The Winter People(70)
Lucius says I am suffering from acute melancholia. He explained that Gertie’s death was too much for me to bear and that it has caused me to lose touch with reality. He said that in this state I am a danger to myself and others. I bit my tongue until it bled, knowing that if I argued it would be a further sign of my supposed madness.
“And these ideas that Gertie is visiting, leaving notes for her?”
Martin asked, running his hands through his hair.
“Hallucinations. The sick part of her mind compelled her to write the notes almost as if to convince herself. What she needs is rest. Quiet. And she mustn’t get any encouragement that these fantasies are real. Frankly, Martin, I think the best place for her at this point would be the state hospital.”
Martin pulled Lucius into the hall, spoke in frantic tones. “Please,” I heard him say. “A little while longer. She may still come back to us. She may still get well.”
Lucius agreed, but only on the condition that I stay under his watchful eye. Now he comes often to check on me and to give me shots that make me want to sleep all day. Martin comes and spoon-feeds me soup and applesauce.
“You’ll get well, Sara. You’ve got to get well. You rest now.”
It’s all I can do to fight to stay awake. But I know I must. I know that if I sleep I might miss my Gertie if she chooses to return.
Today is the seventh day since her awakening. There are only hours left before she disappears forever. Please, please, I wish and beg, let her return to me!
“How are you feeling?” Lucius asks when he comes up to see me.
“Better,” I tell him. “Much better.” Then I close my eyes and drift away.
This afternoon, he untied me from the bed. “You be a good girl, now,” he said, “and we won’t have to put these back on.”
I am expected to stay confined to my room. I am not allowed to have company. Amelia has come visiting, but Martin won’t let her upstairs. Lucius says that it would be too much excitement. Martin warns that if I don’t show improvement, if I continue to insist that these visitations are real, I will be sent to the State Hospital for the Insane.
“There will be no more talk of messages from the dead. Or of Gertie having been murdered,” Martin says.
I nod like a good, obedient wife. Puppet-on-a-string wife.
“And no more writing in that diary,” Martin said. “Give it to me.” So I handed him my book and my pen. Luckily, I had foreseen this and was holding an out-of-date diary, full of the trivial details of my life before: entries about baking a pound cake, attending a church supper. Martin did not even think to look through it, and tossed it into the fire before my eyes. I made a show of being upset, and Martin, he looked quite pleased with himself for performing this heroic act to help save his mad wife. But there was something frantic about it at the same time. These last few days, there is something in Martin I’ve never seen before—this sense of desperation. Of panic. I sense that he is trying so hard, with such determination, not to save me, but to keep me from the truth.
What is it that he does not wish me to know?
Is this delusional thinking, as Martin and Lucius would have me believe, or am I the only one who sees things clearly?
The papers and journals containing all my notes and diary entries since the time of Gertie’s death have been safely hidden away. I have a distinct advantage over Martin: I grew up in this house. As a child, I discovered and created dozens of hiding places by loosening bricks and floorboards, making secret compartments behind the walls. There are some hiding places that I am convinced no one could ever find. I have craftily hidden all my writing, scattering it among several hidden niches—that way, if he chances upon one, he won’t get everything. And now I only write when he is out in the fields, one eye on Martin through the window, one on my diary.
An amazing thing has happened! Just now, this evening, I was pretending to be fast asleep when Martin popped his head in. Afterward I heard him shuffle down the stairs, get his coat, and go out the front door. It was just getting dark—the bedroom full of long shadows; the bed, dresser, and table barely discernible. I imagined he’d gone to feed the animals and shut them in for the night.
I heard a scraping, scuttling sound from the closet. I turned, held my breath, waiting.
Could it be true? Was my beloved girl back?
“Gertie?” I called, sitting up in bed.
Slowly, the closet door creaked open, and from the darkness within, I saw movement. A flash of a pale face and hands moving deeper into the shadows.
“Don’t be frightened, darling,” I told her. “Please come out.” It took all of my will to stay where I was, not to leap from my bed and run to her.
More scuttling, then the sound of quiet footsteps—bare feet padding along the wooden floor—as she moved out of the closet and into the room.
She moved slowly, almost mechanically, with little stops and starts like a steam engine hiccoughing. The gold in her hair shimmered in the darkness. Her breathing was quick and raspy. And there was that smell I recalled from years ago in the woods with Hester Jameson: a greasy, burning sort of odor.
I nearly fainted with joy when Gertie sat down beside me on the bed! There was no lamp lit and the room was dark, but I’d know her shape anywhere, though she was different somehow.
“Am I mad?” I asked, leaning closer, trying to get a better look. I saw her in profile, and her face was slightly turned away from me. “Am I imagining you?”