through the woods directly to the baseball stadium, from there to swim in some rough, unnamed Irish sea.
Chris Lombardi's novel blue:season is a disturbing book because many academic geniuses who also have mental illnesses might understand, even relate to this book.
Molly O'Donnell comes from a very intellectual family. Her father was fascinated with James Joyce. Unfortunately, he died of an aneurysm.
Molly, who was very close to her late father, deeply feels his loss. She decides to do her postgraduate thesis on Joyce and Finnegan's Wake. However, she becomes fascinated with the story of Lucia Joyce, James' daughter who suffered a mental breakdown, and spent much of her adult life in and out of mental institutions before she died in 1982. Her research into Lucia's life is so compelling that Molly begins to think of her, even seeing her. She has trouble separating herself from Lucia to the point that she ends up in a psychiatric hospital convinced that she is Joyce's daughter.
blue:season captures the voice of someone who is very brilliant, but clearly going through psychological turmoil. Lombardi handles the intelligence and fragility of such a character rather well. Molly's first person narration is full of literary references, quotes from songs and plays, and a stream of conscious thoughts where she rambles on and on, sometimes repeating herself. The writing style can be a difficult chore to read but it helps to characterize her thought process.Â
Of course this style is meant to echo the work of other writers like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and Joyce himself who often wrote about troubled characters and had psychological and emotional illnesses themselves. These writers and Lombardi were very interested in the human psyche and how the mind flickers about from one subject to another, how thoughts can be both vivid and confusing.Â
Molly's story alternates with that of her siblings and friends that want to discover why Molly turned out the way she did. Why would a brilliant vibrant woman suddenly require hospitalization? What happened to her to cause this? The discovery is somewhat pat and easy to guess especially since the narrative drops obvious clues beforehand. It also answers some questions about why Molly was so driven by the story of James and Lucia Joyce and how they echoed into her own life and led her down this unfortunate path.