Authors: Hugo Wilcken
I looked out into the courtyard and the building opposite. I could often sense when the woman on the balcony was about to appear, and sure enough, a few moments later, there she was. Shaking her head of black hair, reaching for the packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her housecoat. Staring out once again into the void. Other people’s lives were impossibly mysterious, when one knew nothing of them. She looked European to me, but since I could make out so little
of her, this could only be whimsy. Nevertheless, on this slender thread I’d begun to construct a story, one that became increasingly embellished each time I saw her. She was a war refugee. Perhaps her husband had been killed in action. Or executed for treason. Or for resistance activities. She’d somehow managed to escape, to make it to New York, where she knew nobody. An immigrant with little English, and a child to care for, she’d had few options but to find herself a new husband, which eventually she did. A kindly, older man, prepared not only to marry her but provide for a child that was not his own. The woman had grown fond of her husband, but she could never bring herself to love him. The ghost of her former husband was there, although in what form I didn’t yet know … I would lose myself in this invention for minutes at a time. Of course, I could always pull back when I wanted to. I knew well enough that the intensity of this vision—its sheer realness—was illusory. I knew that when I finally left the hospital, if I went knocking on her door, I’d find someone quite different, just an ordinary-looking Manhattan housewife, no tragic past, not elegantly blowing smoke into the emptiness of the city.
“Now, tell me about your wife.”
The words shook me. My marriage had barely been mentioned in conversations with the doctor until now, even though I’d talked in some detail about my occasional affairs since the divorce. I couldn’t even remember if I’d told him that Abby was dead. An image of her floated into my mind, somewhere in the mental distance.
“What’s there to say? I was married once. But only briefly. A long time ago.”
“What was she like? Describe her to me.”
“Tall. Brunette. She was an actress. Always looked very self-assured. Confident on stage.
“But elsewhere?”
“In other ways she could be less assured.”
“How?”
“She was the one who’d wanted to get married. We were much too young. Anyone could have seen we weren’t right for each other. But I was infatuated. And she’d needed that anchor, for a time.”
“Do you attach any importance to the fact that she was an actress?”
“How do you mean?”
The doctor didn’t elaborate. Sometimes he’d leave these silences, and I’d feel forced to fill them.
“She was an actress, it was what she did. In the same way that practicing medicine is what you do. That’s all.”
What was he driving at? It felt like we were engaged in a game. The subject at hand—whether it be Abby or anything else—was of no importance. Only rules and tactics mattered. When the routine of his questioning set in, when I felt that I knew exactly what he was going to ask, that was the moment he’d stump me. I tried to imagine what kind of inner life the doctor might have, but I couldn’t easily. No doubt he had a wife, children, and all the usual cares and worries. But to me, he existed merely as a foil.
He straightened his things, made as if to leave. Before doing so, he took a notepad from his briefcase and handed it to me, along with a pencil. “Here, have this. I want you to write down whatever comes to your mind about your wife—your former wife. All right?”
“All right.”
Once he’d gone, I could feel myself passing through the now-familiar sequence of emotional states: anger, disquiet,
anxiety, puzzlement, contemplation. And then finally, a profound introspection. The outside world had its borders and demarcations, but this interior one was boundless. One could always go further and further inside, the retreat could never be complete. I stared at the pencil in my hand for minutes on end, as if it were an alien object. I remembered hospitals where I’d worked, and how when patients asked for something to write with, they were always given pencils and not pens. Why? Because pens were more messy? Because they might conceivably be used as weapons? Some department had probably issued a directive about it last century, I mused, setting in stone a practice that would remain for decades to come, simply because there was no particular reason to change it. How much of life was like that?
I wondered why the doctor had suddenly brought up the subject of Abby. From my experience as a psychiatrist, what mattered most in any patient’s narrative were the things left out. When these things were eventually mentioned—by the doctor or the patient—it was an attempt to inoculate the story against them. I looked down at the blank pages of the notepad. There was no reason why I should obey the doctor and write anything about Abby, but I felt somehow compelled to do so.
I see you now. You’re clearer than ever to me, even as I become obscure to myself. Our decade-long estrangement has made you more vivid, not less.
You once told me that at the age of sixteen, you’d felt halfway through life, regardless of when you might die. It turns out you were literally correct. Your premonition haunts me. Your early death casts a black light over the landscape. Every memory of you has to be reconsidered, revised, under that light. An old man on
his deathbed is the finished work of his past, but you, in dying young, remain a hypothesis. You are the years never lived.
You died childless. You told me that you wanted children, when you were older, when you’d made your mark in the theater. Instead, a tumor grew in you, and expanded until it took your life. Sixty years from now, who will think of you, who will talk about you? We are truly dead when there is no one left to remember us, when our children and grandchildren are gone as well. We who are childless die sooner than the others.
You had a best friend when you were ten or eleven. Her name was Susan. You’d become friends at school when you’d discovered that you were born on the same day. For a few months, you’d done everything together. You used to pretend you were twins. Then summer came, and your friend’s family went upstate on vacation. They rented a house on a lake. You were going to join them in the second week. But before you could get there, your friend had gone out on the lake in a canoe, without telling anyone. The canoe had overturned and your friend had drowned. You only told me this story once. It was when you were about to visit her parents. They’d never gotten over the death of their daughter. You visited them out of pity, but only infrequently. They saw you as a continuation of their daughter, which made you uncomfortable. Once, her father had even accidently called you Susan, which had spooked you. You’d felt like a ghost, you’d said.
It had all come out in an easy flow, when normally writing was a stuttering, painful business. I stopped suddenly. It struck me that I was writing in the second person, and I
wondered why. The thought interrupted my flow, and I knew I’d never get it back again. I looked up from the notepad. The woman was on the balcony. She was smoking, as usual, but instead of staring out into the city, she was looking in my direction. She’d been watching me writing. I felt transfixed as my eyes locked into her gaze. Eventually she brought a hand up to her forehead, as if to brush something away, or pat down her hair. She turned, momentarily contemplated a streetscape I couldn’t see from my angle, then went back inside. It had all taken place in the space of thirty seconds at most.
I waited for my muscles to relax again. I continued to stare through the window. She’d left the door onto the balcony slightly ajar, even though it must be chilly outside now, with fall well underway; it felt like a strange sort of invitation. The moment was barely over, but I was already reliving it in my mind. My looking up to see her eyes, boring into mine. I wondered whether perhaps I served the same function in her life that she served in mine. Was it me she came out on the balcony to see? Was she making up stories about me? She sees a youngish man lying on a hospital bed, half of his face bandaged, always staring out the window. He’s there, day and night, always gazing out. It would be natural to wonder what had brought him there, wouldn’t it? It would be a mystery, perfect material for fantasy.
The next day, the doctor was back as usual. I handed him the pages I’d written about Abby. He looked over them briefly, not long enough to read them properly, then gave them back to me. Whatever the purpose of getting me to write something, it patently wasn’t so that he could read it. He leaned over, gently unwrapped the bandage on my head, examined the wound.
“The staples will have to come out. I’ll get someone to see you about that.”
“Okay.”
“Do you remember how you got it, this wound? Do you remember anything?”
I’d seen it coming, this discussion about my injury and the “accident,” as I termed it in my mind, even though it had been no accident at all. I knew that broaching the subject of Abby had been a harbinger, clearing the way.
“Yes, I do remember. I was on the subway platform. The station was …”
“Lexington and Fifty-Ninth.”
“That’s right. It was morning, peak hour. Very crowded. As I was going down the stairs, I noticed someone. I’d seen him before. He’d been following me, at least I thought so. Then I was down on the platform. The train was coming. I could see it down the tunnel. I felt someone prod me from behind. Tentative at first. I turned around. I thought it might be a friend or something. Or did I? I can’t remember. No, I don’t think I turned around. There was this prod, then an almighty shove. I lost my balance, fell onto the track. That’s all I remember.”
“You blacked out.”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember any more. I guess the train hit me.”
“This fellow, the one who’d been following you, the one you think pushed you. Do you know who he was?”
“I’d seen him before. I don’t know who he is.”
“Do you know why he might have pushed you?”
I was silent for a moment. “Forgive me, but I think the time’s come for me to speak to the police. About this, and other matters. I’ve asked you before, but you haven’t … perhaps you thought I needed time to recover. I’ve recovered
sufficiently now. There are important matters I need to discuss with the police.”
The doctor had his hand to his chin, in a reflective pose. He didn’t seem to have heard what I’d said, or in any case, didn’t respond to it.
“This man. Are you certain he pushed you?”
“I was pushed. Whether it was by the man I noticed beforehand, I can’t say for sure.”
“I see. There were a lot of witnesses, you know. A lot of statements were taken.”
“I imagine so.”
“They were all of the impression that you jumped. Of your own accord. No one mentioned seeing you being pushed.”
“What can I say? It was crowded. It mightn’t have been obvious to other people. But I was pushed.”
“Witnesses said they saw you come flying down the stairs, directly throwing yourself in front of the train.”
“No. It wasn’t like that. I was standing on the platform by the rails. I was pushed.”
“I see.” The doctor sat wordlessly for a minute or two, observing me. He gestured to the photograph that still sat on my bedside table. “Anything come back to you about the photograph? Any memories of who she might be?”
“I have some notions about the photograph, yes. I’m not prepared to say anything right now. I’ve told you, I want to see the police. I’ve said to you several times, on several different occasions. I’ve had enough of this charade now. It’s time you called the police.” I looked expectantly at the doctor, but he said nothing, simply continued watching me. “I’m being kept here against my will. The door to my room is locked. I demand to know why. If you’re my doctor, then you’re guilty of gross misconduct. There’ll be consequences, I’ll make sure of it.”
I was getting worked up; I’d raised my voice. At the same time, I tried to control my anger; I didn’t want a repeat of that business with the orderlies.
“Do you know why you’re here? Take a look at these.”
He took some papers from his case and pushed them across to me. I quickly glanced through them.
“Committal papers. For a man named Stephen Smith.”
“Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Possibly.”
“Might he have any connection with you?”
“It’s a very common-sounding name. He may have been a patient of mine. If so, I see it wasn’t me who committed him. I’m getting tired of the games. Could you please tell me what the relevance of all this is?”
“Well. I’ll outline what I know about Stephen Smith, if you like. He’s a drifter. Born in Dayton, Ohio. Found his way to New York at some unspecified time, probably about a decade ago. Since then he’s been in and out of menial work. Sometimes lodging in boarding houses, sometimes sleeping on the streets. He’s been picked up for vagrancy at least twice. He spent six weeks in a mental institution three years ago. Now he’s back in one, after a suicide attempt.”
“What’s the point of this farce? What are you trying to prove?”
“Now … try to stay calm. Please take your hands off me.”
I’d leaned forward and gripped the doctor’s arm. I’d done it without even noticing. I backed off, in a daze.
“I’m going to leave you a couple of pages from the file. Have a good look at them. Someone will be in to see you in an hour or so. All right?”
I didn’t say anything. The doctor moved to the door, slowly, deliberately, as though he were in a stable with a horse he didn’t want to frighten. As he opened it, I glimpsed a couple
of orderlies waiting on either side. The door clicked shut, and I could hear the turn of the key. I sprang out of bed. It was as if I were watching myself at the door, about to hammer at it. But then I had an attack of dizziness. Stars were in my eyes and my body went limp. It was all I could do to haul myself back onto the bed and lie down, stare up.
White ceiling, white walls. Nothing changed. Beside me were the papers the doctor had left me. After a period of just lying there, I picked them up, and listlessly scanned them. “Serious, nonfatal head injuries … identified from social security card on his person … second suicide attempt …” I put them down and closed my eyes, exhausted, and thinking of nothing.