Hysteria
2024 Write Now Winner - Adult, University of Iowa Alumni
January 13, 1946
The door slammed and the finality of the metal lock reverberated through her soul like a nail in her very own coffin. She knew she was never getting out. It was on his face when he signed the papers. Relief. She’d always been, too much. He was never coming back for her. Wrapping her arms around her legs, drawing her knees to her chest she rocked. The room was empty save for the bed. Dark hair hit her shoulders and eyes blue like a Caribbean sea stared out the single window offering a lovely view of the snow-covered grounds of the Independence Lunatic Asylum. Massive oaks stood leafless, encased in ice from a recent storm. The stitches in her wrist itched.
***
January 13, 2024
“Yes,” Dr. Stephen Shipman answered.
His office door opened, “Dr. Shipman, the elevator stopped between floors again. Maintenance reset it and it appears to be working, at least for now,” said the young nurse with a kind face.
“It’s the second time?”
“Third.”
“I’ll call the elevator guy. Thank you, Kara.”
Kara lingered.
Dr. Shipman looked up, his desk covered in papers. “Yes?”
“It’s Doris, she won’t eat.”
Dr. Shipman exhaled loudly. “She’s been here longer than any of us. I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you,” Kara said shutting the door behind her.
Dr. Shipman entered the name Doris Bates and mumbled to himself as he scrolled her records. “Admitted January 13, 1946, by husband Clark Bates. Diagnosis: Hysteria. Loss of emotional control, violent outbursts, shouting, excitability, uncontrollable melancholy, extended periods of crying, failure to care for husband, attempted suicide. Initial treatment unknown. Then nothing until 1987. Of course, that’s when we started digitizing records. New Diagnosis: Severe Depression, Personality Disorder, Psychosis, Suicidal tendencies. Then in the ‘90’s two requests for release, denied, followed by two more suicide attempts, some electric shock therapy and heavy medication. Model patient for the last thirty years. No known family.”
Dr. Shipman typed in elevator repair. The first one on the state of Iowa approved list read, Top Floor Elevator Inspection & Repair with an 800 number.
“Taking elevators to the top floor, how can I help you?”
“This is Dr. Shipman from the Independence State Hospital. We have an elevator that is stopping in between floors.”
“Old building.”
“Yeah, 1873.”
“How’s tomorrow?”
“Wonderful, what’s your name? I’ll put you on the list at the front desk.”
“Tom Kirkbride.”
“Kirkbride? That’s funny. Did you know we are a Kirkbride Hospital?”
“I’m aware.”
“Any relation?”
“Six generations back, in Pennsylvania. See you tomorrow.”
***
Dr. Shipman surveyed the large group room busy with patients and staff. He crossed the room to an elderly woman who sat in a wheelchair, eyes fixated on the snowy grounds.
“Doris,” Dr. Shipman stated, “I’ve heard you’re not eating.”
“Not hungry.” She rubbed the thick scar on her left wrist.
“You have to eat.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, you need to eat to keep your health up.”
Doris glared at Dr. Shipman. “My health, I was twenty years old when my husband brought me here. I’m ninety-eight.”
“You don’t look a day over eighty,” Dr. Shipman said, an attempt at flattery.
“You white coats have fixed me all you can.” The left side of her face spasmed violently then relaxed. “I’m not hungry.”
“Please eat, I don’t want to have to force you.”
Anger flashed across her face. “But you will, force me, won’t you?”
“You have to eat, Doris.”
Her eyes returned to the view out the window. “Do I?”
***
“Tom Kirkbride, elevator inspector.”
The gentleman at the front desk slid a lanyard across the counter. “Keep this with you. Take that elevator to the fourth floor. Dr. Shipman will meet you.”
The elevator doors opened, and Dr. Shipman stuck out his hand.
“Tom Kirkbride?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Shipman. Thanks for coming so fast. It’s this one right here. I’d love to stay, but I’ve a call with the Governor.”
“I’ll give it a thorough inspection.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Shipman disappeared down the hall.
Tom attached his diagnostic reader to the elevator’s onboard computer prompting error codes.
“Oh sorry,” Nurse Kara pushed Doris into the elevator. “I didn’t realize you were working in here.”
Screaming erupted down the hall. “Can she just sit there a moment? I need to go help!” Kara pleaded.
“Sure, she doesn’t look like a problem,” Tom answered.
Kara hurried away.
“I’ve always been a problem.”
Tom smiled and let the doors close.
“Doris?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you.”
“Everything?” A tear slipped from her eye. She let it rest on her wrinkled cheek and did not wipe it away.
Tom nodded.
“She lived for a few minutes. I never got to hold her.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to go on. Clark thought I was crazy,” Doris sobbed.
“How would you like to go to the top floor?” Tom asked.
“What’s there?”
He smiled, “You’ll see.”
He pressed the blank button on the top of the panel. The elevator gently rose, moving much longer than necessary for a six-story building.
“Are you ready?”
The doors parted. A scene of green opened before them, colorful flowers, paved walkways, and trees swayed in a gentle breeze. Tom took her hand. As she stood from the wheelchair, the loose skin of her hand tightened into youthful strength, her bent back straightened while white hair darkened.
“Am I dead? Is this heaven?”
“No, I only take people to the top floor. Heaven is not my department,” Tom said with a chuckle.
Children laughed as they frolicked upon a playground. A girl with bright blue eyes stood motionless staring at them, the string of a single balloon in her hand.
Doris caught her breath at the sight of her. “Can it be?”
“I have to go,” Tom said. “I can’t stay here.”
“Can I?” Doris pleaded.
Tom nodded yes as he stepped back into the elevator. He gave her a wink as the doors closed.