“No one else?”
“Not that I know of. Heidi grew up in Florida with an aunt.”
“Do you know how to reach her aunt?”
“No,” Maud said.
Dr. Goodman opened the folder. “I found a document I want to ask you about.” She pulled a paper from the folder and handed it to Maud. On it were handwritten a series of words down the center of the page.
SNOW
COLD
FUR
BOOTS
ASHES
“I have never seen this before.”
“It’s been sitting in her file, passed from place to place, it seems. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“But you think it’s important.”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait—would you please say that again?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced up at Maud, who was smiling. The doctor caught on and smiled, too. “I know. Those words are rarely spoken in medical establishments. But I don’t know. I just wonder. If this is a clue—if there’s something specific that happened—I’d like to figure it out. Maybe this is some kind of an exercise? I suspect your mother saw a psychiatrist who asked her to write pages about the car accident that killed her parents. Have you heard of Dr. Pennybacker’s work? He came up with the idea of having patients write about a traumatic experience for twenty minutes four days in a row, describing their memory of the experience in as much specific detail as they could, and also their present feelings about the memory. It has become a standard exercise in grief work, because it has positive results.”
“I don’t recognize anything,” Maud said, “except the handwriting. And this isn’t detailed, it’s just words.”
“It may be shorthand for a memory. Your mother seems to be trying to remember a trauma, but she doesn’t succeed. My guess—really, this is a guess—is that something severely traumatized her.”
“Another trauma? Aside from the accident?”
“Probably details of the accident she hasn’t been able to face.”
“Poor Ma.” Maud registered the possibility as pressure in her chest.
“Her whole early life is a blank. There is nothing in her records before the age of five.”
“She doesn’t talk about the past.”
“And you’ve asked her.”
“I used to, when I was little. But I gave up.”
Dr. Goodman nodded. “Maud, I can’t know for certain, but there might be a key that hasn’t been turned in your mother’s psyche, because we haven’t found the keyhole yet. These pages could provide an important clue. The person who suggested she do this exercise must have suspected, as I do, that an internal pressure caused her depressive episodes, and that if it were directly confronted or acknowledged she might find relief. This is speculative on my part, but I didn’t think it fair not to tell you. And maybe you can help.”
What about Greystone?”
“It’s not a bad place. I’d make a point of seeing her there as often as I do here. Honestly, I think there is hope.”
“What do you think about ECT?”
“It might be effective. As Dr. Straight said, it can really help.”
“Does it change people, though? I’m afraid she won’t be herself.”
Dr. Goodman leaned forward, lacing her hands on the table. “That’s a good question, Maud, and it’s a hard one to answer. You are accustomed to Heidi having fluctuations in her moods—that’s part of who she is. Will she seem different if she doesn’t have those moods anymore? She probably will. But the hope is that without that layer of unease she will be more free to be her natural self.”
“I see your point,” Maud said. “But what about this?” She pointed to the list of words. “Is there a chance that ECT could bury her memory of the meaning of these things forever?”
“That shouldn’t be the case, but she hasn’t been able to explain this list so far anyway, so it is hard to say. If she isn’t as anxious and depressed, she might be able to remember better.”
“Okay. I guess I really have to give it some thought. Was I a jerk to Dr. Straight?”
“Not at all. Concerns are natural. Many family members balk at the recommendation of ECT, and other treatments, too.”
“Okay good. I do feel protective of her.” Maud saw an image of Heidi curled up in her bed in the brown light. It was hard to bear.
“I can assure you, Dr. Straight understands that. Is there anything else I can do?”
“You’re doing it. Coming to visit, talking to her, reminding her of her life at home, that’s all helpful,” Dr. Goodman reassured her.
“The orderly told me she spoke to him last week. I was skeptical.” She searched Dr. Goodman’s face for the truth.
“She may have. There’s nothing physical stopping her from speaking.”
“Why won’t she speak to me?” Maud heard the note of hurt in her voice.
“Don’t take it personally. This illness is tricky.” Dr. Goodman widened her eyes—she’d thought of something. “How involved is your father?”
“He’s not personally involved. He is financially.” At least that, though it came at the cost of Moses expecting Maud to go along with him on other things.
“Could you ask him about this list?”
Maud glanced at the words again. “I’ll try.” She was slated to have dinner alone with him the following week. He’d ask about Heidi anyway.
Dr. Goodman pushed her chair backward and stood. “Good. I am hopeful, Maud. That isn’t a medical opinion, but there is a measure of intuition in medicine.”
Maud stood as well. “Thank you. For caring.”
Dr. Goodman nodded. “I want to meet the real Heidi, now that I have talked with you.”
“All right. I’ll think about all of this. Thank you for caring about my mother. May I take this?”
“That copy is for you.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Maud said.
On the half-hour ride back into the city, Maud read the words again and turned them over slowly. She tried to put the puzzle together, but the clues were so scant. She found herself counting the small rowhouses the car passed up to ten, and then starting over. At least she had Agnes to talk to at the other end of the ride.
* * *
“All right, then, I’ll be off,” Mrs. Blundt said. “Don’t be shy about calling.”
“Thank you,” Maud said. “I’ll be fine.” Though she was not at all certain that was true. She would be alone was the fact of the matter. Agnes was in Maine.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
“You too.”
Maud watched Mrs. Blundt walk to the elevator, then closed the apartment door. Now she could figure out how she felt.
She felt angry.
She felt tricked.
She felt elated.
She had the whole night ahead to herself in this beautiful apartment. She could not even remember when she’d been alone with nothing to do. She could lie down on a bed and look up at the ceiling. She could eat and sleep several times in a row. She could read for fun! Mrs. Blundt had given her a tour and showed her the guest bedroom. She headed back there to unpack but stopped to take a spin around Agnes’s bedroom. Such sumptuous linens, and a white silk fainting couch to match. Nothing like the stalwart sticks at Leeward Cottage. Maud perused the bookshelf. The only novels were a set by Pauline Schulz. Maud had heard of the Franklin Square series but hadn’t gotten to it. Too many books, too little time, et cetera. Her decision was made for her here—she’d lost interest in the book she’d brought with her. She pulled out the first volume, The Franklin Square Girls Make It Do, to take to her room.