Call Me Zelda (12 page)

May 1932

Play for me, Anna.

Even though Ben’s face blurred in my mind, his voice seemed ever at my ear these days. Calm. Low. The remembrance of its vibration made the hair on my skin rise.

I sat on the bench and spread out the music.

Mendelssohn’s
Songs Without Words
.

The first chord cut the air in the room and made me jump. I felt sweat form on my forehead and the back of my neck, and stopped.

I heard the bells of the cathedral announce the hour as I looked up at our wedding picture. My dress, which had been my mother’s, drew my gaze. The dress was soft and elegant like a spring breeze, with none of the Victorian, high-necked fussiness that had been popular at the time. The white silk embroidered with tiny white leaves and flowers and the vertical ruffles that sat gently against the sheer neckpiece invited the groom to lean in a little closer.

My mother had had the dress boxed up and put back in her closet after the wedding for her future granddaughters. I
imagined it still gathered dust, since her only granddaughter would never be able to wear it. But here in the photo it was in its prime and perfection, immortalized in black and white. Here we both were. I remembered how he smelled fresh and starched in his uniform. I remember his body heat reaching through his jacket to my skin in a prelude of what was to come that night, when he slid the dress off me one button at a time until I couldn’t stand it.

Heat rose on my neck and I started the piece over.

The opening of the introduction was like the music of a slow, mournful carousel. Then the melody arrived, a moody ballerina jewel box at once wistful, passionate, and melancholy, especially on a piano in need of tuning. I continued through to the end and was surprised how much playing the piece had lightened my mood. I’d anticipated a rise of sorrow in resurrecting the song he had loved so much, but instead I felt peace. Calm. Wholeness.

With renewed vigor I started to play again when I heard a knock at the door. Whoever it was had to have heard me playing, but who would visit me? My heart started pounding. Then the knock resumed, but this time it turned into a beat.

Boom, boom, boom, ba, doom, boom, boom, boom.

It sounded like a jazz drum solo.

I jumped up from the seat, ran across the room, and swung open the door with a grin on my face.

“Peter!”

W
hen my brother told us he had decided to become a priest, we all had a good laugh, but for once he was the one who had remained serious. Once the giggles evaporated and the silence became nearly unbearable, my mother spoke.

“Good for you, Peter,” she had said. “We are proud of you.”

“We are,” echoed my dad.

Peter’s emotion had been evident but contained in his shiny eyes. I remember thinking how kind and generous my parents
were. I knew that, in spite of their great pride, it must have been a blow that their only son would never have children. I thought of all the hearts that would break upon hearing the news, and I had felt guilty. Somehow, I knew that my losses had something to do with his decision.

And here Peter stood, handsome as ever, but with a lingering sadness in his eyes that gave him a mysterious look. I lunged at him for a hug.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” he said. “My train just arrived and I’m not due for duty until next week. I thought I’d escort you to Mom and Dad’s after work tomorrow. After all, you look like an old lady with that streak of gray I see forming in your hair. Are you sure you’re only thirty-five?”

I slapped his hand away.

“At least my butt hasn’t disappeared completely,” I said. “What do you weigh now, eighty, ninety pounds?”

“Hardly,” he said. “Ninety-five.”

We sat up talking late into the night, brewing pot after pot of tea, and catching up on each other’s lives. He confessed that his Lenten fasting had gotten a bit out of hand and he was trying to regain the weight he’d lost. He was overjoyed at his placement in Baltimore and looked forward to human interaction, since he’d just completed a year of intense study at the Vatican.

“But enough about me,” he said, stubbing out his third cigarette. “Tell me how you’re getting along.”

I looked at him for a moment, our eyes locked in silent remembrance of the time I’d been through hell and back all those years ago with him at my side.

“I’m…well,” I said, meaning it. “I have a new patient who has touched me and given me renewed purpose.”

He smiled at me, chasing away the sad lines around his eyes. “That’s swell,” he said. “Tell me about your patient.”

“Pretend we’re in the confessional, Father,” I said.

“It’s between you, me, and God.”

“Good. Zelda Fitzgerald is my patient.”

“The flapper?”

“Yes!”

“What’s her diagnosis?”

“Schizophrenia.”

“How has she touched you so?”

“Because her eyes look like mine when I lost Ben and then Katie.”

“Empty.”

“Yes, empty.”

He lit another cigarette. “Do you think she’s just dissatisfied? Depressed over her wild youth fading into the humdrum of adulthood?”

“No, it’s much more than that. She is mentally ill.”

“Beyond help?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I think I may have a way to help her restore some of her sanity, or at least give her some sense of peace.”

“What can you do?”

“Help her find the diaries her husband stole from her and used in his work.”

Peter became quiet, and worry creased his forehead. “Did she instruct you to do this?”

“We worked it out together.”

He seemed to want to speak but was trying to hold back.

“What?” I asked. “You look upset.”

“Just be careful,” he said.

I suddenly felt defensive. Since my dark time, I had sensed an unseen shifting in our roles, in which Peter acted as if he were older and wiser than me. It annoyed me that on our first night reunited he had to insert advice.

“I’m going to look for a diary,” I said, “not disarm a bomb.”

“But you’re taking a side in a marriage, and that’s a dangerous business.”

“She needs an ally.”

“She’s mentally ill. Do you know his side?”

“Not entirely, but it’s pretty clearly a violation the way he used her diaries.”

“Is it?” he said. “Maybe she gave him her diaries. Maybe she enjoyed being his subject.”

“I’m sure she did for a time, but it went on too long.”

“And now you think that finding her diaries and giving them to her will accomplish what?”

“It will give her control of herself again,” I said.

“I thought you said she was mentally ill.”

“She is.”

“Then pardon me for saying it, but you’re taking a simplistic view of a much bigger problem, and one that might cause trouble for you.”

“Let’s just drop this,” I said. “Pardon
me
for saying it, but you are a
man
; you’ve never been married and you can’t understand.”

“You’re right about that,” he said. “But I’m approaching this from a clerical perspective in defense of the sacrament of marriage, which is bigger than both of the parties involved and should be treated as sacred.”

“But what if they are destroying each other?”

“Then that’s between them and God, but it’s not between them, God, and Anna.”

I stood in a huff and walked into the kitchen so I wouldn’t strangle Peter. I picked up a towel and wrung it out the way I’d like to do with his neck. He followed after me shortly, wearing a sheepish grin and holding his hands in the air in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been debating theology for three years. I’ll just nod and say
okay
next time.”

“Good.”

“And I’m proud of you for your renewed vitality.”

“Thank you.”

“And clearly something has awakened inside of you, because I see you’ve got the wedding picture on display, and when I approached your door you were playing the piano.”

I placed the towel back on the stove handle and folded my arms in front of my chest. I tried to maintain my stern expression, but he looked so disheveled and contrite that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said. “We can argue on the way to Mom and Dad’s tomorrow.”

I
left Peter to go to work the next morning, eager to get back to Zelda and discuss her Manhattan narrative. When I arrived, I was surprised to hear that Mr. Fitzgerald was in her room, visiting with her.

“He showed up very early and very sober,” said Dr. Squires. “I suppose he has to come first thing in the morning to make that possible.”

“How did she react when he appeared?”

“It’s hard to say. I can say with certainty that she was elated, aggravated, serene, and angry about it, and that was just as he walked in.”

I smiled at her and checked the clock. I supposed I could see to my other patients before Zelda. I felt a guilty stab at my emotional neglect of the other women in my care. One was an elderly woman prone to alternating bouts of hysteria and catatonia, much like Zelda but without any lucid moments to bridge the swings. Another was a young woman who had suffered a breakdown after the birth of her third child. Her husband was devoted and efficient and kept asking when she’d be “right” to come home. He didn’t yet know that in her most recent therapy session she’d
confessed to wanting to kill her baby or herself. My final patient slept all day and wandered the halls at night. She scared Zelda, who forever thought she was being haunted.

Zelda’s room was the first I passed, and her door was ajar. As I glanced in, Mr. Fitzgerald saw me and called me into the room. I hesitated, unsure whether Zelda would appreciate the intrusion, but I was pleased to see that her face was open and peaceful. A large and lush bouquet of white calla lilies and bloodred roses sat fragrant and bright on the windowsill. It was an extravagant gesture, and I was sure Zelda loved it.

“Nurse,” he said.

“Anna,” said Zelda, not unkindly.

“Anna,” he echoed. “Please come in. We have an idea we’d like to run by you.”

I felt wary and ill at ease, and thought that if a schizophrenic and an alcoholic had an idea, there was a definite chance it would not be a good one.

“I found a house,” he said. “Nearby. Do you think Meyer would approve of partial residence there for Zelda?”

I knew it was silly and even wrong, but I felt a strange tug at my heart at the thought of her not being here. From a practical standpoint, however, I did not see how Dr. Meyer would support Zelda’s release at this time. Her behavior was still erratic in spite of overall improvement. I decided to be honest.

“While I can’t speak for Dr. Meyer, I think we’d need a bit more consistency of behavior before the approval of outings.”

It hung in the air that Zelda was not bound to the clinic. She was a voluntary patient, and could, therefore, check out at any time.

“How do you feel about that, Zelda?” I asked. “Would you like to leave the hospital for part of the day if Dr. Meyer supported the request?”

She thought in earnest, looking from me to her husband.

“Only if you come with me,” she said.

Mr. Fitzgerald stared at her like…well, like she was mad.

“Why didn’t you say that before?” he asked.

“I just thought of it,” she said. “I forget how much I like Anna when she’s gone. But now she’s here in her dark, slender, tragic beauty, and I want to place her in my pocket and carry her everywhere with me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of her description. Then the Fitzgeralds looked at each other and joined me in my laughter.