A Danger to Herself and Others(53)
Does Lucy know there are feminist scholars who argue that the first Mrs. Rochester might not have been crazy at all, that Mr. Rochester locked her in the attic to get rid of her after she behaved in ways he considered unbecoming to a Victorian Englishwoman? Or maybe because he simply didn’t want her.
Lucy definitely wouldn’t read it that way. She’s too much of a romantic. She’d root for Rochester and Jane to end up together.
If Lucy were still here, we’d argue for hours. Lucy would insist that Mrs. R had to have been nuts—she burned the house down, didn’t she (among other things)? And I’d answer that after years of being locked up in the attic, who could blame the poor woman for trying to burn her way out?
Except of course, we wouldn’t really argue at all. Not for hours and not for one second.
Lucy wouldn’t have read Jane Eyre. She’ll never read Jane Eyre. She’ll never have an opinion about gothic romance or feminist scholars, and she wouldn’t have made a face at me behind Lightfoot’s back this afternoon.
There was never a Lucy to argue with.
To read a single word with.
To make funny faces behind Lightfoot’s back.
Lucy can’t still be here.
Lucy never was here to begin with.
thirty-seven
They give me real clothes. Underwear and a bra. Ballet flats with a decorative bow on the side. They’re not the clothes I was wearing when I got here. They’re not even any of the clothes that were left in my dorm room after Agnes fell and they brought me here, clothes I assume someone packed up and shipped home to my parents.
These clothes are new. The tags have been cut off, but they have that never-been-worn smell. Except for the bra. I recognize it from my drawers at home. I didn’t bring it with me to California because it’s a touch too small, back from when I used to be an A-cup, before I blossomed into an A/B-cup, which isn’t much of a blossoming when you think about it.
My mother must have sent these clothes. I imagine her going into my room, surveying the clothes in my closet, deciding that none of them would do for this particular occasion, and resolving to go out and find the perfect outfit. My mother loves to shop, and finding the right clothes for the right occasion feels like a true accomplishment for her. I don’t mean that she’s shallow or superficial; I honestly think that finding the right outfit probably felt like something she could do to help me. She must have gone shopping in the city—Bloomingdale’s or Saks or even Bergdorf—then realized when she got back to our apartment that she forgot to pick out a new bra, so selected one from the top drawer of my dresser.
I picture her walking through a department store. (This is not a hallucination, imagining one scenario or another is something normal people do.) (Isn’t it?) Mom would have carefully judged which items would look good on me, trying to guess which would fit best, since I wasn’t there to try anything on. We always went shopping together, even when I was very young. Mom asked my opinion on everything she bought. I knew all about Oscar de la Renta and Dolce & Gabbana at an age when most kids are still wearing clothes featuring pictures of their favorite cartoon characters.
Mom would’ve considered more than just the way these clothes would fit. She’d have wanted an outfit that was dressy enough to show respect for the court, but not so dressy that it looked like I was showing off. I would need to look serious, but not so somber that it could look like I was headed to a funeral. That might remind the judge that except for a twist of fate—a strong gust of wind as she fell, a slightly different angle of descent—Agnes’s injuries could have been fatal.
I imagine my mother wandering through one store after another, discarding some clothes for being black or gray, dismissing others for being too bright. Finally she would’ve landed on a crisp, white blouse. Then, a navy skirt. No, make that pants. No, again—a skirt with an elastic waist so she wouldn’t have to worry about whether it will fit perfectly.
I wonder if she cut the tags off before she sent them here (perhaps someone told her to), or whether Lightfoot snipped the tags before she brought me the clothes this morning.
The skirt stops just below my knees. Beneath it, my legs are bright white—pale from so much time inside. They’re also fuzzy. You can’t call it stubble because it’s long past the stubble phase. If my mother had asked me, I would’ve told her I’d prefer pants.
Lightfoot helps me dress, as though I might have forgotten how to put on real clothes. Stephen is here again, but he turns his back when I change, so I know he’s not here to protect Lightfoot from me. The clothes feel heavy compared to the paper I’ve been wearing. The wool skirt itches and I want to rip it off, but I don’t because it’s not normal to prefer paper clothes to real clothes. I tell myself I just need time to get used to them. I wish I could see how my new outfit looks, but there’s no mirror in this place, not even in the bathroom or shower room.
“Stephen will be coming with us,” Lightfoot explains, as she leads me out the door and down the hall. “He’s spent almost as much time with you over the past few months as I have, so the judge may want to ask him some questions.”
She smiles, that same pitying smile. The past few months. She makes the length of my stay here sound so vague. As though she hasn’t been keeping track of each passing day.
Lightfoot is also wearing real clothes instead of her usual blue scrubs: gray pants and a matching jacket, the kind of suit eager college graduates wear for job interviews. I wonder if she keeps this outfit in her office, whips it out for occasions like this, and then shoves it back out of sight. She’s wearing makeup—eyeliner around her brown eyes and peach blush on her cheeks. Only now do I realize I’ve never seen her wear makeup before. Her long, wavy, dark hair is twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, but it’s not her hair and makeup that make her look so different. Today, she’s wearing glasses instead of contacts.