How to Be a Good Wife (20 page)

‘We go to the doctor in the village,’ I say. ‘He’s Hector’s friend. He’s had him fooled from the beginning.’

He taps his pen against his leg. He writes something, and then looks up at me.

‘Your parents died when you were eighteen, is that correct?’

‘He told me that, but it isn’t true.’ I pause. ‘They might be still alive.’

The doctor looks in the file again.

‘Have you ever tried to kill yourself, Mrs Bjornstad?’

I think of the cold water of the ocean, the blue blur of lights under the surface.

‘No,’ I say.

‘You haven’t?’

‘I didn’t go down there to kill myself.’

‘Down where?’

‘To the sea. We were on holiday.’

‘You were on holiday and you wanted to kill yourself?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just didn’t want to come back up.’

A tear drips onto my trouser leg, leaving a wet black circle. The doctor writes something else.

‘Your husband mentioned that when you met, he pulled you out of the water, that he saved your life. He said that you had an eating disorder and that you were clinically depressed.’

‘We didn’t meet then,’ I interrupt. ‘That’s just what he told people.’

‘When did you meet, then?’

‘He took me.’

The doctor waits for me to continue.

I sigh. I’m so tired. ‘I was waiting outside the ballet studio and he took me. He drugged me and took me under the house.’

The doctor narrows his eyes. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he wanted a wife.’

‘So he took you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He told me later that he had found me on the doorstep, and that he took care of me when I was ill, but he made me that way.’

‘He deliberately made you ill?’

‘He knew what he was doing. He didn’t give me a lot of food: made me dependent on him. And when that wasn’t working, he told me my parents were dead.’

‘How old were you when this happened?’

‘Eighteen,’ I say.

‘He kept you under the house for how long?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘About two years.’

‘And then he let you out, and you married him?’

He doesn’t believe me.

‘He made me believe he saved my life,’ I say. ‘He gave me a new name. He was the only person I had left.’

‘When did you start remembering these things, Mrs Bjornstad?’

‘I stopped taking my pills, and I started seeing things.’

‘You were hallucinating?’

‘I thought I was, but they weren’t hallucinations. They were things that happened.’

‘What kind of things were you seeing?’

‘A blonde girl.’

‘How long has it been since you last took your medication?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I stopped taking it a few weeks after my son left, so a couple of months?’

He starts writing again. ‘How long did the hallucinations last?’

‘They weren’t hallucinations,’ I say.

‘OK,’ he says, smiling tightly. ‘How long did you see these things for?’

‘I’m not sure. It varies.’

‘And were they triggered by anything in your surroundings?’

I try to think back. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But the more they come back, the more I know they really happened. I remember them.’

‘And they’re still coming back now?’

I nod.

He writes something else in his notes and then he looks at his watch. ‘Our time is up, unfortunately, Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says, standing. ‘If you could wait here for a second, I’ll be right back.’

I stand up. He walks across the room, and through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

He has left my file on the table. I walk across the room and open it. His writing is slanty, hard to read, but I make out some of what he has written.

Experienced serious depressive symptoms and attempted suicide after traumatic event (parents’ death) at age 18, prescribed medication (check previous medical notes for diagnosis?). Since ceasing to take medication, frequent and increasing hallucinations. Believes these to be a reliving of true events. Developed to paranoid delusions that husband is threat to her wellbeing. Believes husband, Hector Bjornstad, abducted her, and that previously she was Elise Sandvik. Perhaps early misdiagnosis of depression – depressive and psychotic symptoms could suggest schizoaffective disorder?

I read on to the end of the page. Under the section marked THREAT TO HERSELF OR OTHERS? he has written:
Yes, keep in for observation.

I walk out of the room and down the corridor. The doctor is standing in the reception area speaking to Hector and Kylan in a low voice. Kylan’s eyes are red. Hector’s face is blank but I can see a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

I step forward. ‘I won’t stay here,’ I say.

The doctor turns around. ‘Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says. ‘I said I would come back in a moment.’

‘I know what you’re planning on doing, and I won’t stay here. I want to stay with my son.’

‘Mum, please,’ Kylan says, a tear rolling down his cheek. ‘Just do what the doctor asks.’

‘You promised me we’d go to the house,’ I say. ‘I need to show you so you will believe me. I need to go to the police.’

Kylan puts his warm hands over my cold ones. ‘Mum,’ he says. ‘You need to stop this. It’s really upsetting.’

‘Please, Kylan,’ I say. ‘I know you don’t want to believe it, but go to the house and look under the front step. Promise me.’

Kylan doesn’t take his eyes off me. He nods.

Hector steps forward. ‘Can you give us a moment?’ he says to the doctor.

The doctor begins to move away, back towards his office. ‘I’ll come back.’

We stand together, Kylan, Hector and I, close to the door, within a few metres of the reception desk. The girl concentrates on typing at her computer.

Hector takes a step towards me. I feel myself begin to shake.

‘Get away from me,’ I say.

‘I’m sorry this has to happen, Marta,’ he says. ‘But really you have left us no choice. I don’t feel I can give you the care you need any more.’

I stare at him. ‘My name is Elise!’ I shout.

‘I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.’

My palms are sweating and my chest is tight.

‘I don’t know what you thought was under the house,’ he says. ‘But I assure you there isn’t anything there now.’ He looks straight at me then.

I launch myself at him, kicking and hitting him. He doesn’t fight back: he stands there and lets me pummel him, my blows rebounding from his soft jumpered chest.

‘Tell them the truth,’ I scream.

‘There is nothing to tell,’ he says.

People appear out of nowhere, pulling me backwards, and the doctor is there again. Someone holds on to my arms and a needle appears. The last thing I see before everything goes black is Kylan’s little-boy face, his eyes wide, the tears running down his cheeks. I want to reach my hands out to him, to tell him I will make it all better. But everything starts to slip away.

I wake up in a small square room. I am lying in a low bed with a narrow metal frame, tucked in tight, under the clean white covers.

There is an electric strip light running across the ceiling which is not turned on.

The room is in semi-darkness, and when I sit up, I think I see the shadow of a man sitting on the end of my bed, waiting for me to wake up. I kick out with my legs, and the man disappears.

My eyes adjust to the darkness. There’s a door with a small glass window: shatterproof, which throws a warm yellow square of light on the linoleum floor. The walls are white and smooth, and in the corner of the room is a sink. There is a box with the fingers of gloves protruding from it, and a large canister of hand sanitizer. There’s no mirror above the sink. A toilet to my right, plumbed into the wall.

I get out of bed. I am wearing a hospital gown, tight across the chest and open at the back. I turn the door handle, but it’s locked.

I start to shout then.
Help me, please. Open the door. Anybody. Please.

I bang on the glass until it rattles. I look around for something I can use to break it, but everything in the room is secured to the ground.

A woman’s face appears at the door. She has red hair in a neat bun, and a warm, round face. She puts her finger to her lips.

I step back from the door and she unlocks it.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

‘I can’t stay here,’ I say.

‘It’s only for the night,’ she says.

‘I want to see my son,’ I say.

‘Your son is at home,’ she says. ‘He’s coming for you in the morning. It’s best you try and get some rest now.’

‘I don’t want to stay here,’ I say. ‘Not on my own.’

‘It’s only for one night, Mrs Bjornstad,’ she says. ‘They’re making plans to move you tomorrow.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ I say. ‘I can stay with my son.’

‘The doctor wanted to keep you in,’ she says. ‘Just for tonight.’ Her face softens. ‘Do you want anything to eat? I think the kitchen is closed but I can try and get you something?’

‘Can I call my son?’ I ask.

‘I can’t let you use the phone,’ she says. ‘But he’s coming in the morning.’

‘Alone?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘Can we put the lights on?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘If you need anything else, just press the button on the wall.’

‘I’m sorry for the noise,’ I say. ‘I just wasn’t sure where I was.’

‘That’s all right,’ she says. ‘I hope you get some sleep.’

As she leaves, I hear the click of the lock behind her.

All night, I pace from one end of the room to the other.

I was out there, driving through the vast valleys, and I came to the city, only to end up here.

I tell myself not to be, but I am angry with Kylan for not believing me. I came to him because I needed help.

There’s no clock in the room, so it is hard to tell what time it is. The only window is the one in the door which leads to the corridor. For some reason, they have removed the watch from my wrist.

Outside in the corridor, the other lights start to go on, and I know it must be nearly morning.

When breakfast arrives, two powdery eggs and toast, I try to ask the new nurse.

‘Is my son coming?’ I ask.

She barely looks at me, putting the tray on the cabinet by the bed.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘can you please tell me if I am leaving here today?’

‘Someone will be here to see you shortly,’ she says. ‘I just deliver the breakfasts.’

‘What time is it?’ I ask.

‘Nine o’clock,’ she says, as she shuts and locks the door behind her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting.

*

A young doctor with a clipboard comes into the room.

‘Morning, Mrs Bjornstad,’ he says, reading the name from his chart. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘What time is it?’ I ask.

‘Just gone eleven,’ he says. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ I say. ‘When is my son coming?’

‘Visiting hours are between four and nine p.m.’

‘I thought I was being moved today.’

The doctor smiles at me as if I am a child. ‘It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid, Mrs Bjornstad. You won’t be moved until you are referred elsewhere,’ he says. ‘We need to determine your diagnosis.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘A mixture of group and one-on-one therapy sessions. You’ll have one group session every morning, and one evaluation every afternoon.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

‘Free time, for contemplation in your room.’

My chest tightens. ‘How long will I be here for?’

‘Until we can decide what is wrong with you, and then you will be sent to a different facility for treatment.’

‘But, Doctor,’ I say, sitting up straighter and pulling my gown around me, ‘there is nothing wrong with me.’

The doctor smiles again. ‘That is what we are here to determine.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s been a mistake. I need to speak to the police.’

‘For now,’ he says, ‘we just need to focus on making you feel better.’

‘But you need to investigate,’ I say. ‘I am the victim of a crime.’

‘Everything you say will be kept on file, Mrs Bjornstad.’ He sounds bored.

I grab his hand. ‘I need to speak to someone,’ I say. ‘My name is Elise Sandvik. We need to find proof that I am a missing person.’

‘I don’t think that should be the priority at the moment,’ the doctor says, shaking himself free of me and rising to his feet. ‘We need to focus on your recovery.’ He picks a small white cup of pills from the breakfast tray and hands it to me. ‘Starting with your medication.’

I take the cup, nodding my head.

‘Please can I have my watch back?’ I ask.

‘We can’t let you have anything with glass in it, I’m afraid,’ he says.

‘Can I have a clock, then?’ I ask. ‘I need to know the time.’

He half smiles, writing something on my chart. ‘I’ll mention it to the nurse,’ he says.

When he is gone, I tip the pills into the sink.

The hot anger rises. Why won’t they listen to me? Even though it happened over twenty years ago, there must be files on my disappearance. It shouldn’t be hard to trace.

I feel like throwing things against the wall, like shouting and screaming, but I know that will only prove them right.

*

Shortly after I have eaten dinner, Kylan comes to see me. Despite me asking, they still haven’t given me a clock, so I can’t say what time it is. Though he smiles when he enters the room, his eyes are a little bloodshot and he looks exhausted.

‘Hello, Mum,’ he says, sitting next to me.

‘Hi,’ I say.

He looks around the room. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘How do you think I’m feeling?’ I say. I don’t want to be, but I am annoyed with him. I have spent the whole day in this room, and I am sick of it.

‘Look, Mum,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. I couldn’t sleep at all last night.’

‘Neither could I,’ I say.

He looks at the narrow bed, the sink, the locked door. ‘I don’t like thinking about you in here.’

‘Take me home with you, then,’ I say.

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘The doctors say it’s the best place for you.’