Джоанн Гринберг: I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

“I want Mother,” Deborah said, “but not him. I don’t want him to visit me.”

Her words surprised her. She knew that she meant them, that they were somehow important, but she didn’t know why. For many years words had come out of her mouth for which her mind could not remember giving the order. Sometimes only a feeling would sweep over her. The feeling would be given voice, but the logic behind it, by which the world might have been convinced, remained mute, and so she lost faith in her own desires. It made her defend them all the more blindly. Part of her present feeling, she knew, was delight in her power to reward and punish. Her father’s love for her was her weapon against him, but she had a knowledge, however hard to express, that his pity and love were dangerous to her now. She knew that this hospital was good for her. She knew also that she could not defend her knowledge, that she could not express why this was really where she belonged. Considering her own muteness and the eloquence of the locks and bars, Jacob might be overcome by the horror and sadness she had seen in him when they had first brought her there. He might decide to end this “imprisonment.” The women on Disturbed were always howling and shrieking. One of them might tip the balance the wrong way. Deborah knew all this, but she could not utter it. Also, there was her sense of power.

She saw the doctor’s mouth moving, and imagined that it was spewing questions and accusations. She began to fall, going with Anterrabae through his fire-fragmented darkness into Yr. This time the fall was far. There was utter darkness for a long time and then a grayness, seen only in bands across the eye. The place was familiar; it was the Pit. In this place gods and Collect moaned and shouted, but even they were unintelligible. Human sounds came, too, but they came without meaning. The world intruded, but it was a shattered world and unrecognizable.

Once in the past, while in the Pit, she had been scalded, because although she had seen the stove and boiling water, its purpose and form had had no meaning. Meaning itself became irrelevant. And, of course, there was no fear in the Pit because fear had no meaning either. Sometimes she even forgot the English language.

The horror of the Pit lay in the emergence from it, with the return of her will, her caring, and her feeling of the need for meaning before the return of meaning itself. There had been one day (also in school) when she had risen from the Pit while a teacher pointed to a word in her book, saying, “What is it … this word?” She had tried desperately to make intelligibility of white ground and black lines and curves. Nothing. It had taken every bit of strength to remember sufficient English to say, “What?” The teacher had been angry. Was she trying to be a smart aleck? “What is the word?” Nothing. She had been unable to extract a single bit of reality from the lines and spots on the white ground. Someone tittered in the background and the teacher, apparently fearing compromise of her authority, left the mute Deborah and disappeared into the grayness. Present became nothing; world, nothing.

Again in Dr. Fried’s office, the terror of emergence had not yet begun. Deborah was still deep in the Pit and it was yet unimportant whether there was language or meaning or even light.

Esther Blau tore open the letter eagerly and, as she read, was first puzzled and then angry. “It says that she wants me to come, but she has told the doctor that she wants me alone this time.” She was trying to make it easier for Jacob by not using the words that were in the letter: “… will not see Mr. Blau.”

Jacob said, “Well, we’ll drive down and see her for a while, and then you two can have a nice visit if you want.”

She edged the fact a little closer. “Well, Jacob, they think that both of us would be too much just now. I can drive down myself or take the train.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s nonsense. I will go.”

“It isn’t nonsense,” she said. “Please, Jacob—”

He took the letter from the table and read it, and the anger that came first was more for his wife, who had had to try to cover up for him and spare him, than for the words themselves. “Who does she think she is!”

“She’s sick, Jacob—I told you—Dr. Lister told you.”

“All right!” he said. “All right.”

The hurt had now come to overwhelm the anger. “You can’t go alone. I’ll drive you down and stay in the background. If she changes her mind, she can see me.”

“Of course.” It was giving in again, Esther knew. She would be pulled from both sides all the way, but she had to let Jacob do this for her. Maybe he could see the doctor there and be reassured. She got up and took the letter from him, hoping that the trip would dull the pain of the unequivocal words of denial.

When she went into their bedroom to put the letter away, she heard Suzy talking with a friend on the phone. She was saying, “But I don’t know … it’s not just something you can plan for…. I told you. My sister, Debbie, is very sick. No…. They get these reports every month. No … it’s not that. It’s that if the next one is bad, they won’t feel like having anything here…. Sure. Well, I’ll let you know if it’s all right.”

A sudden, helpless anger leaped into Esther’s head, and her eyes burned with it for a moment. Deborah! Deborah—what has she done to us all!

Dr. Fried saw Esther Blau in the doctor’s bright, cluttered office. It was important to Dr. Fried to know whether Deborah’s mother would be an ally in this treatment or an adversary. Many parents said—even thought—that they wanted help for their children, only to show, subtly or directly, that their children were part of a secret scheme for their own ruin. A child’s independence is too big a risk for the shaky balance of some parents. On Esther’s impeccable surface Dr. Fried saw intelligence, sophistication, and straightforwardness. There was also an intensity that made her smile a little hard. How those two blunt wills must have struggled over the years!

They sat down in the comfortable chairs, the doctor breathing a little heavily and feeling somewhat dowdy as she faced Esther’s formidable jewelry. She examined her again. The woman was sane: she accepted the heavy penalties of reality and enjoyed its gifts also. Her daughter did not. Where was the difference to be found?

The mother was looking about the room. “Is this—is this where Deborah comes?”

“Yes.”

Relief showed on the carefully composed surface. “It’s pleasant. No—bars.” She got the word out, straining so hard for relaxed matter-of-factness that the doctor almost winced.

“Right now it hardly matters. I don’t know if she trusts me enough to see the room as it really is.”

“Can she get well? I love her so very much!”

If it is so, Dr. Fried thought, the love will meet a strong test in what they are all about to undergo. She said, “If she is going to get well, we are all going to have to be patient and to work like anything.” The colloquialism sounded strange in her accent. “She will need a tremendous amount of energy to give to this, to fight her own impulses for safety … and so you may find her tired and not keeping herself groomed as she should. Is there something that worries you particularly about her now?”

Esther tried to frame her thoughts. It was too soon to think about Deborah’s progress really; the worry was something else. “You see—all these days … all these days we’ve been thinking and thinking how and why this could have happened. She was so much loved! They tell me that these illnesses are caused by a person’s past and childhood. So all these days we’ve been thinking about the past. I’ve looked, and Jacob has looked, and the whole family has thought and wondered, and after all of it we just can’t see any reason for it. It’s without a cause, you see, and that’s what is so frightening.”