Джоанн Гринберг - I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

“This word here—the biggest one—I think I heard you say it. Has it a meaning?”

Deborah groped wildly for gestures, words, or sounds to convey the impact of the volcano’s eruption; the word she had written in the blood from a cut finger was the third form of anger, which she had never spoken or written before and which was more extreme than black anger or red-white anger. After moving about restlessly for a while, she threw back her head in a soundless scream, wide-mouthed. The nurse looked at her.

“Is the word fear ?” she asked. “No—not fear— anger .” And then looking at Deborah again: “An anger you cannot control.” After a pause she said, “Come on, we’ll try seclusion until you can take care of yourself.”

The seclusion room was small, but the force of the volcano would not let her rest. It kept hurling her from one side of the room to the other; walls and floors pounded her head and hands and body. Now her lack of inner control matched the anarchic world with an Yr gone newly mad itself.

After a while they caught her up and put her in a pack. She fought with them, terrified of what she might do to them now that she had no law. English, Yri, and gibberish all flowed together. Gradually, the anger was overtaken by the fear, but the words to warn them that she was wild could not be framed, and she fought them with her head and her teeth while the restraints were being tied, trying, doglike, to bite herself, her wrappings, the bed, the beings. She fought until she was exhausted and then she lay still.

After a while Deborah could feel the constriction of blood in her legs and feet that usually brought a familiar pain, but there was no pain. The burns, she knew, had had their raw surfaces ripped open under the bandages, but there was no pain from them either. How cold the wind was blowing above the law! … She lay shivering, although the sheets had been close for many hours and she should have been warm. Beyond even the laws and logic of Yr she breathed out in wonder: My enemy, my virulent, plague-pouring self—and now not even control of it….

“ There was a gear … ” she cried aloud, and it came in Yri loud and mingled with strange words which were not hers. “ There was a gear all teeth, two at least world-caught. And now nothing, nothing engages with the world! ”

You are not of them, the Censor said. It was an old phrase, perhaps the oldest one in Yr, but its context changed from comfort and pity, to anger and terror, and now to the last deceit, the final move of the game which was part of the world’s secret purposes and her damnation. She now knew that the death she feared might not be a physical one, that it could be a death of the will, the soul, the mind, the laws, and thus not death, but a perpetual dying. The tumor began to ache.

Furii looked at her and said, “Are you ill?” and Deborah laughed with the same ugliness that her cry had been. “I mean, is something physically the matter?”

“No.” She tried to tell Furii, but the walls began bleeding and sweating, and the ceiling developed a large tumor which began to separate itself from its surface.

“Can you hear me?” Furii asked.

Deborah tried to say what she felt, but she could only gesture the Yri gesture for insanity: flattened hands thrust toward one another but unable to meet.

“Listen to me. Try to hear me,” Furii said seriously. “You are afraid of your power and that you cannot control it.”

When Deborah could speak at last, she could only say, “Yri … in the world … collision …”

“Try again. Just let it come.”

“Gears uncaught … n’ai naruai … uncaught!”

“It is why you need a hospital. You are in a hospital and you do not need to fear the terrible forces that seem to have been opened in you. Listen hard now, and try to stay in contact with me. You must try to talk to me and tell me what is happening in your collided worlds. We will work with all our strength to keep you from the excesses of your sickness.”

Some of the fear eased so that Deborah could say, “It came Yri, English, nonsense. Wild … hitting. Anger.”

“Were you angry for all the years, in the way that anger gets when it grows old and is rotted with guilt and fear—like bad-smelling pebbles inside?”

“Much …”

“The suffering was not because of your anger then, was it?”

“No … Yri … on Earth … collision. Censor … death penalty … the last …” She began to tremble in a cutting cold.

“Use the blanket,” Furii said.

“Yri cold … nacoi … Earth blankets …”

“We will see if Earth warmth helps,” Furii said. She picked up the blanket and covered Deborah with it. Deborah remembered that there was no Yri word for “thank you.” She had no word to give Furii her gratitude. It remained a mute weight inside her. Even the trembling did not lessen, so that Furii could see it and be glad.

“Tell me this,” Furii was saying, “of the emotion you felt as you heard yourself cry out in these languages, how much was anger and how much was fear?”

“Ten,” Deborah said, thinking of the emotion by letting a stroke of it come up and engulf her once again, “three anger, five fear.”

“That is only eight.”

“I suffer,” Deborah said, helping herself with Yri hand-motions. “After you I suffer smarter. Now I never fill them. Two is for miscellaneous.”

Furii laughed. “Anger some, fear quite a bit, and what are those little two miscellaneous? Relief, maybe, not to have to give everything to that wall between Yr and the world? Also, was there not something overt to remind me that I went away and left you with it all?”

Deborah felt that the last idea was only half true, but she let it sound in the judgment with the others, and she said, “Fear … Censor—doing the forbidden … destroy me … and …”

“And what is it?”

“Then … no. No-ness; not Yr even. Loud gibberish and just No. No! ”

“Not even the gods for friends,” the doctor mused. She drew her chair up closer to where Deborah was huddled shivering under the blanket whose warmth stopped short of her interior climate. “You know, Deborah, you have a gift for health and strength. Before you let go for this breaking of walls, you trusted our work together and you trusted me. Before you let the anger come, you got yourself on D ward and in the sort of seclusion that was at hand, and when a nurse was on duty, mind you, whom you liked and trusted. Not so dumb for someone who is supposed to have lost her marbles. Not so bad at all, that talent for life.”

Deborah’s eyes began to get heavy. She was very tired.

“You are worn out,” Furii said, “but no longer so very frightened, are you?”

“No.”

“The anger may come again. The sickness you have built may also come and fight you perhaps, but I have faith that you will conquer it enough to get the help and control that you need. Half of your fear is that you will not be able to be stopped, and it is this fear which makes it impossible to speak so that others can understand.”

When Deborah got back to the ward after her session with Dr. Fried, she found that another holocaust had visited it.

“Your good friend …” Lee Miller said under her breath, “… sweet, genteel Miss Coral.”

“What?”

“She took that bed there, and threw it! She picked it up and threw it at Mrs. Forbes!”

“And it hit?”

“Sure it hit. Mrs. Forbes is now in a physical hospital as a patient—with a broken arm, cuts and bruises, and who the hell knows what else.”

Lee Miller was angry because Mrs. Forbes was one of those rare elect whom the patients themselves, consciously or not, tried to save from harm. She took time, she was intelligent and unselfish, and—most rare—she was happy in her work and the patients knew it.