she was getting older.
Sometimes, I wondered what would happen if Mama died. Did anyone else know I was here? Would I die too?
But I didn’t ask that question. I would leave before that happened.
When she caught her breath, she reached for a book to read to me. She always read before we ate. She said it was therapeutic. But before she started reading, I said, “Mama, you forgot to answer my question.”
“What question is that?”
“What year is it?”
She fidgeted through the pages of the book. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why would I not care?” And yet, it was difficult to put my reasons into words. “Because it is . . . strange not to know such a thing. I understand that you are trying to protect me from . . .” What? Life? The world? “. . . those who would do me ill.” Mama had told me that the man who had killed my mother had also tried to have me killed, but she had saved me. “Yet, someday, I must go out into the world, and I do not wish to be thought strange. I wish to be ordinary. I’m not mad, after all, like Bertha Rochester, who needed to be locked in an attic.”
I wasn’t mad, was I? What if I was and I only didn’t know it because of the level of my dementia? Did madwomen know they were mad? Or did they think they were sane, and it was the world that was off-kilter? What if everything, my tower, the trees, even the squirrels were all figments of my mad imaginings?
But if these were my imaginings, why would I not imagine something else, something better?
“Am I mad? Is that why you keep me here?” I twisted my neck to see her, for she had moved behind me.
“Of course not, darling Rachel.” She reached to stroke my cheek and, simultaneously, to move my face so that I was not looking at her. Yet I detected a strange expression on her face, an expression like panic. “It is not you who are mad but the world, Rachel.” She reached for my hairbrush. Even though she no longer had my special brush, she sometimes brushed my hair when she came, for old time’s sake. But this time, the brush caught on a knot. I clutched my head.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”
“I’m sorry, my dear Rachel, so sorry. I do not wish to harm you. I only . . . you must stay here a bit longer. Perhaps you do not trust me.”
“Oh, no, Mama. I do trust you.” Up until this minute, I had. But why was she becoming so agitated when all I wanted was a few answers to my questions. If she intended to release me, I would need to know.
“I only want what is best for you. I only . . .” She broke down, crying. “I can’t lose you, Rachel! I can’t. I have already lost so much.”
Her face looked so old and sad that I began to weep too. I wept so easily lately, wept reading books, even books I knew very well.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t want to leave. I am happy here with my books and with . . . you. I just wondered . . .”
“What, Rachel?” Her face was stormy. “What is it you wonder?”
“It’s only that the books I have, I have read so many times. Not that Mr. Dickens and the Brontë sisters do not seem like old friends, but I thought, perhaps, there might be different books, newer books.”
It is not what I wanted. I wanted what I had said I wanted, to know what year it was. To know who I was. To know where I was and when I would be released. In many ways, I could see I was becoming a young lady, old enough to marry and have children perhaps. In other ways, though, I was a child, a child who knew nothing and had everything kept from me, and I was sick of it. But I was also trapped, trapped and at her mercy. I couldn’t have what I wanted, so I would have to settle for newer books until I found a way.
She paused in her brushing, and I heard her take a deep breath in, then out. “Oh, is that all? I can get you new books, all you want. How thoughtless of me not to realize that an intelligent young lady must have some occupation for her mind. What sort of books do you
Sometimes, I wondered what would happen if Mama died. Did anyone else know I was here? Would I die too?
But I didn’t ask that question. I would leave before that happened.
When she caught her breath, she reached for a book to read to me. She always read before we ate. She said it was therapeutic. But before she started reading, I said, “Mama, you forgot to answer my question.”
“What question is that?”
“What year is it?”
She fidgeted through the pages of the book. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why would I not care?” And yet, it was difficult to put my reasons into words. “Because it is . . . strange not to know such a thing. I understand that you are trying to protect me from . . .” What? Life? The world? “. . . those who would do me ill.” Mama had told me that the man who had killed my mother had also tried to have me killed, but she had saved me. “Yet, someday, I must go out into the world, and I do not wish to be thought strange. I wish to be ordinary. I’m not mad, after all, like Bertha Rochester, who needed to be locked in an attic.”
I wasn’t mad, was I? What if I was and I only didn’t know it because of the level of my dementia? Did madwomen know they were mad? Or did they think they were sane, and it was the world that was off-kilter? What if everything, my tower, the trees, even the squirrels were all figments of my mad imaginings?
But if these were my imaginings, why would I not imagine something else, something better?
“Am I mad? Is that why you keep me here?” I twisted my neck to see her, for she had moved behind me.
“Of course not, darling Rachel.” She reached to stroke my cheek and, simultaneously, to move my face so that I was not looking at her. Yet I detected a strange expression on her face, an expression like panic. “It is not you who are mad but the world, Rachel.” She reached for my hairbrush. Even though she no longer had my special brush, she sometimes brushed my hair when she came, for old time’s sake. But this time, the brush caught on a knot. I clutched my head.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”
“I’m sorry, my dear Rachel, so sorry. I do not wish to harm you. I only . . . you must stay here a bit longer. Perhaps you do not trust me.”
“Oh, no, Mama. I do trust you.” Up until this minute, I had. But why was she becoming so agitated when all I wanted was a few answers to my questions. If she intended to release me, I would need to know.
“I only want what is best for you. I only . . .” She broke down, crying. “I can’t lose you, Rachel! I can’t. I have already lost so much.”
Her face looked so old and sad that I began to weep too. I wept so easily lately, wept reading books, even books I knew very well.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t want to leave. I am happy here with my books and with . . . you. I just wondered . . .”
“What, Rachel?” Her face was stormy. “What is it you wonder?”
“It’s only that the books I have, I have read so many times. Not that Mr. Dickens and the Brontë sisters do not seem like old friends, but I thought, perhaps, there might be different books, newer books.”
It is not what I wanted. I wanted what I had said I wanted, to know what year it was. To know who I was. To know where I was and when I would be released. In many ways, I could see I was becoming a young lady, old enough to marry and have children perhaps. In other ways, though, I was a child, a child who knew nothing and had everything kept from me, and I was sick of it. But I was also trapped, trapped and at her mercy. I couldn’t have what I wanted, so I would have to settle for newer books until I found a way.
She paused in her brushing, and I heard her take a deep breath in, then out. “Oh, is that all? I can get you new books, all you want. How thoughtless of me not to realize that an intelligent young lady must have some occupation for her mind. What sort of books do you
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