Caitlín Kiernan - The Drowning Girl

For Peter Straub, master of the ghost story.

And for Imp.

In Memory of Elizabeth Tillman Aldridge

(19701995)

This is the book it is,

which means it may not be the book you expect it to be.

CRK

Im going to write a ghost story now, she typed.

A ghost story with a mermaid and a wolf, she also typed.

I also typed.

My name is India Morgan Phelps, though almost everyone I know calls me Imp. I live in Providence, Rhode Island, and when I was seventeen, my mother died in Butler Hospital, which is located at 345 Blackstone Boulevard, right next to Swan Point Cemetery, where many notable people are buried. The hospital used to be called the Butler Hospital for the Insane, but somewhere along the way for the Insane was dropped. Maybe it was bad for business. Maybe the doctors or trustees or board of directors or whoever makes decisions about such things felt crazy people would rather not be put away in an insane asylum that dares to admit its an insane asylum, that truth in advertising is a detriment. I dont know, but my mother, Rosemary Anne, was committed to Butler Hospital because she was insane. She died there, at the age of fifty-six, instead of dying somewhere else, because she was insane. Its not like she didnt know she was insane, and its not like I didnt know, too, and if anyone were to ask me, dropping for the Insane is like dropping burger from Burger King because hamburgers arent as healthy as salads. Or dropping donuts from Dunkin Donuts because doughnuts cause cavities and make you fat.

My grandmother Carolinemy mothers mother, who was born in 1914, and lost her husband in World War IIshe was also a crazy woman, but she died in her own bed in her own house down in Wakefield. No one put her away in a hospital, or tried to pretend she wasnt crazy. Maybe people dont notice it so much, once you get old, or only older. Caroline turned on the gas and shut all the windows and doors and went to sleep, and in her suicide note she thanked my mother and my aunts for not sending her away to a hospital for the mentally insane, where shed have been forced to live even after she couldnt stand it anymore. Being alive, I mean. Or being crazy. Whichever, or both.

Its sort of ironic that my aunts are the ones who had my mother committed. I suppose my father would have done it, but he left when I was ten, and no ones sure where he went. He left my mother because she was insane, so I like to think he didnt live very long after he left us. When I was a girl, I used to lie awake in bed at night, imagining awful ways my father might have met his demise, all manner of just deserts for having dumped us and run away because he was too much of a coward to stick around for me and my mother. At one point, I even made a list of various unpleasant ends that may have befallen my father. I kept it in a stenographers pad, and I kept the pad in an old suitcase under my bed, because I didnt want my mother to see it. I hope my father died of venereal disease, after his dick rotted off was at the top of the list, and was followed by lots of obvious stuffcar accidents, food poisoning, cancerbut I grew more imaginative as time went by, and the very last thing I put on the list (#316) was I hope my father lost his mind and died alone and frightened. I still have that notebook, but now its on a shelf, not hidden away in an old suitcase.

So, yeah. My mother, Rosemary Anne, died in Butler Hospital. She committed suicide in Butler Hospital, though she was on suicide watch at the time. She was in bed, in restraints, and there was a video camera in her room. But she still pulled it off. She was able to swallow her tongue and choke to death before any of the nurses or orderlies noticed what was happening. The death certificate says she died of a seizure, but I know thats not what happened. Too many times when I visited her, shed tell me she wanted to die, and usually I told her Id rather she lived and get better and come home, but that I wouldnt be angry if thats really what she had to do, if she had to die. If there came a day or night when she just couldnt stand it any longer. She said she was sorry, but that she was glad I understood, that she was grateful that I understood. Id take her candy and cigarettes and books, and wed have conversations about Anne Sexton and Diane Arbus and about Virginia Woolf filling her pockets with stones and walking into the River Ouse. I never told Rosemarys doctors about any of these conversations. I also didnt tell them about the day, a month before she choked on her tongue, that she gave me a letter quoting Virginia Woolfs suicide note: What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say thateverybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I keep that thumbtacked to the wall in the room where I paint, which I guess is my studio, though I usually just think of it as the room where I paint.

I didnt realize I was also insane, and that Id probably always been insane, until a couple of years after Rosemary died. Its a myth that crazy people dont know theyre crazy. Many of us are surely as capable of epiphany and introspection as anyone else, maybe more so. I suspect we spend far more time thinking about our thoughts than do sane people. Still, it simply hadnt occurred to me, that the way I saw the world meant that I had inherited the Phelps Family Curse (to quote my aunt Elaine, who has a penchant for melodramatic turns of phrase). Anyway, when it finally occurred to me that I wasnt sane, I went to see a therapist at Rhode Island Hospital. I paid her a lot of money, and we talked (mostly I talked while she listened), and the hospital did some tests. When all was said and done, the psychiatrist told me I suffered from disorganized schizophrenia, which is also called hebephrenia, for Hebe, the Greek goddess of youth. Shethe psychiatristdidnt tell me that last part; I looked it up myself. Hebephrenia is named after the Greek goddess of youth because it tends to manifest at puberty. I didnt bother to point out that if the way I thought and saw the world meant I was schizophrenic, the crazy had started well before puberty. Anyway, later, after more tests, the diagnosis was changed to paranoid schizophrenia, which isnt named after a Greek god, or any god that Im aware of.

The psychiatrist, a women from Boston named Magdalene Ogilvya name that always puts me in mind of Edward Gorey or a P. G. Wodehouse novelfound the Phelps Family Curse very interesting, because, she said, there was evidence to suggest that schizophrenia might be hereditary, at least in some cases. So there you go. Im crazy because Rosemary was crazy and had a kid, and Rosemary was crazy because my grandmother was crazy and had a kid (well, several, but only Rosemary lucked out and got the curse). I told Dr. Ogilvy the stories my grandmother used to tell about her mothers sister, whose name was also Caroline. According to my grandmother, Caroline kept dead birds and mice in stoppered glass jars lined up on all her windowsills. She labeled each jar with a passage from the Bible. I told the psychiatrist Id suspect that my great-aunt Caroline might have only suffered from a keen interest in natural history, if not for the thing with the Bible verses. Then again, I said, it might have been she was trying to create a sort of concordance, correlating specific species with scripture, but Dr. Ogilvy said, no, she was likely also schizophrenic. I didnt argue. Rarely do I feel like arguing with anyone.