Call Me Zelda (4 page)

“Might I ask why that is your opinion?” he said.

I faltered a little. I couldn’t let on how upset I was. My nausea, elevated heart rate, flashbacks, and now nightmares caused me serious alarm. If I continued with Zelda, how much worse would it get?

“I just feel that someone better versed in dementia praecox might help her more,” I lied. “She is extremely fragile, by my assessment, and would benefit from Nurse Thompson or even Nurse Lombard—women more maternal by age. Women with whom Zelda might feel safe and nurtured.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” he said. “Age makes no difference. You exude as much maternal warmth at thirty-five years of age as Nurses Thompson and Lombard in their fifties, and you don’t even have children.”

I flinched and hoped he didn’t perceive it.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to stay with her,” he continued. “If for no other reason than she calls for you often in the night.”

I was startled by this. “Pardon me?”

“Yes, the night nurse recorded that Mrs. Fitzgerald wouldn’t allow her to touch her, take her vitals, or interact with her in any way. She wants you.”

I was at a loss. I never expected that Zelda would have thought twice about me once my shift was over, because she often paid me no attention. In the weeks that she’d been here, she had not even been able to complete a full therapy session. She was too volatile and unsettled. Hearing that she called for me softened me, and I nodded.

“Good,” said Dr. Meyer.

I prepared to leave the room when he stopped me.

“Are you all right, Nurse Howard?” he asked. “Is anything bothering
you
?”

I looked at my hands, mindful of keeping them still and folded over each other. My heart hammered so hard in my chest it threatened to betray me. Meyer knew nothing of my past. He was entirely professional and made no attempt to get to know his staff outside of the hospital. It was why I liked working for him.

“No, Dr. Meyer.”

“Very well. I’ll see you and Mrs. Fitzgerald at eleven o’clock for counseling.”

T
here is nothing that underlines an uncomfortable silence as much as a ticking clock.

We sat in Dr. Meyer’s study in the same formation as the day
of Zelda’s admittance, with one Fitzgerald traded for another. Zelda did not tremble or shake as Mr. Fitzgerald had done. She did not look pale or sweaty. Her features were relaxed. Only her fingers picking at her nails and occasionally reaching up to scratch a patch of red skin betrayed her facade.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Dr. Meyer.

“Zelda,” I interrupted. “She prefers to be called Zelda.”

Zelda flicked a smile at me, then turned her attention to the window just over Dr. Squires’s shoulder.

“Zelda,” Meyer said, looking slightly aggravated at the reminder, “Dr. Squires is a resident here and will be handling your case along with me and Nurse Howard.”

“I hope they’ll have tomato sandwiches at lunch,” said Zelda. “I adore tomato sandwiches and lemonade. It’s all I ate in Alabama.”

Dr. Meyer furrowed his brow, but Dr. Squires, a young, fresh-faced resident with a kindly countenance, picked up Zelda’s thread.

“And could you tell us a bit about your childhood in Alabama?” asked Dr. Squires, pencil poised, a look of alert interest on her face.

Too soon
, I thought.

Zelda ignored Dr. Squires’s question.

“I’m also keen on cucumbers,” Zelda said. “Cucumber sandwiches are a good, clean meal. I like clean foods. Clean people.”

“And did your mother keep a clean house?” asked Dr. Squires.

What a ridiculous question.
I looked from her to Dr. Meyer and saw he thought the same.

“Zelda,” said Dr. Meyer, “if you’d prefer not to speak about your childhood, perhaps you can tell us about your thoughts on your diagnosis from Valmont.”

“You know very well what my diagnosis is.”

Dr. Meyer studied her for a moment. “Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to speak of your illness at this time?”

Again, the ticking clock.

Dr. Squires sat up straighter in her chair and started to write something on her notepad, but reconsidered and placed her pencil on the desk. Dr. Meyer did not fidget. He stared directly at Zelda, waiting her out. It seemed that an eternity passed before she finally spoke.

“It’s been a pleasure sitting with you all this morning,” said Zelda, “but I’ll require a bit of rest before lunch. Do you think they’ll serve tomato sandwiches?”

Dr. Meyer’s face was unreadable, but the air felt as if Zelda had won some unspoken confrontation.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he said. “We want you to feel rested and comfortable while you are here.”

Zelda stood and walked out of the room, victorious.

W
hen my shift ended, I went to Zelda’s room to wish her a good night. She sat in the dark, staring at the door with her papers on her lap.

“Zelda,” I said. “I have to go. I hope you have a nice evening.”

The light from the hallway cast a ghostly pallor across her face. Her eyes appeared as black as marbles. She could have been an actor in a haunted house, and I felt goose bumps rise on my arms.

“May I turn on the light for you?” I asked.

She did not respond at first, but blinked her eyes rapidly. When she finally made eye contact with me, her gaze looked somehow more normal. Perhaps it was just the light from the hallway contracting her pupils.

“My eyes hurt,” she said.

“Here,” I said, going to the small lamp on the table by the window. “I’ll turn on a low light. Then you can read or write a little before dinner.”

I returned to the door. “Well, good night, Zelda.”

I moved to leave, but she called me back.

“Anna.” Her voice shook. “Will you stay with me tonight, at least until I go to bed?”

I was touched by her request. I had spent many nights with patients during my old days at Walter Reed General Hospital, long after my shift had ended. Grieving families had often kept me tethered to bedsides while their loved ones passed on. It had been a long time, however, since I had felt compelled or anyone had asked. I was sure Zelda’s night nurse wouldn’t mind the help.

“Yes, I think that would be fine,” I said. “Just until you go to bed.”

Her face relaxed and she smiled at me with gratitude.

I led her to dinner, helped her bathe, and read to her a bit before lights-out. Dr. Meyer was pleased that she trusted me so much, and Nurse Wilson was glad to have a lighter caseload. And I felt good to be needed by someone.

By eight o’clock, however, my back ached and my skin longed to be free of the starched uniform. Mercifully, Zelda’s eyes grew heavy, and within minutes of starting her book,
Modern French Painters
, she was sound asleep. Her eyelashes rested on her cheeks like a girl’s, and I was overcome with pity for this child-woman who had broken down so far that she needed to live apart from her husband and daughter in a sanitarium. I hoped with all of my heart that we’d be able to restore her to some version of her better self so she could live normally.

I knew the pain of living without. I often thought grief was like madness—the lack of control, the overwhelming waves of emotion with unexpected triggers, breathlessness, night sweats, nightmares, and the feeling of utter aloneness, like that of standing on a ledge in a violent wind.

I shivered.

An orderly walked by, breaking the spell, and I set the book on the bedside table. When I stood, I placed my hand on Zelda’s hair and silently wished her good dreams.

Mercifully, when I got home and slept that night, there were no nightmares to plague me.

THREE

Zelda looped her arm through mine and pointed at the moldings and chandeliers as we walked to morning therapy. I was pleased about the suggestion of intimacy and trust she exhibited by initiating physical contact with me. She had also regained the light in her eyes, which helped me forget how like my own they were.

“This place is like the Biltmore Hotel, Anna, and we will go there together so I can show you.”

“I’ve never taken time to sightsee in New York City.”

She stopped and grabbed me on the shoulders. “Never?”

“Not once,” I said.

“Then I’d better hurry up and get well so I can show you around.”

She relooped her arm through mine as if we were two friends on a social outing. We stepped through the door to Dr. Meyer’s office, where he sat scribbling notes and Dr. Squires waited like an eager student. Dr. Meyer looked up, his face unreadable.

“You are utterly reliable, Dr. Meyer,” said Zelda. “A wise owl in a tree. A trusty bookend.”

I’d hoped to see a flicker of a smile cross Meyer’s face, but his
expression remained inaccessible. That was disappointing. I thought he’d get further with a woman like Zelda by responding positively to her at least a bit.

As the meeting progressed, Zelda passed from topic to topic, dodging questions as a politician would, but with less concern for keeping up appearances. Her hands fluttered like skittish birds while she talked in her low Southern voice. She crossed and uncrossed her shapely, taut legs, allowing them to peek out of her skirt where she had missed several buttonholes. She leaned conspiratorially toward whomever she addressed in conversation.

“Don’t be afraid to smile, Dr. Meyer,” said Zelda. She rested her elbows on his desk and leaned into him as much as the furniture allowed. He looked at her with a mixture of superiority and tolerance, as one would a precocious child.

“It’s a pity you don’t have dances here,” she said. “The way the men love me, my card would be double-full for every song. I might even save a whole dance for you.” She winked at Meyer. As I looked away to suppress a smile, I saw Dr. Squires’s mouth pop open like a fish’s. She quickly clamped it shut.

I enjoyed watching the exchange and found myself silently rooting for Zelda, though I didn’t understand why. Dr. Meyer was a superb physician, widely respected by patients and colleagues alike. Perhaps the underlying sense of unease I felt now in the ward showed that Meyer’s facade was, in fact, penetrable and that a steady temper in any person at all times was impossible. This both comforted me and unsettled me, and watching their exchange play out was morbidly fascinating.

“Zelda,” said Dr. Meyer. “What are your personal goals?”

She slouched in her chair and wrapped the fingers of her right hand around her left, slowly bending her hand back along the wrist until it looked as if it would snap. She looked out the window. The ticking clock reminded us it was there.

“Not longevity,” she said. “Not peace. Not some chloroformed happiness. Not tranquillity. They are all such
common
goals, aren’t they, Dr. Meyer?”

“Convention does not suit you,” he said.

“No. I want audacity. High color. Total independence.”

“No one can exist in a totally independent state, Zelda,” said Dr. Meyer. “Nor would I suspect that they would ever really wish to.”

Zelda cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. “Do you know that I once called the fire department as a child and told them I saw a girl stranded on a roof, just before I climbed onto that roof and waited for them to come and get me?”