Maureen Johnson - The Madness Underneath

For about an hour, I had an overwhelming urge to grab my bag, stuff in a few things, and take the next train to Bristol. I could be back on my parents’ couch that night if I got moving. I could admit that I wasn’t ready for this, that the semester was a wash. My parents would be thrilled, I was sure. Not about the semester being a wash—but certainly about having me back where they could keep me safe and sound. It would be so easy to do. The very idea made me warm inside. It was okay to give up. I’d been brave. Everyone would say so.

And yet…even as I opened a dresser drawer and figured out which things I would take with me in this hypothetical scenario, I remembered the problem.

There would still be ghosts.

I would still have a future.

I would still go back to school eventually. You can’t curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up? I went into fetal position on the bed to think about this. Fetal position turned out to be very comfortable.

Someone had to help me.

I slithered to the end of the bed and stretched my arm as far as I could to reach around in the top drawer of my desk and find that business card. Jane Quaint. The therapist who had changed Charlotte into the shiny New Charlotte. The one who made her unafraid of school and life. I flicked the card with my nail a few times and rubbed the edge under my chin. I’d had a therapist, and that had been a pointless exercise. A time-suck. A total pain in the ass. But this woman had done some kind of magic with Charlotte, and now Charlotte was fully functional. Maybe she could make me fully functional.

The gloom accumulated outside. God. So dark. So early. My books, so thick. My confusion, so total.

It couldn’t hurt to call.

I would call.

Now. I would call now.

English phones have a double ring that I still found strange and charming, kind of like the chirping croak of a little frog. The call was on its third ring-ring and I was just about to hang up when a surprisingly deep yet clearly female voice answered.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Rory, and—”

“From Wexford?” said the woman.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“I know who you are, dear. A friend of Charlotte’s, yes?”

That might have been stretching things a bit, but I wasn’t going to split hairs.

“Right,” I said.

“Well, I’m very glad you’ve called. I was hoping you would.”

“You were?”

“It was no small thing you went through,” she said. “And from the tone in your voice, it sounds like you aren’t having the best day.”

I cleared my throat. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

“Why don’t you pop round?”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” she said. “It’s a quiet Sunday around here. Why don’t you pop round, and we’ll have a nice chat?”

I could see, even from this brief exchange, what Charlotte was talking about. Julia was nice, but she was clinical. When you spoke to her, she was clear and firm. You didn’t “pop round” to Julia’s. You had an exact time, to the minute. This Jane sounded more like a friend. She gave me an address in Chelsea, and when I asked her what Tube stop that was, she was dismissive.

“Oh, just get in a taxi, dear. I’ll pay for it when it arrives.”

“What…really?”

“Really. Just come over now. I have some time.”

I regretted making the call already. I had agreed to see this strange woman, and now I really had to go. She was even paying for my ride, which was just…incredibly odd. But health stuff was different in England. Well, I’d done it. I’d called, and now I had to go see this woman. I told myself that doing something was better than having this dithering breakdown.

While I was in the cab, winding across London, it began to pour rain. Chelsea was on the west side of the city, far, far from Wexford. And London is a very sinuous place. I don’t think there is a straight line in the entire metropolitan area. Water ran down the cab windows, so much that I couldn’t even see where we were. I just caught the glint of signs and the red of buses. By the time the cab stopped, the downpour was so fierce, I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it from the curb to the house. This is why English people do not leave home without umbrellas. I was an idiot.

The cab ride came to thirty-six pounds. That was an incredible amount of money to have to pay for a ride across town, and I felt a twang of panic. I didn’t have that much on me. I’d gotten in this cab on the word of some person on the other end of a phone. I looked at the house, wondering what happened now. The house that was set back from the road and gently guarded by a brick wall with a black iron gate. Through this gate came a woman carrying an industrial-sized umbrella. I presumed this was Jane, as she went right to the front window of the car. As she spoke to the driver and gave him the fare, I heard her voice. This was Jane.

Jane Quaint looked like she was somewhere around sixty. Her hair was a furious orange-red, which stood out in stark contrast to her very pale, very delicate skin. The color couldn’t have been natural—that kind of pulsating orange rarely exists outside of fruit and tropical birds. She had on an outfit that consisted of many wraps and folds and layers of fine gray wool that looped around and around from about five different directions. I couldn’t tell if it was a shawl or a sweater or a dress. It bagged down to the knees, where it seemed to turn into pants. The whole thing was bound together at her right shoulder by a long silver pin in the shape of a twisted arrow.

I opened the door carefully as Jane reached over, making room for me under her umbrella.

“ Wretched day,” she said. “Come inside. Let’s get ourselves out of this.”

The gate surrounded a small square of brick-paved ground, with a few small potted trees. The house was certainly large by London standards—three stories high, three windows across. It was completely detached, an impressive pile of bricks with a porticoed entryway.

Jane set her umbrella in a stand in the large entry hallway, which was very dark. It was papered in a rich black wallpaper with a recurring fan pattern in metallic gold. All the decorations were generally dark, lots of black with gold accents. I fixed my eye on a life-sized porcelain leopard in the corner, colored silver and black.

“I’m still very fond of the tastes of my youth,” she explained. “I was a bit of a rock-and-roller back then. After that phase was over, I went into psychology. But I kept the decor. I find if you keep things, they tend to come back into style eventually.”

“I like it,” I said.

“That’s very kind. One friend of mine describes it as looking like a Victorian brothel on Mars. I’ve always found that description rather pleasing. Do come through to the kitchen. I think we need a cup of tea.”

The house was very warm, which I appreciated. And the kitchen was warmer still, and huge. This room was not black. Unlike the sharply Deco feel of the hall, this was a cheerful green, with a big farm table and lots of plates on display. Jane busied herself with the kettle, and I sat on a stool and tried to figure out how to deal with the most awkward part of this entire affair. I decided I just had to ask.

“Charlotte said, about paying you—”

“I don’t charge,” she said, cutting me off. “I’m a woman of independent means, and I do this because it’s my calling. If you can afford to provide a service to society, you should do so. That’s what I think. Now. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee?”

“Right, then. Oh, and here…”