Anna Quinn - The Night Child

There is a tapping at the door then, and a tall, fit-looking woman wearing a white uniform walks into the room. Black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, tiny pearls in her ears. She strides over to Nora and thrusts out her hand, the nails unpolished yet perfectly manicured; no-nonsense nails: “Dr. Jean Brinkley.”

Nora can only stare back, numb, raises her hand slightly in slow motion. Dr. Brinkley shakes her hand and sets it down gently, studying Nora’s face the whole time. She pulls up a chair and starts right in. Carol tiptoes past her, whispers something, and disappears out the door.

“Mrs. Brown, I’m the psychiatrist here at Seattle General. I’ll be part of the team working with you and Dr. Forrester for as long as you are with us.”

Team? I need a team?

“We don’t have any reason to believe you have internal bleeding, so there’s no need for a CT or MRI at this point. However, we’d like to keep you for another few days just to be sure—and, well, regarding your inability to talk, we thought we’d wait and see what your therapist recommends.

“Your husband suggested, Mrs. Brown … he seems to think, well, he seems to think you may have stepped out in front of the car on purpose. And then, with your reaction last night—until we know more, we’ve placed you on a seventy-two hour watch. We’ll check in on you every ten to fifteen minutes, and with the exception of your therapist and the psychiatric team, no one else will be allowed to visit—for now.” As if she sees the confusion in Nora’s eyes, she says, “It’s the best thing, Mrs. Brown. Please. Trust us.”

Nora opens her mouth. Forms a “ N o” with her lips. Breathes hard into the “ No .” She hears the air moving, feel her lungs push it out, but something shoves back into her throat, and there are no words, no words, no words, no words.

“Now,” says Dr. Brinkley, touching Nora gently on her arm. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about problems or difficulties you are having. You may refuse to answer any question or end the interview at any time. The information you give me will be kept confidential. I’ll be making notes as we go along.” She pauses. Studies Nora. “Do you feel up to that?”

Nora nods.

“I realize you aren’t able to speak, but perhaps you can write your answers?” She hands Nora a small pad of paper and a pen. “Shall we begin?”

Nora nods again.

“What’s your date of birth?”

Nora writes. Her fingers thick as bricks because of the pink pill. She finally holds the notebook up for Dr. Brinkley to see: March 4, 1958 .

“Where do you live?”

234 Pike Street.

“Who is the president?”

Clinton.

“Name three rivers.”

Mississippi, Columbia, Elwha.

“What does ‘bull in a china shop’ mean?”

Acting clumsy.

“Do you have any children? If so, how many, and what are their names?”

Oh, God, Fiona. What does she know? She must be so frightened. It’s hard to make the pen move. She aches for Fiona.

“Mrs. Brown? Do you have any children?”

She writes, her hand advancing in slow motion.

One, Fiona, age 6.

“What kind of work do you do?”

High school English teacher.

“Why are you here?”

Her gut tightens. Her bruised ribs ache, and the ache moves into her hand. She will write anyway. She needs to get the hell out of here.

Hit by a car.

“Why were you in the middle of the street in the dark?”

Upset. Running.

She feels sick. The questions are oppressive—she considers writing “because I’m insane”; “because my husband’s having an affair”; “because my father whom I haven’t seen in twenty-seven years is back”; “because I remember what happened when I wore the Valentine’s dress.” But she can’t. She feels like she might begin stabbing Dr. Brinkley with the pen.

“Mrs. Brown—can you tell me why you were upset?”

This is all too complicated and dangerous. She writes: Can’t you just look in David’s reports?

She throws the pen and paper on the bedside table. Closes her eyes. Takes deep breaths.

“Okay. Okay. Just rest now. But I’m going to tell you something. And I’m telling you to help you. Okay?”

Nora stays still.

“There are people who would rather be here, you know, in a hospital, than admit something traumatic happened to them. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true. We can help you, and if you let us help, you could walk right out of here.”

When Nora says nothing, doesn’t open her eyes, Dr. Brinkley says, “So, okay. Your doctor is expected shortly. Would you like me to call Carol, have her sit with you until he arrives?”

Nora shakes her head. She feels suddenly ashamed.

“There’s a struggle going on inside you,” David says quietly. “A struggle between you and that little girl.” David sits in the chair by her bed. She is propped up against pillows, eyes closed. Listening to him.

He is talking kindly, sympathetically, wants to know what happened, saying she’ll talk again, this must be so hard, what a relief talking can be—the way it puts distance between you and the pain, that she’ll talk when she’s ready. She opens her eyes and looks fixedly at him. She wants to tell him why she ran, why this isn’t right, that she needs to go home, that she doesn’t know if she was trying to kill herself. She doesn’t know. She tries again to speak. Silence.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he is saying. “Could we discuss last night?”

She nods.

“Did you think about something in particular, or did a thought come to you when you didn’t expect it?” He hands her the notebook and pen.

She stares and stares at the blank page. Brain cells frozen, then frenetic. Her hand lifts the pen as if it will write something but then drops shakily to her side.

“It’s safe here,” David says. “You’re safe. Say what you want to say. You are no longer under his roof.”

She can’t.

“You’ve been guarding this secret for a lifetime, Nora,” he says gently. “You don’t have to anymore. You don’t need to. It’s the secrets that make us sick; it’s the telling that heals.”

The repercussions. The shame of everyone knowing the truth of her. And what will happen to her father? How can she do this to him? But now, here is the hand, fierce and steady, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing words into the notebook right before her eyes.

I remember the Valentine’s dress. Margaret is telling the truth.

And now, it is all too much. This telling. This remembering. She closes her eyes and curls her body tight and braces herself for the objects and words that fly hard into walls, against her face, curling tighter and tighter until she disappears.

By the time David arrives the next day, Nora’s emotions have fallen off the edge. She writes a note in panic, rips it out, and gives it to him with a trembling hand.

I need to get out of here. Please. I want to go home.

He exhales sympathetically. “I know you’ve remembered something horrific.” He touches her arm gently. “We need to work through this. In a safe place. I think you should stay, at least until you can assure yourself—and me—that you can keep yourself safe.”

She grounds herself in his eyes. Am I a danger to others? And why the hell isn’t my voice coming back?