“Yes, ma’am. I do.” I showed her my gloved hands. I had kept the habit of storing cotton gloves, along with my usual gloves, in my handbag at all times—a holdover from spending many hours working with pen and paper at the university. Of course, I wore gloves outside of the asylum, but such formality was not needed within it.
She wrote something on a note card. “The Rare Book Room is on the second floor to your left at the end of the hallway. Keep that card with you. It is both reference and…” she gave me a knowing smile, “…a permission slip to be in the room. You will find what you seek on the third bookcase, the second shelf. While it isn’t particularly old, it is rare and fragile. Do be careful.”
I knew the admonishment was automatic. “Of course. Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome. Remember that the library closes at seven tonight, sharp.”
“I shall remember.” As I turned toward the stairs, I glanced at my watch. It was already just past five. I had been here for hours without realizing how much time had passed. That was the way research was. But my patient list was light and my duties would continue in the morning. For now, I was on the trail of something that might help my newest patient.
At the end of the second-floor hallway stood an imposing set of double doors. Above the doors, a sign proclaimed this to be the Ruggles Rare Book Room. To the side of the closed doors, a gold and black plaque hung at eye level. I approached it with wary curiosity.
I touched the raised bronze letters of the last two names. Alonzo and Nina were the names of Josephine’s parents. At first blush, it appeared to be an unbelievable coincidence. Then I remembered that Josephine was the heiress to the Ruggles Publishing fortune. Of course her grandfather—if that was who Thomas Ruggles was—and her parents supported the university and its library.
I opened the doors to the Rare Book Room and took a breath, looking around. Rather than the greys and whites and dark wood of the lower floor, this room was decorated in lighter shades of brown and beige. I turned up the lights. Heavy russet drapes blocked all natural light from the delicate books. The temperature was cool but dry. I closed the doors to preserve the climate.
Ochre bookcases with glass fronts lined the walls with two sets of standing shelves that stood alongside three large tables. Each set of shelves had a brass number on top of it. So much esoteric knowledge. It made my head spin. Even the floor was mixture of light and dark woods in a spiraling pattern; a striking contrast to the lower level’s marble floor.
Knowing that time was of the essence, I moved to the third bookcase and opened the glass doors. Each of them could be locked, it seemed, and I wondered if the librarians locked the shelves or just the Rare Book Room door at night. The unmistakable scent of antique books greeted me like an old friend. Even as I scanned the second shelf for the book I wanted, I noticed that there was no dust. The librarians tended this room, and its valuable contents, well.
My treasure found, I settled in at one of the tables to read.
Anomalistic Thinking in Regards to Miracles by Avi Zunger had been written in Hebrew and translated into English. Most likely, this had been a student’s graduate project. Written from back to front, a page of neatly typed English translation had been stuck between the book’s pages with marks of corresponding work in the original writing. The student had probably been a linguistic major rather than a philosophy or psychology student.
I dug into the text. Avi Zunger had an interesting way of explaining the mental calisthenics the mind went through to accept the impossible. While a child could accept everything presented, no matter how improbable, Zunger questioned what could cause an adult to do the same. Perhaps there was a bound translation of the book I could order. It would be an expensive indulgence, but this book belonged in my personal library as valuable reference material.
Even as the minutes ticked by and I wrote out notes to consider when approaching Josephine and her wounds, I wondered if I had accepted the idea of stigmata too easily. I rolled this idea over and over in my mind as I gazed at the floor. Something about it was familiar…and alien.
My vision blurred. I’d stopped taking notes, stopped reading the text. The wooden pattern spiraled and undulated as if alive. The darker russet brown shapes morphed and flowed through the wood in a way not dissimilar to the marks on Josephine’s back.
I pulled the note of the three symbols I’d scrawled as reference from my handbag and held it up just left of my eyes. As I compared the design of the floor to the symbols, I let my eyes relax. The marks on the floor and my note blurred in the same manner, almost becoming one design.
Was this room somehow related to my patient’s malady?
I considered the answer as I put the paper away. Of course Josephine would have seen this room when it was dedicated to her family member. Of course it would have affected her. Was all this a delayed response of grief to her grandfather’s passing? I would have to talk to her about this. What had her relationship been with Thomas Ruggles? And why would it have taken more than two years for the grief to manifest in such an overt and bloody manner?
Checking my watch, I saw it was already half past six. I needed to clean up and bid Ms. Mayer a good evening. Perhaps she would know who the designer of this room was, and I would be able to link the marks on Josephine’s back to her grandfather through the designer.
Chapter 4
Hypnotic therapy is not for all my patients. Many are too untrusting, temperamental, or are unwilling to relax enough to explore their inner thoughts through the guided technique. For a patient like that, I use a more standard set of psychological tools to get to the heart of their malady—if it is possible.
My hypnotic therapy technique came about after much research and thought. The essence of the matter is that many patients cannot face their trauma in the cold, hard light of day. But, in a relaxed, sleepy, hypnotic state, the inner child (or critic) loosens its hold and allows them to examine their trauma with a more objective mind.
I was fortunate that the chemist at Providence Sanatorium was willing to converse with me and come up with the concoction that I use today. The sedative relaxes both the body and the mind without causing blackouts. It is enough to still the discomfort of those unable to relax and open the mind to suggestion, allowing the patient to be led down difficult paths to examine their own fear and trauma. They remain just conscious enough to be aware of me, my guiding authority, and my representation of safety.
This is what I had decided Josephine needed. I was right.
With the sun high in the sky, Josephine was the last of my patients I was to see today. I pulled the drapes closed as Josephine settled in. She looked as neat as she had yesterday, in a pale blue dress and a sweater, but the hollows beneath her eyes were deeper, darker, and more haunted. She watched me with a curious gaze, but said nothing. I had to prompt her into conversation again. “How are you?”