Call Me Zelda (14 page)

“I am sitting right here,” I said, nudging Peter on the arm.

The wind picked up, increasing the symphony of the wind chimes.

“I think Zelda needs to spend more time outdoors,” I said. “She seems to thrive on exercise. And she’d enjoy the chimes.”

“Bring her by on a day trip if you can get permission,” said Dad. “I’d love to meet her.”

“Me, too,” said Mom. “Could she bring her husband? I’d love to meet him.”

“That probably wouldn’t work so well,” I said. “He’s a bit of a stressor for her.”

“How sad,” said Mom.

“It is sad,” I said.

“All I can think of is a flapper with a cigarette and a feathered headdress doing the Charleston up the drive,” said Mom.

We sat with this idea for a moment, each of us imagining the Fitzgeralds sauntering through our woods. It seemed out of place even in a fantasy. Then Dad laughed and changed tack.

“All I can think of is Peter running around that turn like he used to when he was a boy home from school or camp or seminary.”

“I like to make an entrance,” he said.

“It’s a shame you can’t greet the congregation at mass like that on Sunday mornings,” I said.

A ripple of laughter went through us.

“How did someone with your personality size fit into the monastery in Italy?” asked Mom.

He gave a nervous laugh. “Not well at first, I must confess, but I was at my most penitent, since it started during Lent, so they didn’t get my full wattage.”

“You saved that for me,” I said.

“And your neighbor,” he replied.

“What neighbor?” asked Mom.

I shot Peter a look and he let the question die.

“I actually almost stayed at the monastery,” he said.

“I don’t believe you,” said Mom.

“I did,” said Peter. “The friar I spoke of, Padre Pio—he had a profound effect on me. He’s being held prisoner of sorts at the Rotonda by the Church because they want to prove him a fraud.”

“Why?” I asked.

Peter hesitated. “He has the stigmata.”

Dad whistled low through his teeth.

“Did you see it?” asked my mother.

“He wears gloves, but I did see the blood seeping through on several occasions,” said Peter.

“And you believe it’s real?” I asked, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice.

“Yes, Anna,” he said.

“You don’t believe the wounds are self-inflicted?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not something I can explain. There’s more to it than that. Anyway, he suffers greatly.”

“How else?”

“I don’t want to go into it and have you rolling your eyes at me,” said Peter. “Not everything can be explained by science.”

“I won’t roll my eyes,” I said. “I promise.”

“He’s been in two places at once. He has an aura of flowers about him that seems most potent when the wounds actively bleed. He is tormented by demons at night.”

“What?” said my mother.

I felt the goose bumps rise on my arms.

“You know, I don’t really want to go on,” said Peter. “Just know that he taught me two things. The first is that confession is the clearest way to unburden ourselves and grow in our spiritual and overall health.”

“And the second?” I asked.

“We can take on the suffering of others, not only for their redemption, but also for our own.”

ELEVEN

June 1932

The way Dr. Meyer looked at Dr. Squires, Scott, and me made me feel like a naughty schoolgirl in the principal’s office. Our conspiracy, as he referred to it, angered and shocked him.

“It’s only for half days,” said Dr. Squires. “She’ll return after lunch and spend nights with us.”

“And she’ll get to be with her daughter. And Anna will be with her at the house and at the clinic,” said Scott. “Zelda will always have Anna to lean on.”

My turmoil over the plan left me unable to say a word. Part of me felt strongly that this change would benefit Zelda. The other part believed it would destroy the fragile web of stability she’d woven around herself. It was cowardly of me, but I allowed the others to make the case while I stood stoic, awaiting my fate. I had to pray that I’d end up in the place meant for me.

“We’ll have Nurse Howard keep Zelda to a strict schedule, just as she does at Phipps,” said Dr. Squires.

“You yourself said Zelda has had barely any outbursts in weeks,” said Scott.

“What will happen to Nurse Howard’s other patients?” asked Dr. Meyer.

“With recent discharges I will be able to rearrange the schedule while she’s with Zelda evenly among the other nurses,” said Dr. Squires. “She’ll be able to do her rounds during the other half of the day. Besides, Nurse Howard and I discussed that her connection to Mrs. Fitzgerald has much more potential than the clinical relationships Anna has with her other patients.”

“And if it doesn’t work out,” said Scott, “we can always go back to the way it is.”

I glanced at Fitzgerald and he looked at me with a half smile. I noticed that his hands had a slight tremor and he looked pale, but he was sober. His sobriety probably had something to do with his trembling. Nonetheless, I was proud of him for coming to the hospital this way. It allowed me to feel some hope for the couple.

Meyer looked at me.

“What do you think, Nurse Howard?” said Dr. Meyer. He would not let me go without expressing my opinion. “You are closest to her.”

All eyes turned to me. The room felt close, and that annoying clock underlined every moment I did not speak.

Well?

Well?

Well?

I wanted Zelda to have a chance at a normal life. Her husband wanted it. Her daughter deserved it. But this little feeling, a fluttering low in my stomach, warned me that Zelda probably would not get better and the experiment would fail. And yet Peter always told me of faith and miracles. Ask and I shall receive. My answer would be the start of my prayer for Zelda and her family.

“She deserves a chance at freedom,” I said. “She hungers for it. Sterility does not…become her.”

I saw an emotion flicker over Meyer’s eyes that I could not read. Defeat? Yearning? Sadness? No, I could not discern it.

“Very well,” he said. “Let her try. Bring her in.”

Scott beamed and Dr. Squires smiled. I excused myself to fetch Zelda and relate the good news. When I arrived at her room she was hunched in a ball in the corner, biting her lip, covering her ears with balled-up fists. My heart sank. I raced to her side and placed my hand on her back.

“Zelda,” I said, though she would not look at me. “Zelda.”

I sat next to her on the floor and put my face in my hands, knowing how crushed Scott would be that I could not recommend that she be discharged like this. It pained me to think of how upset her daughter would be to find out that her mother would not be coming home for visits after all.

I suddenly felt Zelda’s hands pull my own away from my eyes. Her lip bled a bit where she’d bitten it, but otherwise her countenance had completely changed. Her relaxed face did not reassure me.

“Can I go?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. How could I allow her to go after what I’d just witnessed? My gaze flicked out to the doorway, where I half hoped I’d see Dr. Squires so she could back me up. Zelda gently turned my face toward hers.

“I know you’re worried,” she said. “But it will be okay. Do you see how I fixed myself? It was only a minute, and I was able to fix myself.”

I stood slowly, and she rose with me and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. She reached up to smooth her hair and caught my gaze. She cocked her head to the side and smiled her warmest debutante smile.

“You won’t keep me from my life now, will you, Anna?” she said.

I
t was raining the day I arrived at La Paix, the house Scott had found for them several miles north of the city. It was a persistent, chilly pouring that soaked me through the soles, so that when I knocked I must have looked like something the Jones Falls had kicked up. I was supposed to have left with Scott when he’d picked up Zelda from Phipps that morning, but Dr. Meyer had a mountain of paperwork he insisted I complete before going. The bus stop was a half mile or so down the road from the house. At least Scott’s secretary would drive me back to Phipps with Zelda at one thirty, after lunch, so I wouldn’t have to get soaked again.

The house was a rambling old Victorian with a wraparound porch framed in maple trees that looked like a dollhouse Zelda might make for Scottie. It was located on the lush estate of a wealthy Baltimore family in the Rodgers Forge area, just miles from the city but with a rural feel. The grounds outshone the house, which looked as if it needed remodeling, but in spite of its aged appearance La Paix was nicer than any home I’d ever lived in.

Scott opened the door in a rush and glanced over me from head to toe.

“Anna!” he said with the drama of a Hollywood actor overplaying his part. “So good of you to agree to this.”

Scott did not invite me in but turned and started walking down the hallway, his gray flannel robe flapping behind him, a trail of smoke and the smell of something prescriptive in his wake. I did not think he meant for me to remain outside the door, so I crept over the threshold and waited in the foyer as he disappeared around a turn.

The interior of the house had dark-paneled walls and an imposing grandfather clock in the hallway that chimed the hour while I stood there. Fitzgerald poked his head out of the room at the end of the hall and without removing the cigarette from his mouth said, “Come, come.”

I walked down the hallway and entered the sitting room. A storm of yellow notepads, broken pencils, papers, and books littered the tables and floor of the room, along with a collection of empty beer cans. It looked as if a party of wild librarians had just cleared out.

“Anna,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Scott. Please call me Scott.” He said this with a great amount of joviality, almost as if he were a liberal politician intent on dispelling the class system for an audience.

“Are you cold? Would you like some tea?” he asked.

“No, sir—Scott, please, I don’t need any tea,” I said.

He looked at me for a moment, then motioned for me to sit. He chose to stand.

He gave me a speech that sounded rehearsed about what he would need from me as a nurse at the house, as if I’d never cared for Zelda, as if we’d never spoken of these things. As he talked, he dribbled ashes all over the carpet, stepping on them with his slippered foot. I had a tremendous urge to stub the cigarette out, but contained it by folding my hands tightly in my lap.

“Here, finally, I will complete my novel,” he said. “It’s been on hold for years, and now I can feel the momentum pushing forward, urging me to finish the book. I will finish and I can’t have distraction.”

I wondered why he wanted Zelda here if he couldn’t have distraction. Did he truly depend on her for inspiration? Would his muse behave for him?

It was clear that although it was only ten o’clock in the morning, Scott was drunk. I was furious. The hope that had started in Meyer’s office was now completely slashed; the first puncture had come when I found Zelda on the floor of her room at Phipps, and now here, with him, was the final cut.

“There are things you should know,” he said, his voice losing the full, warm quality it had had moments ago and assuming a tone of grave seriousness.

“The house is sometimes…” He searched the air as if looking for the word. “Unsettled.”

To my horror, thunder punctuated his sentence by rumbling low over the house at that moment. He paused, half smiled, and redirected his attention to me. The hair on the back of my neck stood.

“And not due to my daughter, Scottie, who’s here, by the way, running my secretary ragged.”

I glanced at the framed photograph nearest me and saw the apple-cheeked child to whom he referred, and felt a sudden lift in my heart at the thought of finally meeting this little girl I’d so often thought about.

A movement by the heavy drapes in the corner caught my attention, and I was shocked to see Zelda emerge. Actually, she didn’t emerge; she’d just been standing next to the drapes like a specter all this time and I hadn’t noticed her. Scott’s eyes darted from Zelda back to me. He’d known she was there.