The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [192]
We continue to do all in our power. Several new treatments are available that we hope to use with positive effect, in particular the “electro-shock therapy,” for which we will have the equipment soon. With your permission we will add this to the insulin treatment. We have firm hopes for an eventual improvement, although it is our prognosis that Miss Chase will never be strong.
Distressing though it may be, I must request that you and your wife refrain from visiting or even from sending letters to Miss Chase at present, as contact with either of you is sure to have a disruptive effect upon the treatment. As you are aware, you yourself are the focus of Miss Chase’s more persistent fixations.
I will be in Toronto this Wednesday week, and look forward to a private conversation with you – at your offices, as your young wife, being a new mother, ought not to be unduly troubled with such disturbing matters. At that time I will ask you to sign the necessary forms of consent relative to the treatments we propose.
I take the liberty of enclosing this past month’s bill for your prompt consideration.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Gerald P. Witherspoon, Director
The Blind Assassin: The tower
She feels heavy and soiled, like a bag of unwashed laundry. But at the same time flat and without substance. Blank paper, on which – just discernible – there’s the colourless imprint of a signature, not hers. A detective could find it, but she herself can’t be bothered. She can’t be bothered looking.
She hasn’t given up hope, just folded it away: it’s not for daily wear. Meanwhile the body must be tended. There’s no point in not eating. It’s best to keep your wits about you, and nourishment helps with that. Small pleasures too: flowers to fall back on, the first tulips for instance. No use going distracted. Running down the street barefoot, shouting Fire! The fact that there is no fire is sure to be noticed.
The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn’t one. So kind, she says to the telephone. But so sorry. I can’t make it then. I’m tied up.
On some days – clear warm days especially – she feels buried alive. The sky is a dome of blue rock, the sun a round hole in it through which the light of the real day shines mockingly. The other people buried with her don’t know what’s happened: only she knows. If she were to voice this knowledge, they’d shut her away forever. Her only chance is to go on as if everything is proceeding normally, meanwhile keeping an eye on the flat blue sky, watching out for the large crack that is bound to appear in it eventually. After which he might come down through it on a rope ladder. She’ll make her way to the roof, jump for it. The ladder will be drawn up with the two of them clinging to it, clinging to each other, past turrets and towers and spires, out through the crack in the fake sky, leaving the others down below on the lawn, gawking with their mouths open.
Such omnipotent and childish plots.
Under the blue stone dome it rains, it shines, it blows, it clears. Amazing to consider how all these naturalistic weather effects are arranged.
There’s a baby in the vicinity. Its cries come to her intermittently, as if borne on the wind. Doors open and close, the sound of its tiny, immense rage waxes and wanes. Amazing how they can roar. Its wheezy breathing is quite close at times, the sound harsh and soft, like silk tearing.
She lies on her bed, sheets over or under her depending on the time of day. She prefers a white pillow, white as a nurse and lightly starched. Several pillows to prop her up, a cup of tea to anchor her so she won’t drift off. She holds it in her hands, and if it hits the floor she’ll wake. She doesn’t do this all the time, she’s far