The Silent Patient(46)

“Alcestis was condemned to die by her husband’s cowardice. And Alicia—”

“No, Alicia didn’t die … not physically.” He left the word hanging. “Psychically, on the other hand…”

“You mean something happened—to kill her spirit … to kill her sense of being alive?”

“Possibly.”

I felt dissatisfied. I picked up the play and looked at it. On the cover was a classical statue—a beautiful woman immortalized in marble. I stared at it, thinking of what Jean-Felix had said to me. “If Alicia is dead … like Alcestis, then we need to bring her back to life.”

“Correct.”

“It occurs to me that if Alicia’s art is her means of expression, how about we provide her with a voice?”

“And how do we do that?”

“How about we let her paint?”

Diomedes gave me a surprised look, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. “She already has art therapy.”

“I’m not talking about art therapy. I’m talking about Alicia working on her own terms—alone, with her own space to create. Let her express herself, free up her emotions. It might work wonders.”

Diomedes didn’t reply for a moment. He mulled it over. “You’ll have to square it with her art therapist. Have you come across her yet? Rowena Hart? She’s no pushover.”

“I’ll talk to her. But I have your blessing?”

Diomedes shrugged. “If you can persuade Rowena, go ahead. I can tell you now—she won’t like the idea. She won’t like it one bit.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“I THINK IT’S A GREAT IDEA,” said Rowena.

“You do?” I tried not to look surprised. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Only problem is, Alicia won’t go for it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Rowena gave a derisive snort. “Because Alicia’s the least responsive, most uncommunicative bitch I’ve ever worked with.”

“Ah.”

I followed Rowena into the art room. The floor was splashed with paint like an abstract mosaic, and the walls were covered with artwork—some of it good, most just weird. Rowena had short blond hair, a deep-etched frown, and a weary put-upon manner, doubtless due to her endless sea of uncooperative patients. Alicia was clearly one such disappointment.

“She doesn’t participate in art therapy?” I said.

“She does not.” Rowena continued stacking artwork on a shelf as she spoke. “I had high hopes when she joined the group—I did everything I could to make her feel welcome—but she just sits there, staring at the blank page. Nothing will induce her to paint or even pick up a pencil and draw. Terrible example to the others.”

I nodded sympathetically. The purpose of art therapy is to get the patients drawing and painting and, more important, talking about their artwork, linking it to their emotional state. It’s a great way to literally get their unconscious onto the page, where it can be thought about and talked about. As always, it comes down to the individual skill of the therapist. Ruth used to say that too few therapists were skilled or intuitive—most were just plumbers. Rowena was, in my opinion, very much a plumber. She obviously felt snubbed by Alicia. I tried to be as placating as possible. “Perhaps it’s painful for her,” I suggested gently.

“Painful?”

“Well, it can’t be easy for an artist of her ability to sit and paint with the other patients.”

“Why not? Because she’s above it? I’ve seen her work. I don’t rate her highly at all.” Rowena sucked in her mouth as if she had tasted something unpleasant.

So that was why Rowena disliked Alicia—jealousy.

“Anyone can paint like that,” Rowena said. “It’s not difficult to represent something photo-realistically—what’s harder is to have point of view about it.”

I didn’t want to get into a debate about Alicia’s art. “So what you’re saying is you’ll be relieved if I take her off your hands?”

Rowena shot me a sharp look. “You’re welcome to her.”

“Thank you. I’m grateful.”

Rowena sniffed contemptuously. “You’ll need to supply the art materials. My budget doesn’t stretch to oils.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE.”

Alicia didn’t look at me.

I went on, watching her carefully, “I happened to pass your old gallery the other day when I was in Soho. So I went inside. The manager was kind enough to show me some of your work. He’s an old friend of yours? Jean-Felix Martin?”

I waited for a response. None came.

“I hope you don’t think it was an invasion of your privacy. Perhaps I should have consulted you first. I hope you don’t mind.”

No response.

“I saw a couple of paintings I’d not seen before. The one of your mother … And the one of your aunt, Lydia Rose.”

Alicia slowly raised her head and looked at me. An expression was in her eyes I’d not seen before. I couldn’t quite place it. Was it … amusement?

“Quite apart from the obvious interest for me—as your therapist, I mean—I found the paintings affecting on a personal level. They’re extremely powerful pieces.”