On Isabella Street

Chapter Five Marion

five MARION

With her mind on the day ahead, Marion stepped into the Administrative Building and greeted Miss Prentice, who was sporting a bright new shade of pink lipstick.

“Very pretty colour,” Marion said, smiling at her.

“You think so? I saw it behind the counter at Eaton’s, and the girl said it suited me.”

“It certainly does,” Marion replied, picking up her charts. “Any messages for me?”

“Not this morning, Dr. Hart.”

Down the corridor, Dr. Bernstein was frowning at his work under a flickering lamp. Marion made a mental note to mention to Miss Prentice that the old doctor needed a new bulb.

“Good morning, Barbara,” she said, knocking on the first door to her left. “It’s Dr. Hart. May I come in?”

The door was already partially ajar, which Marion took as a positive sign. Barbara was normally an extremely private person.

“All right,” came a reluctant response.

A nurse was with Barbara when she entered. “Good morning, Doctor. I’m just finishing here.” She rolled her eyes for Marion to see, then muttered, “It’s one of those mornings. Full moon or something.”

That could mean practically anything in a place like this, Marion thought, pulling a chair to Barbara’s bedside.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m awfully concerned, Dr. Hart. They say I am to have a roommate soon. I don’t want a roommate.”

“Most people here have roommates. The hospital is undergoing changes,” Marion said, trying not to say too much and send Barbara reeling. “We talked about this before, remember? We are moving from this facility to more open-community health centres, and the administration is now moving patients around to make that possible. I know you don’t like change, but you’ve been fortunate so far.”

Reasoning didn’t help. Barbara’s eyes shone. “What if she and I don’t get along?”

Marion would have to monitor the situation. Barbara had been doing well recently, not showing acute signs of anxiety, but her stricken expression was a little concerning.

“Barbara, I have not met your new roommate yet, but they would not put her with you if they do not believe you would be a good match. I understand it can be an anxious time, meeting new people, but you have gotten very good at managing your emotions lately. Should we talk about this some more?”

“No. I’m all right.” She exhaled heavily. “I was thinking I might join the art therapy class this afternoon.”

“That would be an excellent activity for you. Some others have found it to be extremely helpful. I am looking forward to seeing what you create.”

Barbara scowled. “I said I was thinking about it. I don’t need added pressure from you.”

Next on Marion’s rounds was Alice Sumner. The young woman sat on her bed, sunlight beaming onto her, and yet Alice had draped an unfolded newspaper over her head. She seemed annoyed.

“Some weather we’re having,” she said, clearly put out. “I think there’s a leak in my ceiling. See it?”

The room was bone-dry. “Someone once said that ‘into every life a little rain must fall,’?” Marion prompted gently.

“?‘Some days are dark and dreary.’ Longfellow. That’s who said it.”

Marion knew that, but she also knew Alice liked to show off. She might be unhappy with the current state of the weather, but Marion was pleased with how her thoughts were staying on track.

“Why, you’re right,” she said. “Thank you, Alice. How are you feeling today?”

“Wet.”

“Warm enough?” Wary of Alice’s fists, Marion carefully tugged a blanket over the woman’s lap. Her fingers clamped onto its edge like claws.

“Nurse Agnes said we are having chocolate pudding later.”

“That sounds delicious. Do you like chocolate pudding?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to art therapy today? I understand Barbara might go as well.”

As she’d hoped, Marion saw a solemn clarity settle over the girl’s expression. Alice liked to talk about what she knew, and she liked to suggest that she knew a lot. That was fine. Anything that kept Alice in the real world was helpful.

“I believe, Dr. Hart, that once Barbara sets her creative mind free through the medium of art, she will feel relief. I have experienced a similar awakening, you see.”

Beyond impressed with her patient’s sudden lucidity, Marion pretended to flip through Alice’s chart and write something down. The shift in her dosage must be helping. Her awareness and empathy suggested the group therapy was doing what it was supposed to do as well.

“Very perceptive, Alice. I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”

The newspaper on Alice’s head lowered slowly, then she blinked at her window. “Looks like the rain stopped.”

“It has.”

“I think it will be a good day, Dr. Hart.”

Marion smiled. “I think you’re right. Can you give me another word to describe how you’re feeling?”

That took a moment while Alice searched her memory. “Optimistic.”

“Oh, Alice. I love that word.”

Marion’s head was deep in her notes as she walked down the wide corridor then turned a corner, colliding into a solid chest. She jumped back, mortified.

“Dr. McKenny. I am so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Dr. Hart,” he said, laughter in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind at all if you made a conscious effort to bump into me more often.”

Her face burned.

“Actually, this is great timing,” he said, leaning against the wall and looking like a model in a magazine. “I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me one of these nights.”

This was not the first time Paul McKenny had asked her out. Marion knew she should be flattered. He was young and smart and terribly attractive. Nurses fluttered around him like little white moths, but Marion couldn’t get interested, no matter how she tried. She had graduated one year after Paul had, and she’d been aware of him the whole time. How could she not, the way he watched her? He’d even joined her at a small café one day, making himself comfortable and talking all about his life for a half hour. All she’d wanted was coffee and a quiet place to read. She had smiled and nodded in all the right places, but she kept wishing he’d move to another table. Everyone said Paul was exciting, always doing new things outside of hospital hours, like travelling, and whatever else. Marion thought he was as boring as dry toast.

“That’s not a good idea, Paul. You know. Mixing business with—”

“With pleasure?” he finished when she faltered. “Come on, Marion. Those are old-fashioned rules. Times, they are a-changing, didn’t you hear?”

“Bob Dylan,” Alice volunteered, wandering past them down the hall.

“There’s a great Italian restaurant nearby. Giorgio’s,” he said. “Do you know it? Best carbonara in the city. After, we’ll go to Yorkville and have some fun. Give me a good reason why we shouldn’t. Come on. You like me. Everyone likes me.”

Marion had run out of excuses. In the past, she’d claimed she was feeling sick or had a headache, whatever she could think of to put him off, but he kept on coming. Maybe he would tire of the chase if she went out this once.

“When?” she asked reluctantly.

“No time like the present. Thursday night work for you? Or do you feel a headache coming on?”

Of course he’d known she’d made those excuses up. He was a psychiatrist, for heaven’s sake. “No, Paul. I feel fine. Tomorrow sounds… fun.”

“Don’t strain yourself, Marion.” He chuckled. “Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself, if you allow it. I’ll take you to dinner, then we’ll hit the Riverboat. If you can still stand the sight of me by then, that is,” he said, flashing a perfect smile. He looked like he couldn’t imagine that ever happening.

“Fine,” she said, continuing to the old building. “You may pick me up at six thirty.”

Marion didn’t like to date. Or at least she hadn’t liked the few she’d been on. Trying to fake interest in someone else’s conversation was exhausting. She did that for a living all day long. If tomorrow went as she expected it would, Paul would talk about himself all night.

“I can do this. It’s just dinner,” she muttered to herself as she pulled open the door to Ward 6B.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Hart.”

“Hello, Burt. What day is it today?”

“Wednesday,” he announced gleefully. “Wednesday afternoon, because we had lunch.”

“Well done, Burt.”

“Are you going to see Big John?”

“Yes, I am.”

“He’s having a sad day, I think.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you for letting me know in advance.”

She wound her way through the room, dodging a couple of men who had planted themselves in the middle and appeared to have forgotten where they were. Along the way, she returned the chorus of “Hello, Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart,” with her own “Hello, Bruce, Francis, George,” and whoever else called out.

John sat at the far end of the room, as usual. Today he was alone, and he had turned his chair to face the glazed window, with its pattern of black metal bars. His chin hung over his chest.

Marion pulled up a chair and set it beside him. “Good afternoon, John,” she said. “Burt said you’re having a sad day. Can I do anything to help you?”

He lifted his face almost right away, not after his usual delay. His expression seemed brighter, though a string of drool hung from one corner of his mouth. She had been right about lowering his dosage.

“I want to go home.”

Her mind briefly went blank, she was so shocked to hear him speak in a complete sentence. If only she didn’t have to disappoint him. Whether or not the medicine was working, John did not have the physical or mental capacity to live outside of the institution. She planned to keep him in it as long as she could. She glanced at his chart out of habit, but she knew all the facts by heart. Big John had lived in this building for fifteen years. He had never left the premises, not even on a day pass, and no one had come to visit. He probably wouldn’t recognize his old home if he was standing on its front lawn.

There was something about this man that broke Marion’s heart. She tried to imagine him twenty years before, young and laughing and full of life. No one could have imagined he would end up here. But the little version of Big John had been struck by a car one day while riding his bicycle, and something had been damaged in his brain. He went from being a regular high school student to a maniac who stabbed the neighbour’s cat to death. Days later, he attacked his father, who landed in the hospital with stab wounds that barely missed his kidney. John didn’t remember doing either of those things.

If John went home, his family, if they agreed to take him in—which they wouldn’t—would have to monitor him constantly. Which they wouldn’t.

“What would you do there?” she asked.

“See all the leaves. Leaves are soft. I would touch them.” His hand moved sluggishly to his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and turned to her, waiting. “I want to drive Grandpa’s car.”

Marion reluctantly drew her lighter from her own pocket. She had never smoked, but many of the patients did, so she carried it around for them. They weren’t allowed to have their own lighters, for obvious reasons.

“John, do you remember what the doctor said about smoking? He said he was concerned about your cough and how it’s getting worse. Cigarettes are very bad for your health.”

He didn’t register the advice. She clicked the little flame to life and held it out.

“I have a rabbit,” he offered, a vague sort of smile lifting his mouth. “I forget its name.”

“That’s all right, John. We all forget things. We have many other things to remember.”

“I remember nothing.”

“That’s not true,” she assured him. “You remembered your rabbit, and you remembered the leaves. That’s not nothing. Let’s try an exercise, John. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Good. Now, tell me about your rabbit. What colour is he?”

“Brown,” he replied softly, sinking easily into the simple memory with the aid of his medications and his familiarity with the exercise.

“Can you imagine him on your front lawn right now? You can? That’s very good, John. What colour is that grass? That’s right. Can you feel the grass? It’s soft and cool, isn’t it? Now touch the rabbit. Stroke him gently down his back and tell me what his lovely brown fur feels like.”

She continued, keeping her voice in a soft, hypnotic cadence, taking him back to his childhood and the sensations he longed for. Everyone wanted that, didn’t they? To return to greener days without demands, days when one could lie back and appreciate the sunlight warming their skin without feeling like they should be somewhere else. To breathe in and out and imagine the whole world open around them, so that they became a part of the whole.

Marion craved that sometimes. Days in the sunshine with nothing on her mind, just the itch of the grass beneath her thighs, the tickle of an ant taking a shortcut over her knee, the bounce of a nearby robin tracking its meal. Smiling when her father came out to see her, walking in the comfortable lope she recognized so fondly. He was happy. He was calm.

“Hello, Bunny,” he had called her back then. Bunny .

In her memory, a cloud passed over the sun. The shadow stole her father’s easy smile, as it so often had. He spun on his heel, striding back to the house without another word.

John was rocking slightly. “Mother is shouting.” A frown creased his wide brow. “Mother took the rabbit. She’s crying.”

Alarms went off in Marion’s head. “Can you tell me why she’s crying?”

“The rabbit is floppy.” He smiled. “Wiggly. Like a worm.”

She took a deep breath, sweeping away her childhood memories. She was here for John, not herself.

“All right,” she said, trying not to visualize the poor rabbit. “Let’s move on. Your mother took the rabbit, but you are still on the grass. Now, the next part of the exercise is not about your memory. It’s something different. I want you to keep your eyes closed—”

“They are.”

“Good. Now lie down in the yard, and rest the palms of your hands on the grass. Feel the sun on your face. Doesn’t that feel good? Take a deep breath and imagine you are breathing in all that happy sunshine.”

John’s confusion was swiftly replaced with guileless calm.

“Good. When you feel ready, open your eyes. How do you feel?”

“I feel hungry. I’m going to leave now.”

“All right, John. You did very well today. I will see you later this week.”

“Okay.”

They turned from each other, then he called out, “Don’t forget, Dr. Hart. I want to go home tomorrow.”

To her shame, Marion left the ward and pretended she hadn’t heard him. A man with John’s problems should never be allowed to leave these walls; however, Dr. Bernstein and the board had gone against Marion’s advice and cleared him, based on his model behaviour—behaviour that was, of course, controlled by the barbiturates and the other medications he was on. These walls would soon come down. After John left this place, who would make sure that he took his medications? That he ate? That he slept in a warm place? Without those things, he could become a risk to the public.

When Marion thought about John’s future outside of the institute, she prickled with panic.

Done for the day, she walked down the wide corridor, dotted with patients talking among themselves, and let their conversations wash over her. Some were making sense, some made sense only to themselves. Already unnerved, Marion’s heart began to race, set off by a familiar fear that everyone here needed a part of her she couldn’t afford to share. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to flee.

She ducked around a corner, out of sight of the patients, and stopped walking. As she exhaled, tears filled her eyes. The nurse was right about the full moon, she told herself. She visualized it as she calmed, taking in the lunar lines and shadows, its perfect silver curve. Someday soon, the newspapers said, America would put a man up there. What would that be like? Cold, she imagined, consciously slowing her pulse. And quiet. So quiet.

BANG! The door to her left shook with impact, and a roar came from within. Startled, Marion peered through the window and saw Daniel Neumann, the man recently returned from Vietnam. He paced the small room like a lion in a cage, digging his fingers into his hair with frustration. When he turned, she stepped out of his view then lifted his chart and looked over Paul McKenny’s notes.

Acute situational maladjustment. Combat fatigue.

Caution advised. Unpredictable outbursts. History of violence.

When lucid, patient is intelligent. Recommend slow lifting of sedatives based on physical actions to further explore mental state.

“Acute situational maladjustment.” No wonder, she thought, studying the man through his window and recalling photographs of the war, both on the cover of Life magazine and in the news. She doubted anyone could return from that hell unscathed. His face was broken and bruised. His fury was a living thing barely contained. One day, tens of thousands of men would come home from Vietnam. How many with similar symptoms to Daniel’s? How could society possibly take care of them all?

At the back of his room, Daniel faced the wall, his hands braced against it like he was trying to shove it away.

“Let me out of here!” he yelled, lifting his face to the ceiling.

Marion sensed his anguish in the set of his shoulders, the flex of his back. So much pain. So much rage confined. She knew Paul was doing what he believed was the right thing for his patient, but suddenly she wanted to go in and speak with Daniel herself, somehow ease the agony that so obviously squeezed his soul with every breath. She wanted to work with him, not just stand by and observe.

Daniel spun, and his wild gaze locked with hers. She drew back with a gasp, but couldn’t look away from the dark bruises colouring his face. He strode toward the door and stopped only when his breath touched the glass, inches from her. She saw the intelligence Paul had noted in his chart, trapped behind a deep sense of urgency.

“Let me out,” he said firmly. His voice was muffled by the door, but she heard him clearly. “They need me.”

He didn’t shout, but his tone was definite. She could tell he believed to his soul what he was saying. She yearned to ask him about that, to find out what he needed and who needed him, but she could not carry out a conversation here in the corridor, through a door. And he wasn’t her patient, anyway.

“Please,” he implored, lowering his voice. “Please let me out. They need me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her heart aching. “I can’t help you.”

The rage was back, burning in his eyes. “But they’ll die! Call for air support!”

She heard the efficient tread of Nurse Thelma’s white shoes approaching from behind. She was accompanied by two burly orderlies, and Marion stepped out of their way. She said nothing, and they did not acknowledge her presence. Nurse Thelma’s key slid into the lock, and a wave of sympathy for the man within washed through Marion.

“Get me out of here!” Daniel shouted, desperate now. “They’ll die, damnit! They need help! I need to—” His voice dropped. “No! Please. Get off me. No more. I’ll be quiet. But if I can’t help them, they—”

Marion couldn’t make out what Nurse Thelma’s muffled voice was saying. The big orderlies crowded around Daniel, blocking her view, and she saw them struggle to gain control over him. Once Daniel was contained, they moved quickly, tying him down so the nurse could jab the needle into his arm. The sedative, Marion knew, would work fast.

In that moment, he looked directly at Marion, still standing uselessly in the doorway.

“Please,” he said, his voice dwindling to a whimper as the drug took hold. “They’ll die. Please send help.”

The pain in his voice was too sharp to ignore. It dug its hooks deep into her, anchoring itself to her heart. She couldn’t stop thinking about him as she left the building for the day.

On her way home, she stopped at Jack’s Variety Store to pick up a few things. The location was convenient, though the short blocks from Yonge Street to her place felt like a long way in bad weather. The little store had everything she needed, and she liked the owners a great deal. Tonight, she pulled open the door and smiled at Esther Weisbroad, the owner’s wife, standing by the counter. She was a sweet, quiet woman with tucked-back brown hair and an apologetic smile. Most of her vocabulary was Polish and Yiddish.

Marion had been shaken up on her first visit to the store. Esther was packing Marion’s groceries into a paper bag when her sweater sleeve had slid toward her elbow, revealing a dark smudge on her forearm. When she lifted her arm again, Marion peered closer and felt her stomach roll. It wasn’t a smudge at all, but a dark, hateful, twenty-year-old tattoo made up of six inked numbers. The easiest thing for Marion to do would have been to pretend she hadn’t seen the indelible mark, but she didn’t feel right doing that. As she paid for her groceries that night, Marion smiled gently at the woman. She told her she was very sorry for her past experiences, and that she hoped her life in Canada was a good one.

Today, Marion headed to the back of the store for eggs and milk. She passed Esther’s nine-year-old daughter, Roshelle, at the magazine rack, where she often dawdled—much to her mother’s chagrin. One of her two long brown braids had come partially undone, and Marion spied chocolate on the corners of her full lips.

“What are you reading?”

The little girl closed the cover of a bright yellow comic book, covered by a cartoon drawing of a puppy. “Scamp. He’s one of Lady and the Tramp ’s puppies. Scamp is very naughty.” She leaned intently toward Marion. “Sometimes he even talks to the junkyard dogs.”

Marion feigned horror and was about to ask more, when Esther’s scolding voice travelled over. “Roshelle! O kurcz?! Oy vey! ”

Roshelle’s shoulders jumped up to her ears, and she bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, Mama!” She gave Marion a guilty little smile, put the comic book back where it belonged, and skipped outside.

Marion set her eggs, milk, butter, bread, and jam on the counter then waited patiently for Esther. She was busy with another customer, a woman with a thick mess of chestnut hair falling over a stylish brown tweed suit.

“Just a minute. I have more in here,” the woman said, shaking her purse and peering inside.

She was young and quite pretty, but the quick glimpse Marion got of her profile made it obvious that she was not happy. There was a patchy red flush on her cheekbones and a definite redness around her eyes. Her mascara was mostly washed away.

“Oh, I know I have more in here,” she was muttering. She pulled her hand from her purse and opened it to reveal a few coins, but not enough.

“May I help?” Marion asked, her heart going out to her. She took out her wallet and paid the difference.

The woman turned, regarding her with wide, surprised eyes the colour of spring grass. Her fingers were shaking. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said with a sniff. “I’ve… I’ve just had, oh, the worst day at work. I got fired.”

There was the tug Marion always felt, the psychiatrist in her, wanting to know how she could help. But she was tired. It was time to close up for the day.

“There’s no need to thank me.” Marion had already calculated her own bill, so she put the correct amount on the counter, smiled at Esther, then slipped past the other woman. “I hope your evening gets better,” she called over her shoulder.

Marion hoped the same for herself, but it was not to be. Daniel’s plea filled her thoughts: the panic in his voice as the needle approached, and the way his face had melted into submission under the influence of the medication.

Let me out. They need me. They’ll die.

What was he seeing?

Daniel had a story he needed to tell. Something that was tearing him apart. He had stared at Marion with such hope in his tortured expression, and she had walked away without lifting a finger to help. She had a terrible sense that she had let him down in the worst way.

That’s when she remembered that her date with Paul McKenny was the next night. Paul was Daniel’s doctor. Maybe this was her chance to make things right.