Jill Emerson - The Trouble With Eden

“This is the only person on my side.”

“I see. And his name?”

“Peter Nicholas.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Vann. And his relationship with you?”

She hesitated. “Well, it’s no secret. We live together.”

“You live together.”

“We are lovers. I’m not ashamed of it. We are lovers and the whole world is against us.”

Warren took a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to Moeloth. The doctor unfolded it and studied. He read aloud, “Robin Vann, parents Harold and Gretchen, born November 17, 19—”

“That’s my daughter’s birth certificate, Dr. Moeloth. Petey, why did you give it to Warren? That’s my daughter’s certificate, Doctor.”

“Yes, of course. And your daughter is how old, Mrs. Vann?”

“She’ll be four years old in November. That’s what it says November 17th.”

“Yes, of course. November 17, 1949. What year is it now, Mrs. Vann?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sex — male. This is the birth certificate of your son, Mrs. Vann.”

“I don’t have a son.”

“I see.”

“Only God has sons. Daughters belong to the Devil. Everyone knows that.” She fought the panic in her voice. “He’s an actor, Dr. Moeloth. He doesn’t even have a beard. He looks like Benjamin Franklin. Look!”

She pulled Warren’s beard. He drew back after one fierce tug, and the two heavyset women in white moved easily to take hold of her arms.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, my God.”

He walked to her, saying that it was all right, that it would be all right. She said, “Oh, Petey, tell them. For God’s sake tell them!”

He reached her and took her hand. “Don’t worry.”

“Petey—”

“I’m Robin. It’s all right, Mom. Everything’s going to be all right.”

And he did not turn his eyes from hers. He let her hold his gaze, and his own expression did not change. That was the hardest part of all.

Warren was chatting easily with Moeloth. “An interesting personal mythology,” he was saying. “I only wish it would have been possible to persuade her to undergo therapy. But her refusal was consistent with her particular paranoia.” There were terms Peter did not understand; then Warren said, “There are names that will recur. Warren and Peter seem to have been former lovers of Mrs. Vann’s, but it’s unclear whether they existed other than in fantasy. They constitute a dualism for her, innocence, youth and age, good and evil — the poles seem to vary...”

Peter looked at Gretchen. She was standing a few yards away. The matrons were holding her arms but she was offering no resistance. She had fought them for a moment, fury dancing madly in her eyes, and then had suddenly gone completely acquiescent.

The nurse presented Peter with the clipboard. He signed the involuntary commitment papers, signing his name as Robin Vann and his relationship as son. The nurse moved off. Warren was still talking with Moeloth but Peter did not pay any attention. He let his eyes play around the area. Sunday was visitors’ day, and groups of people moved around the lawn. It was impossible to tell the patients from their relatives.

“Little firsthand experience with psychotics,” he heard Warren saying. “Occasional menopause psychosis and the usual run of neurotics.”

“I envy you,” Moeloth said.

“Oh? And I thought it was I who ought to envy you. It’s a rare day when I feel I’ve accomplished a thing. My patients improve or don’t and I can’t always convince myself that I’ve had any effect either way. I could as well have been a dermatologist.”

Moeloth chuckled. “Neurosis and dermatology. No one dies; no one ever gets well. Do you think we do much better? I like to think so but I couldn’t make much of a case for what we do. We keep them safe; we keep them comfortable; we keep them where they can’t do any harm. When their conditions are temporary we provide a place for them to recover. We release some who ought to stay and others who probably should not have been here in the first place. You know there’s little chance that we’ll help her at all.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Does the boy know?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re absolutely set against shock? Both insulin and ETS?”

“Yes.”

“Despite your lack of experience with psychotics? But I’m riot trying to argue you out of it. We find it useful. It’s valuable on an institutional basis. It controls. At times perhaps it disciplines. One does not want to admit as much, but it is so.”

No shock treatments, Peter thought. Definitely not that. They had agreed on that point at the beginning.

The nurse said something to Moeloth, who turned to Peter. “Robin, your mother would like to talk to you before they show her to her quarters.”

To her cell, he thought. He looked at Gretchen. She was smiling at him.

He walked toward her.

“Oh, Robin,” she said. “It’s all so difficult. I’ve been so bad.”

“It’s all right,” he heard himself say.

“I’ve been a bad mother.”

“You’re a wonderful mother.”

“My poor baby.” She turned to one of the matrons. “Let me say good-bye to my son,” she said.

Warren was saying something cautionary. The matrons still held her arms. But Peter could not walk away, could not deny her this.

He said, “It’s all right. Please let her go, please give us a minute.” The matrons dropped their grip and moved just a few yards away. “Please,” he said to them. “Let us have some room.”

He did not know what she would do. It did not matter what she would do. He walked to her and she held out both her hands. He took them in his.

“Oh, my son,” she said, and moved to embrace him. She whispered quickly in his ear. They spoke in whispers until she released him and held his hands again. Her expression became maternal. “Mother loves you,” she said. “Always remember that, Robin.” Then she turned from him and went to join the matrons.

“How are you holding up, Peter?”

They had been driving in absolute silence for about ten minutes. He did not answer immediately and Warren had to repeat the question.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“It’s over now.”

“Yeah.”

“She even acknowledged you as her son. I wondered if she wouldn’t try that. She used it to convince them of her sanity, and all it did was reinforce the illusion.”

“That’s not why she did it.”

“It’s not?”

“No. She wanted to be able to say good-bye to me. She had something she wanted to tell me. She—”

He broke then. Warren slowed the car, pulled onto the shoulder. He reached a hand toward Peter, then withdrew it without touching him. Peter said, “You might as well drive. I’m all right.” He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. “She said — I don’t know if I can say this—”

“You don’t have to.”

“She said she was sorry she lost control, but she didn’t realize it was all part of the plan, and that we couldn’t tell her in advance because it would have ruined her performance. She said she understood, and she begged me to forgive her for the one moment when she stopped trusting me. And to tell you she was sorry. She was sorry.”

Warren didn’t say anything.

“She said it was wonderful of me to lead them away from Robin. That I should be very careful not to put myself in danger while I was playing the part of Robin. I don’t remember everything she said. Let me think. She’s going to keep on eating. That’s part of it. She knows she’ll be strong as long as she keeps on eating. And nothing will ever break her will. She kept saying that she was strong, and that I would have to be strong, too.”