Читать книгу Forty Words for Sorrow - Giles Blunt - Страница 11

When he left the reserve, Cardinal made a left and headed north toward the Ontario Hospital. Advances in medication coupled with government cutbacks had emptied out whole wings of the psychiatric facility. Its morgue did double duty as the coroner’s workshop. But Cardinal wasn’t there to see Barnhouse.

‘She’s doing a lot better today,’ the ward nurse told him. ‘She’s starting to sleep at night, and she’s been taking her meds, so it’s probably just a matter of time till she levels out – that’s my opinion, anyway. Dr Singleton will be doing rounds in about an hour, if you want to talk to him.’

‘No, that’s all right. Where is she?’

‘In the sunroom. Just go through the double doors, and it’s –’

‘Thanks. I know where it is.’

Cardinal expected to find her still adrift in her oversize terry dressing gown, but instead, Catherine Cardinal was wearing the jeans and red sweater he had packed for her.

She was hunched in a chair by the window, chin in hand, staring out at the snowscape, the stand of birches at the edge of the grounds.

‘Hi, sweetheart. I was up at the reserve. Thought I’d stop in on the way back.’

She didn’t look at him. When she was ill, eye contact was agony for her. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come to get me out of here.’

‘Not just yet, hon. We’ll have to talk to the doctor about that.’ As he got closer, he could see that the outline of her lipstick was uncertain and her eyeliner was thicker on one eye than the other. Catherine Cardinal was a sweet, pretty woman when she was well: sparrow-coloured hair, big gentle eyes and a completely silent giggle that Cardinal loved to provoke. I don’t make her laugh often enough, he often thought. I should bring more joy into this woman’s life. But by the time she had begun this latest nosedive, he had been working burglaries and was in a bad mood himself most of the time. Some help.

‘You’re looking pretty good, Catherine. I don’t think you’ll be in here too long this time.’

Her right hand never stopped moving, her index finger drawing tiny circles over and over again on the arm of the couch. ‘I know I’m a witch to live with. I would have killed me by now, but –’ She broke off, still staring out the window. ‘But that doesn’t mean my ideas are insane. It’s not as if I’m … Fuck. I’ve lost my train of thought.’

The swear word, like the obsessive circling movement of her hand, was a bad sign; Catherine didn’t swear when she was well.

‘So pathetic,’ she said bitterly. ‘Can’t even finish a sentence.’ The medication did that to her, broke her thoughts into small pieces. Perhaps that was why it worked, eventually: it short-circuited the chains of association, the obsessive ideas. Nevertheless, Cardinal could feel the hot jet of anger gushing inside his wife, blotting everything out like an artery opened in water. Both of her hands were making the obsessive circles now.

‘Kelly’s doing well,’ he said brightly. ‘Sounds practically in love with her painting teacher. She enjoyed her visit.’

Catherine looked at the floor, shaking her head slowly. Not accepting any positive remarks, thank you.

‘You’ll feel better soon,’ Cardinal said gently. ‘I just wanted to see you. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I thought we could have a chat. I don’t want to upset you.’

He could see Catherine’s thoughts growing heavier. Her head sank lower. One hand now covered her eyes like a visor.

‘Cath, honey, listen. You will feel better. I know it feels like you won’t just now. It feels like nothing will ever be right again, but we’ve got through this before and we’ll get through it again.’

People think of depression as sadness, and in its milder manifestations perhaps it is, but there could be little comparison between a tearful parting, say, or a sense of loss and these massive, devastating attacks Catherine suffered. ‘It’s as if I am invaded,’ she had told him. ‘It rolls into me like black clouds of gas. All hope is annihilated. All joy is slaughtered.’ All joy is slaughtered. He would never forget her saying that.

‘Take it easy,’ he said now. ‘Catherine? Please, hon. Take it slow, now.’ He put a hand on her knee and received not the slightest flicker of response. Her thoughts, he knew, were a turmoil of self-loathing. She had told him as much: ‘Suddenly,’ she said, ‘I can’t breathe. All the air is sucked out of the room, and I’m being crushed. And the worst thing is knowing what a misery I am to live with. I’m fastened to you like a stone, dragging you down and down and down. You must hate me. I hate me.’

But she said nothing now, just remained motionless, with her neck bent forward at a painful angle.

Three months ago Catherine had been bright and cheerful, her normal self. But gradually, as it often did in winter, her cheerfulness had ballooned into mania. She began to speak of travelling to Ottawa. It became her sole topic of conversation. Suddenly, it was vital she see the prime minister, she must talk sense into Parliament, she must tell the politicians what had to be done to save the country, save Quebec. Nothing could jog her from this obsession. It would start every morning at breakfast; it was the last thing she said at night. Cardinal thought he would go mad himself. Then Catherine’s ideas had taken on an interplanetary cast. She began to talk of NASA, of the early explorers, the colonization of space. She stayed awake for three nights running, writing obsessively in a journal. When the phone bill arrived, it listed three hundred dollars’ worth of calls to Ottawa and Houston.

Finally, on the fourth day, she had spiralled to earth like a plane with a dead engine. She remained in bed for a week with the blinds pulled down. At three o’clock one morning, Cardinal awoke when she called his name. He found her in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. The cabinet was open, the rows of pills (none of them in themselves particularly lethal) waiting. ‘I think I’d better go to the hospital,’ was all she had said. At the time, Cardinal had thought it a good sign; she had never before asked for help.

Now, Cardinal sat next to his wife in the overheated sunroom, humbled by the magnitude of her desolation. He tried for a while longer to get her to speak, but she stayed silent. He hugged her, and it was like hugging wood. Her hair gave off a slight animal odour.

A nurse came, bearing a single pill and a paper cup of juice. When Catherine would not respond to her coaxing, the nurse left and returned with a syringe. Five minutes later Catherine was asleep in her husband’s arms.

The early days are always bad, Cardinal told himself in the elevator. In a few days the drugs will soothe her nerves enough that the relentless self-loathing will lose its power. When that happens, she will be – what? – sad and ashamed, he supposed. She’ll feel exhausted and drained and sad and ashamed, but at least she’ll be living in this world. Catherine was his California – she was his sunlight and wine and blue ocean – but a strain of madness ran through her like a fault line, and Cardinal lived in fear that one day it would topple their life beyond all hope of recovery.