in my room, I want to lash out and hit something with all my strength. Again and again.”
She puts her hand on a drawing similar to the last one he saw, that of the man at the Admiralty. She looks up at Dr. Bridge. “I believe I’m getting closer to recovering my memory—day by day, even hour by hour. But in the interim, my frustration is growing. It was easier, I think, when I simply accepted that my past was gone. I was calmer then.”
“But ill nevertheless.”
“Yes.”
“You feel better now?”
She turns away and stares at a barren orange tree. “That would be hard to say.”
“I have an idea,” he says. “Can you draw a self-portrait?”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes. I think it might be a good idea. Have you tried it before?”
“No.”
“Will you do it?”
She hesitates. “I’ll have to fetch my pad and pencil.”
“By all means,” he says, gesturing toward the stairs.
When she returns, Stella sits near Dr. Bridge so that he can see as she draws. She opens her pad and selects from three pencils the one with the best point. “Streeter sharpens these for me,” she says.
“Does he?”
She draws a line and stops. “This is awkward,” she says. “Embarrassing. I do this only in private. I feel as though I’m about to undress myself.”
“Pretend I’m a patient you’re trying to distract.”
“Where are you wounded?” she asks.
“I’ve been shot in the leg. It’s supposedly healing well, though I’m liable to whine with the pain. Also, I’m cranky.”
She smiles. “Then I shall make you behave,” she says and begins to move her pencil.
She draws herself inside a hospital camp. She sketches out her shape in uniform, her posture bent toward a wounded soldier. She leaves that to fill in the background: cots, soldiers, surgeons, nurses, canvas, and bandages. Men sleeping. Men receiving medicine. A man, clearly dead, his mouth open as if in a long yawn. There is a bucket for water; a glimpse into another tent, where surgery is being performed. She draws swiftly and with purpose, removing lines from time to time with her gum eraser. She applies shadow and light and gradations of what is meant to be color. She wants to convey the blue of the officers’ uniforms, the red crosses on the nurses’ bibs. She wishes to describe the texture of the canvas of the tent and to see through it a kind of daylight beyond.
“My God,” Dr. Bridge says, startling her. “Any newspaper would employ you this very day. To be able to illustrate so well and with such detail! I feel as though I’m seeing something I’ve only been able to imagine. Really, Stella, this is remarkable.”
When everything has been completed to her satisfaction, she fills in her uniform, the folds of the skirt, the texture of the fabric, her hands as they flow from the starched white cuffs, the roundness of the bib meant to hide the breasts, the folded cloth that becomes a cap.
She pauses.
“I can’t do it,” she says, her pencil stopped at a place that might be a chin.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I see it all, everything. Except for my face. The pencil just quits.”
“You can see your face in a mirror?”
“Yes, but I can’t draw it.”
“Rest a moment,” Dr. Bridge suggests. “Close your eyes. Try to see the face.”
She lets the pencil drop into her lap, stretches her fingers, and then shakes her hand out. Only then does she ease her head back against the cushion. Above her, gray clouds spin about the dome. She closes her eyes. Her throat elongated, she feels vulnerable. She can hear Dr. Bridge breathing quietly beside her.
After some minutes, she sits up. “It’s no good. It won’t come. I have no face to draw.”
“You have a beautiful face,” he blurts out.
She believes he meant the compliment as encouragement. Instead, it sounded like an unintended slip. Can a man possibly care for a woman who is not herself? A woman who, with any luck, might change into someone else? Can a woman
She puts her hand on a drawing similar to the last one he saw, that of the man at the Admiralty. She looks up at Dr. Bridge. “I believe I’m getting closer to recovering my memory—day by day, even hour by hour. But in the interim, my frustration is growing. It was easier, I think, when I simply accepted that my past was gone. I was calmer then.”
“But ill nevertheless.”
“Yes.”
“You feel better now?”
She turns away and stares at a barren orange tree. “That would be hard to say.”
“I have an idea,” he says. “Can you draw a self-portrait?”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes. I think it might be a good idea. Have you tried it before?”
“No.”
“Will you do it?”
She hesitates. “I’ll have to fetch my pad and pencil.”
“By all means,” he says, gesturing toward the stairs.
When she returns, Stella sits near Dr. Bridge so that he can see as she draws. She opens her pad and selects from three pencils the one with the best point. “Streeter sharpens these for me,” she says.
“Does he?”
She draws a line and stops. “This is awkward,” she says. “Embarrassing. I do this only in private. I feel as though I’m about to undress myself.”
“Pretend I’m a patient you’re trying to distract.”
“Where are you wounded?” she asks.
“I’ve been shot in the leg. It’s supposedly healing well, though I’m liable to whine with the pain. Also, I’m cranky.”
She smiles. “Then I shall make you behave,” she says and begins to move her pencil.
She draws herself inside a hospital camp. She sketches out her shape in uniform, her posture bent toward a wounded soldier. She leaves that to fill in the background: cots, soldiers, surgeons, nurses, canvas, and bandages. Men sleeping. Men receiving medicine. A man, clearly dead, his mouth open as if in a long yawn. There is a bucket for water; a glimpse into another tent, where surgery is being performed. She draws swiftly and with purpose, removing lines from time to time with her gum eraser. She applies shadow and light and gradations of what is meant to be color. She wants to convey the blue of the officers’ uniforms, the red crosses on the nurses’ bibs. She wishes to describe the texture of the canvas of the tent and to see through it a kind of daylight beyond.
“My God,” Dr. Bridge says, startling her. “Any newspaper would employ you this very day. To be able to illustrate so well and with such detail! I feel as though I’m seeing something I’ve only been able to imagine. Really, Stella, this is remarkable.”
When everything has been completed to her satisfaction, she fills in her uniform, the folds of the skirt, the texture of the fabric, her hands as they flow from the starched white cuffs, the roundness of the bib meant to hide the breasts, the folded cloth that becomes a cap.
She pauses.
“I can’t do it,” she says, her pencil stopped at a place that might be a chin.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I see it all, everything. Except for my face. The pencil just quits.”
“You can see your face in a mirror?”
“Yes, but I can’t draw it.”
“Rest a moment,” Dr. Bridge suggests. “Close your eyes. Try to see the face.”
She lets the pencil drop into her lap, stretches her fingers, and then shakes her hand out. Only then does she ease her head back against the cushion. Above her, gray clouds spin about the dome. She closes her eyes. Her throat elongated, she feels vulnerable. She can hear Dr. Bridge breathing quietly beside her.
After some minutes, she sits up. “It’s no good. It won’t come. I have no face to draw.”
“You have a beautiful face,” he blurts out.
She believes he meant the compliment as encouragement. Instead, it sounded like an unintended slip. Can a man possibly care for a woman who is not herself? A woman who, with any luck, might change into someone else? Can a woman
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