an acute confused state, temporal disorientation, loss of sense of reality and ideas of self-extermination. She had the impression during the night that the interrogation to which she had been subjected continued without ceasing; she was unable to distinguish the real from the imaginary, and could not say precisely how long she remained in that state.
- She says that she suffered physical aggressions, such as beatings on her abdomen and electric shocks on her head...
- She also complains of lack of memory for recent facts.
- She says that she has been having, for several days, contractions over her entire body, not knowing when they began, but that it was just a few days ago...
- Mental exam: hyper-emotional, frequent weeping, slow conversation with a whispering voice, punctuated by periods of silence. Difficult initial contact, depressive humor.
- 'Attenuated memory' for recent facts. Perception attention and intelligence alterations.
- Lack of orientation in time and still somewhat confused. Main courses of thought: Experiences of terror and panic. Suicidal ideas.
- Presents primitive reactions of regression and hysteria.”
He let the book fall to the floor and looked around as though dizzy and lost.
"You see, Rachel, how it is?" His voice fell away to a whisper.
He sat up and put his face in his hands, but there were no more tears. Finally he got up and pulled another book from a stack on a nearby table and opened it to a place already marked.
"Listen to this, my little friend. A woman who received repeated electro-shock treatments at a mental clinic not far from here wrote it. She says:
| "ECT is a cruel, if not unusual, punishment for which there has been no crime. It is a death sentence, no - that isn't quite it- it is a series of death sentences each of which is almost but not entirely carried out. There is no trial, no jury. There is merely an executioner, one who is excellent at near killing. There is the anticipation of death, the terrible wait and the sound while others are punished, and finally, your turn. In that eternally long fraction of a second, while electricity is ripping apart your being, the searing pain disperses to every nerve ending in your body; you pray that you will die quickly." |
The book joined the other on the floor by the sofa.
"What difference is there a between 'men of science', the doctor in his white clinician's coat, his high-tech treatment room, and the dungeon beneath some military junta's political re-education barrack? There, 'men of science' wear a military uniform. Their high tech is not quite so lofty, but would either prisoner know the difference between the voltage applied by a modern electro-shock machine and a hand-cranked telephone generator, or electric cattle prod?"
He looked at the books on the floor in despair.
"Don't you grow tired of my voice? Why do you stay, sweet Rachel? Any decent woman would have left long ago. If ever I find a woman as faithful as you, I shall immediately marry her."
He got up, crossed the room, and got a tin of sardines from a small refrigerator tucked away beneath a Georgian side table. As he was dishing them up, he heard a cough from outside the French doors.
Standing, framed by the afternoon light, half in and half out of the French doors stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She stood as though in a magical casement, admired by the afternoon sun.
Tall and slender-waisted, she was wearing a light summer frock of white cotton patterned with dark red roses. He would remember later how fine her legs looked highlighted by the sun through the dress.
Her chestnut hair was long and full. Although her face was in soft shadow he could see large dark eyes beneath darker eyebrows, a strong, straight nose and lips too full to be classic. She just missed great beauty and was more appealing because of it.
He stood frozen over an old rosewood dish he used to feed Rachel, not wanting to move, then she would move, and he thought he might never see anything as beautiful again.
"Did I hear you propose to my cat?" Her smile was sunshine itself.
He stood self-consciously. "Forgive me for staring. I'm being rude. Please come in."
She came forward with an easy stride, her hand out. "I'm Grace Melville, your neighbor to the east and foster parent to Rachel. How did you know her name was, Rachel?" she asked.
"Gilbert Piers." Her hand felt warm, real. He realized he hadn't touched another human in a long time. He held onto her hand, looked at her long elegant fingers, thinking he liked it that she used no polish. She gave the lightest of tugs. He let go as though burned.
She grinned at him. "I don't mind if you hold my hand, but I really would like to look around."
He blushed. Christ, I'm acting like an idiot.
"You haven't told me how you knew her name." She watched Rachel eat the sardines fastidiously.
Gilbert bent down and got a carton of milk from the fridge and poured some in a saucer.
"I don't know, Miss Melville, it never occurred to me to call her anything else. She has been my only company since I got back." He looked up at Grace.
She stood by a large table in the center of the room. It had a green beige covering and was piled high with the books he'd been studying.
"I didn't propose to Rachel," he smiled, "besides, I doubt she'd have me. She's far too independent, and I wouldn't like to see her change. I proposed to an imaginary woman who had the patience to listen to me all afternoon without complaint."
"I hope this imaginary woman isn't swayed by a tin of sardines. I've been wondering where she went every afternoon. Now I find she's having an affair with an older man. My father was an old sweetie, convinced that all women, except my mother, were fickle and here's Rachel proving him right."
"An older man, thank you very much." Gilbert smiled wryly.
"Well, she's only four." Grace chuckled and strolled around the room, stopping occasionally to touch things.
"I love this room; we have a very small library. Grandmother has several of your books at home. She and your mother visited frequently."
She stopped. "Oh, I'm so sorry about Mrs. Piers; she was a wonderful woman, I liked her very much. You will think me very callous. These past few weeks must have been very difficult for you."
"Yes, I'm trying to adjust, but I can't get a grip on things, nothing fits."
He swept his arm in an arc indicating the room. "All this, is the product of generations of literary scholars and historians. I am the first to break with that tradition. Mine has been a world of logic and fact since I was a little boy. I am poorly equipped to deal with it. I look for a logical explanation and find...chaos.
"I'm sorry, Miss Melville," he looked at her directly, "you are the first event that makes sense since I've come back. I'll try to be more cheerful in the future, if you promise to come looking for Rachel often."
She blushed, and the wine red roses of her dress reflected in the pale cream of her cheeks.
"If
