I’ve been to the fifth-floor dayroom and seen the therapy rooms situated directly across, and I’ve heard nurses talking about treatments received in those rooms. None of them sound like they entail a great deal of time talking to Dr. Townsend, not as Mrs. Crockett described it.
From what I have seen, residents who have trouble speaking or walking properly or who struggle with manners or simple sums are given exercises to practice their skills. Those who suffer terrible fits or from severe melancholy are placed in warm, bubbling baths or icy-cold ones. I have seen others that the nurses describe as “exhibiting deviant conduct” listening to a recording of a gentle-voiced woman reciting standards of good behavior. Some do appear to spend time talking with Dr. Townsend about why they are here, and some probably have to endure a combination of all these things. There are a handful of other doctors who use the rooms, some on staff and some who come in on weekdays from the outside world. Some of the residents never go into a therapy room at all but sit in chairs and drool, or they pace in the corners of the room while endlessly muttering to themselves.
I have seen Dr. Townsend only from a distance since my arrival. He sometimes pops into the dayroom to say hello to some of the residents and to perhaps see who is there and who is not. He often has a teenage boy with him, who I now know is his son, Stuart. I’ve also learned that Dr. Townsend and his family live in a nice house outside the gate but on the property, and that the doctor spends a great deal of time at the institution, even on weekends. Stuart is often with him. It’s obvious by the way Dr. Townsend behaves with his son that he is grooming him for a career like his own. I overheard Norman tell another orderly that Dr. Townsend has even put the boy on night sentry duty and given him a whistle and an hourly wage.
“Next thing you know the kid will be signing our paychecks,” Norman said to this other orderly in a disgruntled voice.
Dr. Townsend, with Stuart at his side, waved to me from the entrance to the dayroom the day after Mrs. Crockett said my therapy sessions would begin. It was a polite acknowledgment that he remembered me and maybe even that he was looking forward to our first session. I hope he is as fatherly to his patients as he is to his son.
On the first Tuesday that I am shown into a therapy room, Dr. Townsend is already seated at the plain wooden table, waiting for me. Several large boxes are stacked around him. There is nothing else in the room but the table, two chairs, the doctor, and those boxes. The sight of them startles me, and I lay a hand instinctively over my tummy to protect my baby.
He smiles slightly. “Not to worry, Rosie. Nothing in the boxes will hurt you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I sit down across from him, hoping I sound at ease.
The doctor’s smile intensifies. “We’re all pleased to see you have settled in well here.”
“Yes. I am sorry about what happened when... on my firstday. I wasn’t... I hadn’t been properly prepared. I thought I was going to a home for unwed mothers. That’s not what this place is, so I was... unprepared.”
Dr. Townsend studies me for several seconds. “Do you still feel that you don’t belong here?”
I’d said too much. I should’ve said nothing but “thank you” when he praised me for adapting well.
“I... I didn’t at first.”
“And now you do?”
I lick my lips, which are suddenly very dry. “Um. Yes.”
“I’d like to hear more about that. But first there are a few things we need to go over again for our records.” He opens a folio of papers in front of him and takes up his pen. The piece of paper on top is filled with lines upon lines of typed words that I can’t read. They are too small, too far away, and upside down. “The state requires we go over this, as you are now in our care,” he continues. “Now then. One more time. Are you able to tell me who the father of your child is?” His pen is poised above the piece of paper, ready to record my answer.
I hesitate a moment. “No,” I say simply.
“Because you can’t or you choose not to?”
I decide on the answer that seems the least defiant. “I can’t.”
“Because you don’t know who the father is?” he presses.
“Because I can’t.”
“Have you been threatened in some way? Do you feel you are in danger if you answer this question?” I sense concern in his voice, and for a moment I waver. But only a moment.
“No.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
“If I tell you, will you let me go?” I ask, fairly certain he won’t.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if I know or don’t know.”
“All right,” Dr. Townsend says in a resigned tone, almost as ifhe doesn’t have an opinion on the matter, but he had to ask and he had to record that he’d asked. Twice. “We also need to talk about what will happen when your baby is born.” He glances down at the piece of paper. “Our Dr. Melson here projects a mid-July due date for you.”
“But I haven’t seen a doctor here.”
Dr. Townsend looks up from the folio. “He saw you when you were on Ward 2. He examined you there. You don’t remember that?”
