Chapter Thirteen Marion
thirteen MARION
Marion went first to visit her female patients—minus Alice Sumner, who was now in Paul’s charge—and gave them the attention they needed, but her mind raced ahead. When it was time to visit Daniel, she couldn’t get there fast enough.
At his door, she stole a look through the window. He huddled on a single cot in his blue hospital-issued pyjama bottoms and a faded white T-shirt. The bed looked far too small for him. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he’d wrapped his arms around them. Someone had shaved his face, probably yesterday, and his eye was closed. Was he sleeping while sitting upright? She’d read men in combat could do seemingly impossible things like that when there were no other options. She knocked, saw his head lift, then let herself in.
“Mr. Neumann,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I—”
He turned his head slightly, regarding her. “Guess I’m the one with the good memory. You’re Dr. Hart. I am Major Neumann. Does that help?”
The deep purple bruising around his face had dulled to a sickly green-yellow, and the swelling was down. The cut on his lip was still there, but it was healing. He made no attempt to smile.
“I’m sorry, Major. May I come in and speak with you for a few minutes? Are you feeling up to a visitor?”
“How am I supposed to know? I say one thing and the people here say another, and they claim they know better. Whatever. Come on in.”
“How are you feeling?”
He lifted a shoulder then dropped it. “Sluggish from the drugs, but at least they haven’t chained me up again.”
“You were never chained.”
“Semantics, Doctor. I was cuffed. Just softer chains.” He moved lethargically, gestured to a chair by the door. “Come on in. Let’s get the party started.”
She took the seat, aware of his gaze on her the entire time.
“Major Neumann, I recently spoke with Dr. McKenny about your case. Do you remember him?”
“Vaguely. He thinks he’s smart, but he don’t know much.”
That startled her. “Dr. McKenny is a brilliant psychiatrist. To what are you referring?”
“Calling it as I see it. He kept asking what I was thinking, but I don’t think he understood the answers.” His voice was cool, composed. He didn’t seem to care. “So where is he today?”
“I requested to take over your case, and he has agreed.”
She let that sink in.
His back straightened against the wall, and he adjusted so he could look straight at her, not around his patch. “Why would you do that? I thought you were afraid of me.”
“Should I be?” She observed him closely, scouting for any sign of threat, but she saw only surprise, then concern.
“I don’t think so.” His tone had lightened, which was good. She’d caught his attention. “But I’ll be honest, I don’t know a lot. I got no real idea why I’m here.” His fingers crept over the black patch where his eye had once been. “This probably has something to do with it.”
“You don’t remember how that happened?”
“Not much.”
That was interesting. Dissociation often, but not always, included amnesia as a symptom.
“But you do remember some of it?”
It was like she’d flicked a light switch off, the way his expression dropped. There was a flash of… something feral, then it was gone. She briefly wondered if she should have come with protection, like Paul had suggested in his notes.
“No.”
She could be smart and stop there with this line of questioning. She could get help from an orderly, just in case. Or she could continue, and offer trust by doing so. Do something that scares you , Paul had said. So she kept going.
“The other day, you yelled at me to help you. You said you needed to get out and help someone. Do you remember that?”
He shook his head, nothing more. There it was, she thought. The nugget she needed to dig for. A mine in a dark field. If she dug at the wrong angle, it could explode.
She set her file on the floor, reaching for a more personal connection. “I want to get to know you better, Major. That’s the only way I can help you.”
“You think I need help?”
“You don’t?”
She was getting used to his one-sided shrug. It wasn’t a motion of not knowing or having no idea, it was a vague, defensive movement. He didn’t want to start this conversation, but he wasn’t stopping her.
“Why did you go to Vietnam? You’re Canadian. You didn’t have to go.”
“I did, though. I’m a man.”
“What does that mean? Just because you’re a man, that doesn’t mean you have to fight someone else’s war.”
His expression was one of annoyance. Exasperation, even. She supposed he had fought this particular battle before.
“Of course it does. It’s my duty to defend our country and fight for the underdog. My granddad lost a leg in World War One doing that, and my dad fought in the next one. I couldn’t just stay home and run the fish plant.”
“Is that your job? Running a fish plant?” She bent slightly, checking the notes on the floor. “You’re from Nova Scotia? I’ve never been there, but I have heard it’s lovely.”
He was all right with this line of questioning. The tension eased slightly from his brow. “My great-granddad started the plant, and the family has carried on the tradition.” His tone was calm, his voice gentle. The well-considered words were deliberate. “It’s done a lot for the community. Not a glamorous job. A city girl like you couldn’t take the stink for very long, I don’t think.”
“The city has its own smells,” she replied wryly, “but I imagine working with fish would be worse. I guess your family has had to do more since you’ve been gone.”
A spark of resentment. “They’re strong, my family. They don’t need me.”
“I didn’t mean to infer that they couldn’t survive without you. Nothing like that. I’m merely trying to get to know you. What did they think of you going to war?”
He dropped his chin to his chest and said nothing. Clearly, they had not been happy.
“How did you feel about their reaction?”
A weak shrug.
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Not unless someone contacted them. I sure didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“?‘Hey, Dad. It’s me. I’m in the nuthouse. How are you?’?” His brow lifted. “You think that would go over well?”
“They might want to be here for you. Do you plan to go home after all this is over?”
“I don’t think that far ahead, Doc. I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow. That’s as far as I go.”
Depression was no surprise, nor was fatalism. It could be a symptom, or it could simply be that he was unhappy in this place. She couldn’t blame him for either. She thought of her father, how he sometimes slumped in his old armchair in the corner of the room, staring silently at the floor, looking like he would rather be dead than exist another moment. The next morning, he’d be himself again, asking if she’d like to go out for ice cream. Maybe take in a ball game. What must it be like to swing to such extremes with no control?
“You said your father and grandfather both served. Did you ever speak with them about their experiences?”
“Grandpa’s from that older, tougher generation. He could be run over by a tank and not complain about it. Dad doesn’t talk about his war, either.”
How many men lived with that ache within, the furious buildup of emotions and no way to release them? Who had decided that men should not cry? One of the more asinine societal values, in her opinion. Then again, she supposed a man possessing enough courage to face a charging predator without sobbing with fear had merit. Who else would protect the families?
“Do you feel like talking about Vietnam?”
He met her gaze, wary. “What do you want to know?”
“Always simplest to start with the weather. I hear it’s hot.”
He adjusted his position on the bed, letting his shoulders sag a little. “When I first got there, I stepped out of the plane and it felt like I walked into a wall of steam. I couldn’t breathe. You want to swim to cool off, but even the river water is hot.” One eyebrow twitched with humour. “Beer’s hot, too. More like soup than beer. But we drank it like water anyway. I was just starting to get used to the heat when the monsoons hit. The rain didn’t make it any cooler, just harder to get around.”
There were so many things she wanted to ask, but she had to tread carefully. Not unlike him, out in the jungle. She decided to hold off on asking him about combat. He would tell her what he needed to tell her when he was ready, and not before.
“The cool air must be nice now that you’re back. At night, especially. I always sleep better when it’s cool.”
Any trace of softness left his face. “Don’t know if you noticed, but sleeping isn’t my problem. I just stick out my arm and they knock me out.”
“I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate of me.” She hugged her arms around her, suddenly chilled by the small room. “Are you warm enough in here?”
“I don’t feel much anymore.”
“You’ve probably felt more than your share,” she said gently.
His reaction was slight, but she saw it. “You’re talking about my eye.”
“Well, that, and other things. I imagine you’ve seen awful things. That’s got to hurt inside and out.”
That little shrug. He wasn’t taking the bait, but he was testing her a little. “I’m kinda numb all over.”
She felt a pull, an invitation in his tone. He wasn’t speaking purely of physical sensations. And he hadn’t chased her off as her father had; instead, Daniel had shown her a crack of light under a door, if only she could find the right key.
She moved on. “I know you aren’t fond of the sedatives you’ve been given, but do they help at all? Do they take away any of the pain?”
“They knock me out. I feel nothing,” he said flatly.
“I have heard that on rare occasions, sedation can encourage other dreams. Of better times.”
“I haven’t seen anything good for a long time.”
“Can we talk about the episodes you experience when you’re asleep naturally? The nurses report you shouting in your sleep. Do you remember what you see or feel when that is happening?”
She could practically see him thinking through the question, then seeking the right response. Instinct told Marion that any answer he gave to that would be reluctant. He wanted to deny that he had any trauma at all. That what had happened was a part of war, and he accepted it. And yet, his hesitation suggested that a part of him wavered. Deep inside, he cradled a fragile glimmer of hope. If he shared his memories with her, would the pain extinguish itself? Or would talking about what happened supply the oxygen it needed to burn even hotter?
He wouldn’t meet her eyes when he spoke at last. “I don’t know.”
“That’s all right. Do you know if you had vivid dreams when you were a child? Did your parents ever tell you that you yelled in your sleep?”
He shook his head, but he did not slam the door on her questions.
She had to be cautious, take her time. She could be neither overly compassionate nor clinically objective. Neither insincere nor weak. She had to help him believe in her so she could give him the strength he needed to heal.
“You might not remember clearly,” she said, “but I get a feeling that you sense something, even under medication meant to dull it. Even if it seems strange, I would like you to describe whatever it is to me, if you can.”
He hesitated, thinking it through. “I sense something, yeah,” he said slowly. “But it’s not real. It’s like… It’s like someone took a brush to one of my grandma’s paintings before the paint was dry. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s a nightmare.”
“Let’s talk about when you’re awake. The reason you were initially restrained and heavily sedated was because you were violent and ranting when you were awake. And yet right now, you’re not sedated and you’re quiet. How do you feel at this moment?”
“Everything’s normal—at least, I think it is. I feel like me. Like I always did, I think, except I’m always pissed off these days. And confused, I guess.”
“Reasonable. What about during those other times, when the nurses felt you needed restraints? I am aware that it’s difficult to talk about, but I want to understand your experience.”
“It’s hard to describe.” He cleared his throat. “Right now, I can describe everything in this place. The cheap cot, the stains on it, the two-inch tear in the blanket. But if you ask me another time, I might be in ’Nam. Wherever I am, it’s real. I know that, because it’s not just something I see and remember. I feel where I am. I’m in ’Nam, and I hear the guns and the bugs and my brothers talking, and I see every leaf and branch in the jungle, like I’m standing right there. I guess that sort of makes sense, because Vietnam’s in my bloodstream now.
“But what’s not clear to me is how I actually feel the heat of the air. When I see fire, I feel it scorching my skin. I smell the hair on my arms burning. When it comes, I feel the urgency to do something, and I have no choice. It’s real.” His fists clenched on his lap. “But then someone comes in here and ties me down, and that’s when I realize none of it was real after all. The needle goes in, and it’s like I’m being sucked out of what I know is real, even though I also know it isn’t.”
She was surprised by how open he was about his confusion and his hallucinations. Maybe her theory had been wrong, imagining that a man in Daniel’s position might construct a defensive wall in his mind. He wasn’t trying to hide anything from her. Not that she could tell, at least.
He dropped his chin. “I gotta be crazy, talking like that.”
“No, Major. Not at all. It’s actually very healthy to be able to explain something that complex. Have you heard of ‘phantom limb’ syndrome? When a person still feels a limb even after it has been amputated? It’s similar to that, in a way.”
“My grandpa still feels his leg, fifty years later. So strange.”
“Exactly. It’s no longer there. Nevertheless, it’s real, like the heat on your skin. I’m curious. After the sedation is given, does everything go black right away, or does it feel like it’s fading, or moving farther away?”
Again, that thoughtful pause. “When I was a kid I fell down a well. I remember lying at the bottom, my leg broke and blood everywhere. I was afraid no one would find me. All I could see above me was blue sky and clouds, but my mind still saw everything else. You know what I mean? I could visualize my house, the dock, the boats, and I could see my old dog, but I wasn’t really there. That’s what the drugs here do to me. They remove me from what I know. They take me away from myself.” His chuckle was self-conscious. “None of that made any sense, even to me.”
“It made sense to me, Major.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” she assured him. “What you’re saying makes sense to me.”
He held her gaze, and she stilled, waiting. “Are you allowed to call me Daniel?”
“If you’d prefer it, yes.”
She would have to keep that quiet from Dr. Bernstein, but she was glad that he had asked. He was reaching out. He wanted to find out if he had lost his mind, but he could proceed only if he trusted her. Marion would give him every reason to trust her, and she would never betray that trust. She would be his partner through this struggle. It was up to her to drop a rope to help him climb out of the well where he’d fallen, so he could emerge back into familiar territory.
At the same time, she had not given him permission to use her first name. There had to exist a doctor-patient relationship. She would not tell him that she knew very little about why he was experiencing all this, that she’d not found existing research on the topic nor a definitive therapy. But her title would give him the illusion they both needed.
“How do you feel about the medicine we give you here, Daniel? Does it help?”
“I’d call it a Band-Aid.”
“What does that mean?”
His focus softened. “Maybe the meds are covering up what’s broken in me, so whatever it is can heal underneath and form a scab. Or maybe the Band-Aid is trapping moisture where it needs air, and the wound is getting infected.”
It was an apt metaphor.
“Do you feel like you’re broken?”
Shrug. “Do you?”
“I guess we won’t know for sure until the Band-Aid’s removed,” she said. “I’m going to reduce the dosage bit by bit and observe how you do. I obviously can’t completely remove the sedatives. Not yet, anyway. You tend to get physical during your less-than-lucid moments. I hope that we can get to a point where you are able to determine what is real and what is a hallucination—”
“It never feels like a hallucination.”
“I understand. I do. But what you are experiencing is not what we would call a memory, not really. Memories are not typically that vivid. At the same time, what you see is not currently happening to you. When it happens, I want you to label it as a hallucination. Can you agree with me on that? When we recognize what they are, and give them a name, we get a little distance from them. From there, we can work toward helping to ease them. You may not be able to adjust your thinking while it’s happening, but when the episode is done, I would like you to remind yourself that it was a hallucination. Every time. Until you believe it.”
“I see what you’re doing. Okay, yeah.”
She reached for his chart and wrote some of her initial thoughts as well as a new directive for the barbiturates. Then she set the clipboard back on the floor and sat back.
“How does it feel to be back over here?”
“You mean stuck in this closet of a room by myself with needle holes in my arm? Can’t say it’s the best place for me.”
“My question was poorly worded. I was wondering how you felt being here in Canada versus in Vietnam.”
“I haven’t seen much of Canada since I’ve been here, have I? It sure is quiet in this place, until some looney goes off in the hallway or something.” He exhaled. “But I know what you’re asking. It’s strange. When you’re over there, you miss your family. When you’re here, you want to be there again.”
“Even though you could easily be killed in that environment? You were there for a year. You know the fragility of human life. You’ve seen the worst of it, I imagine.”
“I have, and I do know it. But I miss my unit. I want to be with them.”
It was generally understood that if someone insisted on repeating an action that had already proven to be detrimental, even harmful to them, there might exist a type of psychological disorder. Daniel wanted to go back to a world that had taken his eye and nearly killed him, but Marion wasn’t certain why. Was that actually a disorder, or was it something else?
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Why would you choose to go back to a place that has a high probability of killing you?”
“It’s not the place, Doctor. And no, I don’t have a death wish. It’s my unit. We may not all like each other, but we’re brothers. When I was in country, I knew everything about those guys, and they knew me. We were family. I knew who I was, and where I fit in.” He hesitated. “Where am I now?”
She felt a lurch in her chest, seeing his eye suddenly shine, but she let him finish.
“My brothers need me. And I need them. That’s why I have to go back.”