Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (6 page)

She nods. “How does that make you feel?”

“How would it make anyone feel? Confused. Frightened sometimes. Curious . . . how, for example, does that lamp on your table emit light without candles?”

She nods kindly. “I understand you were treated last night for an injury to your head.” She indicates some papers on her desk. “Your thoughts and feelings could be simply the result of your concussion, and in that case will likely pass soon enough. Memory loss is another not uncommon result, usually temporary. And Paula did mention that you recently broke off an engagement, which would certainly contribute to your emotional state.”

She poises her writing instrument atop her paper. “Do you have any history of mental illness? How about in your family?”

What an impertinent question. As if any family would reveal such information. “Indeed not.”

“Have you any thoughts of hurting yourself? Any suicidal thoughts?”

“Of course not. Are you a magistrate as well?”

“I would like to keep you here for a few days, give you some medication, observe your progress, although—”

My stomach drops. “I am perfectly well, I assure you.”

“There is an alternative, of course. . . .”

“Yes, yes, whatever it is.”

She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a thin, rectangular object which is flat and shiny silver on one side; its reverse side is topped by evenly spaced, elliptical bumps. “If you take this pill,” she says, jabbing a thumbnail into the flat side and extracting a pink oval from one of the bumps, “and faithfully take one every day, I will see you in a week and we’ll see how you’re doing.” She scribbles on two pieces of paper and hands both to me, then fills a cup from a white, rectangular object topped by a transparent tank full of water.

She hands me the pill and the cup, which is made of paper. “I believe this will make you feel like yourself again. Isn’t that what you want?”

I cannot argue with that point, and so I swallow the pill.

“Have my receptionist make an appointment for you for next week, okay?” She stands up and offers me her hand again to shake. “And have one of your friends spend the night with you, just in case you need looking after. You should not be alone with a concussion anyway.”

“I am much obliged to you,” I say, and slip out the door. As I make my way past the rose-pink-clad women to where I assume my escorts await me, I say a silent prayer of thanks for my escape. If this pill is anything like the physic that Mr. Jones peddles, then it will do no more than make me sleepy—and, fortunately, this one went down without the usual offensive flavor—or do nothing at all.

As for making an appointment to see Dr. Menziger again, well, that is something I shall forget. She may have the eyes of an angel, but she was as crafty as an I-don’t-know-what in nearly turning me into an inmate of this place.

As I near the bank of orange chairs—the ranting man is, thankfully, gone—Paula, Anna, and Wes rise to meet me. Paula reaches me first and snatches the papers from my hand.

She examines them, mumbling something about stopping to “fill this right away”; Wes peers over her shoulder and groans.

Anna takes me by the hand; Wes grabs the other paper away from Paula and addresses me. “It says here you’re not to stay alone; I’ll watch over you tonight.”

“Give it a rest, Sir Galahad,” Paula says. “Your kind of protection she doesn’t need.”

“Then why did she have them call me from the emergency room, huh?”

“She had a blow to the head, remember?”

“Could you two stop fighting already?” Anna says. “It’s not exactly helpful.”

“Fine,” says Paula, “but he’s not going home with her.”

“Why don’t we ask Courtney what she wants,” Wes says.

“Indeed,” I say, wondering why my tongue is so thick and unwieldy that I can barely form an intelligible word, “why don’t we ask Courtney, whosoever she may be.” How have we progressed from the room with the orange chairs to the sea of cars without my noting any of my surroundings until this moment?

“Are you okay?” Paula says, gripping my arm tighter. “Help me, she’s starting to fall . . . fall . . . fall.” Paula’s words echo in a most diverting manner. Even more amusing is the fact that I am now looking up at the faces of Paula, Anna, and Wes, who are looking down at me. Pink and blue strands of hair dangle towards me, like thick strands of yarn. Their gay colors are so unlike the stern expression on Paula’s face. My giggles echo.

“Don’t just stand there. Help me get her off the ground . . . ground . . . ground. . . .”

Leaning against side-glass in car. Blur of clouds, buildings, machines, trees. Wes’s shoulder serves as my pillow; his arm round my shoulder; what a forward little baggage I am. She is. Not my body. Not my conduct. Silly goose. I should sit up. Anna’s white face frowning. So very tired. Paula’s eyes in the mirror. Need water. Sleep first.

S
omehow back in the bedchamber; Paula and Anna tugging silky garment over my head, trousers to match. What happened to other clothes? Wes not in the room, thankfully. What am I thinking? “Water . . .” My voice is a croak. Throat terribly dry.

Paula holds a glass to my lips. Oh blessed water so parched so parched I can barely swallow. Oh dear it has wet the front of this garment oh why am I so awkward as if I have drunk a bottle of Constantia wine, except that the wine gladdened my heart before it sent me to my slumbers but this is dull, dull, everything is so dull. I am gray inside. Gray. My heart is gray my throat is dry gray dust there are ashes in my mouth so thirsty I cannot swallow cannot stay awake but cannot sleep I do not want to fall into this gray abyss I will not I will not oh how heavy my eyes are and behind them only gray. . . .

W
es is slumped on a chair beside the bed; it is night. A single lamp illuminates half of his face. He is sleeping, snoring softly, like a child worn out from its holidays. A few of his curls are tumbled on his forehead; he is not wearing his spectacles, and he looks very young indeed. And handsome. A frown contracts his brow, and he opens his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift. “Courtney.” His voice is thick with sleep. “I was worried.”

“As was I,” I say, but my voice is an unintelligible croak. I am so relieved to see the golden light falling on his face instead of the dreadful gray hue and to feel the bedclothes against my arms that the dryness in my throat is but a trifle. I can feel again. I do not even care that what I feel is in a body not my own. How delightful, how delicious to feel something, anything.

“Water. Please.”

He grabs his spectacles from the top of the bookcase and scrambles out of the room, returning posthaste with a glass of cool water, which I consume in one unladylike gulp.

“Feel better?” he asks.

I nod. He points to the glass. “Would you like some more?”

“Thank you, no.”

Wes perches upon the chair beside the bed and takes my hand in both of his. How strong and gentle his hands are. And his eyes, so soft and kind behind his spectacles.

“Can I get you anything?”

In truth, I want nothing more at this moment than to lie here with Wes sitting beside the bed, holding my hand. He stretches his neck from side to side, and it makes an audible crack.

“Sorry,” says he, “I must have put my neck out of whack from sleeping in the chair.”

In that moment I am sensible of the impropriety of his having slept in my bedchamber. With me. I can feel my face grow hot. I wonder how he managed to get past the ladies, especially because they so clearly disapprove of him. Though their disapprobation seemed to have nothing to do with Wes’s unchaperoned presence in my rooms.

My face grows hotter. “Perhaps if you could get me another glass of water?”

Wes leaps up to fill my glass. “Listen,” he says as he hands me the glass. “I did some research online while you were sleeping”—he indicates a glowing box on a table across the room, thinner and flatter than the ones which the rose-clad ladies at Dr. Menziger’s establishment had—“and the bottom line is that no one can make you take those pills. Or go to a hospital. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I sit up in bed. “That has a lovely sound to it.”

I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. When has anyone ever said that to me? Honor, duty, obedience. My entire life. Honor thy mother and father, even if thy mother wishes you were never born, considers you an embarrassment to the family name, compares you to a host of other, more dutiful females ad infinitum. Do your duty. To your family, your neighbors, your friends, even if you care for none of them, even if you are tired to death of the endless prattle and polite nothings and left-handed chatter that passes for “respectable” discourse. Obey your parents, your elders, your aunts and uncles, your vicar, even if he who preaches charity on Sunday says the maintenance of fatherless children should be another parish’s burden.

And all at once, I hear Anna’s words:
Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now
.

“There is one thing, though,” Wes says, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and biting his lip. “Do you think you might consider not saying that you don’t know your friends or that you’re someone else? Not that I think you’re putting on an act or anything; I mean, you did hit your head pretty hard—but you’re making your friends really nervous. Uncomfortable. Scared, even. And when people are scared for their friends, they start putting pressure on them. They can’t make you go back to Dr. Menziger. Or anyone else for that matter. But they’ll be on your case to do it night and day. All I’m saying is, it would go easier for you if you could just agree that you’re you.”

“But I know nothing about this woman. I would be seen as the impostor I am.”

He stands stock-still, his eyes wide. “ ‘This woman’? Now you’re scaring me. You actually don’t remember me, do you? Or Anna. Or Paula. You really truly think you’re—” He shakes his head, as if to clear it.

“That is correct.”

“Jane Mansfield.”

I nod.

“And I take it you don’t mean the screen goddess of the 1950s. I suppose that should be a relief.”

“Whatever are you talking of?”

“Where does this Jane Mansfield come from?”

“I wish you would do me the honor of attending me when I speak to you. I told you all this already. Or is there another method to your questions?”

“I know, I know. Your father’s estate is in Somerset. You play that stupid DVD till it’s worn out. You hit your head on the bottom of a pool, and all of a sudden you’ve stepped right out of the pages of
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Indeed, those pleasing little theatricals resemble my life more than anything else in this place.”

“Would you please just consider telling people you’ve got temporary memory loss from the concussion? Which is, after all, the truth. At least a dozen reliable sources online mention amnesia as a possible symptom. And confusion. I’m sure Paula’s cousin mentioned that to you.”

“She also mentioned that those infernal pills would make me feel like myself again.”

“Do what you want. It’s your life.”

“It does not feel like my life.”

“It’ll pass. I promise. I’m going to sleep, okay? On the couch this time. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

I smile at him.
Do what you want. It’s your life.
It may not be my life, but his words may very well be the sweetest music I have ever heard.

Seven

A
rooster is crowing, the same sound to which I awaken every morning, and for one delicious moment I am back in my very own bed in Mansfield House. But then I open my eyes and I am in Courtney’s bedchamber; it was the sound that deceived me.

A quick rap on the door and Wes pops his head in, and in that same moment the most gorgeous pianoforte concerto envelops me. And somehow I am not displeased to be here still.

Wes approaches the bed, bearing a tray with two tall white cups of fragrant coffee, which he places atop the bookcase.

“I thought you might like to wake up to Beethoven instead of that nightmare of an alarm clock,” he says, indicating the box with the glowing numbers that I encountered yesterday morning.

“But where are the musicians?” I cannot make out whence the music comes; it sounds as if the pianoforte, oboes, flute, and bassoons are in the room. Every note is so clear and crisp it resonates in my chest.

He looks at me quizzically, then fiddles with a small white rectangular object which is standing on the bookcase and a larger, grayish rectangle with letters and symbols all over it. The music lowers to a whisper.

“That better?” he asks.

“How did you do that?”

He hands me one of the cups. “Very funny.” He brings over the grayish object. “Apparently, your amnesia entails the simple things as well. Don’t worry; it will all come back. Here’s volume, on and off, CD, DVD, auxiliary, and so on. And—wait a sec.” He presses a button and the music stops mid-phrase, and he removes the white rectangle from its stand and brings that over, too. “Here’s how to find your music by artist, genre, album, song.”

Then he retrieves a third object, also flat and rectangular. “You do remember how to use a phone, don’t you?” He regards me skep tically. “You’re kidding, right? This should be surgically implanted in your ear. Here, this is how you can call me.” He clears his throat. “Or anyone you want to talk to.”

I can hardly follow the rapid movement of his fingers on these odd contrivances; I am so caught up in the citron freshness of this man’s scent as he perches on the bed next to me, so enchanted by the damp curls of hair on his neck as he bends his head to focus on what he is doing, that I am only vaguely aware of the sound of a key in a lock. In fact, I would hardly blink an eye if a host of musicians, in the flesh, were to suddenly appear in my room.

Instead, it is Paula who sails in, steaming containers of coffee in hand, resplendent in a scarlet dress, longer than yesterday’s, pink and blue tresses wild about her face, and Anna trailing behind her in an unornamented, short-sleeved gray bodice and snug white trousers.