“Look,” I say. “If this is about the colors and shapes Rosie said she could see—”
“So you know about that, do you? How much do you know?”
“Not much. My sister-in-law mentioned it.”
“So you don’t know, then, how much Rosie had to endure because of it?”
“So it was true? What she saw was real?”
“It was real to her. And since you didn’t answer my question, I will tell you that I had many therapy sessions with Rosie regarding her condition, so I do know how much she had to endure because of it.”
“What do you mean by her condition?”
“Her condition. She suffers from synesthesia.”
I try to wrap my tongue around the strange word and find that I cannot. “What did you call it?” I ask.
“Synesthesia. Rosie’s auditory and visual sensors are tangled. That’s why she sees colors and shapes when she hears sounds. For people with synesthesia, stimulation of one sensory modalitytriggers an automatic response in another modality. For her, sound produced colors. For others like her, sound can produce taste. For others, it is some other kind of overlap and misfiring of two senses. The condition made Rosie’s life very difficult.”
“So you helped her with it?” I ask.
The doctor stares at me as though I’ve asked the wrong question. “Despite our best efforts, we were unable to rectify this sensory deviation during the time Rosie was here,” he answers a moment later. “She left soon after her nineteenth birthday to live in a group home. She was discharged out of the state’s oversight with the equivalent of a high school diploma and upon reaching her majority. And after proving she was able to live a responsible and independent life, which she learned to do here—even with her condition. It was important that Rosie learn to suppress it. She learned to not let her condition master her. So yes, we helped her.”
“And the baby?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“What happened to the baby?”
“The child was placed into the state’s care and taken to a receiving home where adoption by a suitable family was the objective.”
When he says this, I sense that I knew all along this is what happened to my niece or nephew. Rosie wouldn’t have had the means to raise the child unless someone stepped in to support her. God, how I wish I had known. I would have found a way to help her, even from Vienna. I could’ve wired her money. If Rosie had wanted to keep her child, I could have had George and Lila come get her and the baby and care for them until I had made other arrangements for them.
I know it is not likely Dr. Townsend will tell me where this receiving home is, but I decide to ask anyway. I need the assurance that my brother’s child is all right. I want someone to be ableto tell me that he or she was adopted by a family where there is love and affection and affirmation.
“I don’t suppose you will tell me where this receiving home is?” I ask.
“If you can prove your brother is the father and can get a court order for me, I would be happy to oblige.”
“My brother died in a training exercise in 1942. Preparing to go to war.”
“I’m truly sad to hear that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I cannot divulge information about a resident without proof of relation. Provide proof your brother is the father or get a court order, and I will open the file.”
I sit for a moment, digesting the new information and feeling a sense of immense disappointment. George said he would help in any way he could, but even he cannot prove to a judge that Truman is the baby’s father. Celine certainly wouldn’t be willing to provide any proof. And what proof is there to be had, anyway? Truman is dead. Still, I will go back to San Francisco, share all this news with George, and ask him what I can do about what I cannot prove.
“If that is all, Miss Calvert?” the doctor says.
I look up at him. I wish it wasn’t all. But I can tell we are done here. He will tell me nothing else. “Do you know how Rosanne came by this condition?” I ask as I start to reach for my purse by my feet.
“We are learning more about synesthesia every day, including what causes it. More studies need to take place, but I can tell you that it is often hereditary.”
The word falls into my chest like a rock. “Hereditary? You mean it’s genetic.”
“Yes. It’s likely someone in Rosie’s family also had the condition.”
If this doctor saw Rosie’s hereditary condition as debilitating and deviant, something that made a person’s life a burden to the state, then...
“Tell me you didn’t,” I say.
