A/N: This thing is pre-pre-pre-pre-pre canon, and I think only a handful of people will get what I was going for here and oh, for the love of God, step back from this pile of crap.
I dreeeeeam of Jeannie with the light brown haaaaair...
Adelaide, Australia, 1935
The hot summer afternoon has set long before the head nurse was rung in. Again, she rushed through the door, tugging at her white sleeves and propping up her round spectacles. The faint smell of ammonia and nitroglycerine wisped into her nose. She found the scent common, even pleasant at times, and she had some trouble understanding why her child had gotten so rampant as soon as he took his first whiff. His face scrunched like a ball of paper, his forehead and nose only separated by his brand new glasses. They were quite large, with thick lenses that gave the child an owlish appearance, and were quite heavy to wear. Still holding his nose melodramatically, he took them off and rubbed his dry eyes, blinking heavily. His mother did not mind the act. She glared down the hallway that she was supposed to walk across, dreading the next patient. Not because of fright or impatience, but because of boredom. She wasn't usually rung up when the patients were jittery and anxious. She was only rung up when they failed to acknowledge that they were, in fact, right where they belonged.
Mildred Bailey's voice hummed and scuttled through the wooden radio, resting upon the receptionist's desk. It was an unsightly, box-like contraption, an enigma on its own. It barely stood in one piece, yet it could play the softest and most beautiful melodies known to man. The stout old girl sung about the done day, the yearning, returning, and all the joys she ever knew. The patients always liked this playful tune, or at the very least, never complained about it. Embroidered with small cuts across both the amplifier and the base, and having two of its three dials fallen out, it looked more like a Picasso's lazier sculpture, or an entire semester's work of a sarcastic art student, trying to show the decay of materialistic matters, and by extension, the decomposition of man's morale.
Either that or it was quite a crummy radio.
The box, however, only grabbed the head nurse's attention due to the fact that the chief of staff was plucking at the small electrical wires, trying to get the awful background buzzing to stop. Frustrated, he smacked the device with his curled-up fist. Robin, the thirty-something blonde secretary, flinched only briefly at the impact before returning to her filing. The head honcho glared at the nurse, pulling her son closer to her.
"Missus Mundy," he started in his irritatingly pitchy tone, "I hope you know that this institution does not provide daycare services."
The nurse huffed, fixing her sweat-drenched jacket.
"I came here as soon as you called me," she started to explain, "My husband is out, and I couldn't leave the tyke on his own."
The man said nothing, albeit huffing and puffing out cigar smoke out his nostrils. Robin saw her colleague's son with the corner of her eye and reached under the desk, putting up a bowl of brightly-colored sweets. The boy's eyes gleamed at the sight of the crystal candy dish, but he kept still, knowing that reacting too impulsively might result in him not getting anything. He still clung to his mother, who was giving her superiors one of her famous dirty looks. He, meanwhile, was giving one of his notorious lectures.
"Of all the things you could have possibly done," he shook his head in anguish and disbelief, "this just might be the stupidest!"
"I thought it was urgent. What was I to do? Leave him?" She insisted, not loosening her grip on her son.
"You could have gotten a sitter!"
"In what time, sir, could I have phoned the nanny, waited for her arrival, paid her advance, gotten ready for work and driven here?" She spoke, barely withholding her hot, annoyed temper. Her voice came out as a low, monotonous growl. True, her place of business was not exactly the toy factory. But it certainly wasn't a battlefield, either. There's a place where she wouldn't take her son. However unconventional this might have been, the boy could have waited in the lounge until she handled the crisis. Being a mother meant bending the conventions of the world and folding them to fit your rights. That was a principle she would take to her grave. Her boss seemed peeved enough to send her there.
"Do you realize how absolutely inappropriate this is? From the fact that you brought your son to that tone you're addressing me with! I should have you sacked right here on the spot!"
"I can watch him," Robin chirped, lifting up her shoulders. "'s no problem, chief, I do it all the time. Kid just sits 'ere and eats sweets. Never hear a word outta 'im. 's a bleedin' delight to have around."
Hearing those words, the child attempted to run towards the secretary, but was brought to a halt by his mother's hand. The chief's mouth hung on his stubbled cheek, askew. His cigar almost fell out of his lips. Utterly bewildered by this piece of information, he took an idle step, rubbing the back of his balding head, his left hand sitting on his hip.
"This happened before?" He asked through an excruciated sigh.
"Oh, yes, back when you were on holiday and the poor girl's husband 'ad the pox! Plenty-a times, ya know," Robin drawled on. "I counted a dozen."
"It's closer to ten," the small boy corrected, to which his mother gaze another dirty look that made him purse his lips and look away. Muriel Mundy cleared her throat.
"I'm in a bit of a tight spot. I don't put my family before my work. It's a flaw, sir, I know too well, but listen. My family gives me the strength to do this job as well as I do. They give me support, they give me will, and I won't put them aside to be at your beck and call."
"Mundy, I have had just about enough of your - !"
"Answer me this, sir, if you would be so kind," she insisted, nudging her son towards the secretary. She stood still and straight in front of her boss, not even raising her pitch. But if one would assume that she was not miffed, they would be fooling themselves. "Would you ever deny that I don't do my job well? If you could, I doubt you would be ringing me up in the middle of a Sunday afternoon and ask – no, beg me to intervene with a stubborn patient that you could not handle on your own."
"Mundy, I am a man of dignity. If you really believe that I would beg of you to come into work off hours – "
"Mum says you cried," the boy quipped, popping a strawberry sweetie out of its rainbow-colored wrapper.
"Lighten up, Mista' Dover!" Robin Steel insisted. "She's 'ere now, ain't she?"
"I don't care!" He blurted out furiously, turning on the ball of his foot and facing Mundy again. "Missus Mundy, your behavior is unacceptable! I want you and your brat out of this door within the next thirty seconds, or else I will - !"
His threat was cut short as a glass was broken in the distance. What followed was a round of loud, uninterrupted yelling, followed by a nurse running out of chamber 219, shutting the door behind her. She gulped, leaning against the locked door, clutching a folder stuffed with beige papers and photographs against her chest like a security blanket. Her face was pale, like she had just had a row with Satan herself.
The chief of staff gulped upon looking at the second nurse that was rushed outside before daring to look back on his head nurse. Muriel Mundy was now smiling wryly at him.
"Give me five minutes, mister Dover." She nodded at him, straightening her posture. "Make sure he doesn't eat too much sugar. Vicky, dear…" she spoke to her son now, leaning slightly forward and cupping her knees. "Mummy's got to work now, be a good boy, all right? Listen to Robin."
"Hokay, muhm!" He managed through his stuffed mouth. Robin waved at the nurse who triumphantly went down the cold, narrow hallway. Dover stared at her, his cigar falling at his suede shoes. He clutched his head and paced around the desk.
"I'm a loon!" He announced with sudden clarity. "I employ loons who bring their loony kids to the loony bin!"
"Aw, cheer up, Mista' Dover!" Robin insisted as the doctor fell on her desk, his eyes concussed and the color draining from his face. "Muriel's gonna handle it. She's a bright no-nonsense girl. She'll get that fussy ol' Madame into place, dontcha worry. Now!" She turned to the boy, clapping her hands. "'Ave a lemon drop! Me little Lucy loved lemon drops when she was yer age! I ever tell ya about me little Lucy? You'd like her, she's very bright…"
/***/
She was sitting on her starchy bed sheets, smelling heavily like industrial detergent. A couple of ashes fell from her cigarette holder and onto the pristine, snowy-white sheets. She perfunctorily dusted them off with her gloved hand before taking another draw from her precious cigarette. The smoke flew out of her rounded lips and wisped around the cemented room. Goodness. For a hospital, being it a mental one or not, it was quite dusty. These Australians knew nothing of basic vacuuming, it would seem. Small puffs infested the grainy corners, and veils of the golden dirt covered the large metal contraptions her bed was surrounded with. Heart-rate monitors, IV drips and a strange pod decorated the bright room. The pod resembled an oversized helmet, and had many small, colored wires stretching and entwining around it, all ending at the back of the aforementioned metal block. The million-dollar device was now used as a stand for the Madame's leather-bound briefcase.
Her brow furrowed as she looked around the square room with utter boredom. There was absolutely nothing to behold. Her own bed. A rack and shelf for her clothing (pointless, really, as she wasn't planning on staying here for long). A small white sink with corroded pipes and a leaky faucet. This was less than a mental institution. This was like a bad motel room.
The Madame detested any and every country this far away from home. However, due to her excessive research, she found that this poor continent sitting lonesome in the southern hemisphere (not including those pathetic ones that didn't matter, such as Africa), was the only location that was the sole source of the coveted Australium, that she so badly needed. If putting up with some dirt and incompetent nurses were the only issues that she had to deal with, she would put up with it like the patient woman she was.
Her cigarette burned out, and she flicked the butt on the ground. The ashes and orange paper formed quite an impressive pile on the hard grey flooring. Well. Nothing impressive about it, actually. The woman's smoking habits were the envy of smokers and non-smokers alike. She managed to light up a cig even when she was hospitalized. The straightjacket provided somewhat of a challenge, but the human form would not have been born without toes if a person wasn't meant to use them. Her digits were fully agile now, and tucking another thin strip of nicotine inside the jade cigarette holder. As she did so, she could hear the mumbling from behind the shut door.
"She's a complete loon!"
"We don't call our patients loons, Bernice!" A softer voice insisted.
"You 'aven't seen her! She's off her rocker, she is!"
"Don't be absurd, you've been working here for thirty years! What possibly could she havedone that you and I haven't seen already?"
"Oh, just be careful around her!"The familiar nurse's voice was muffled by the heavy locked barrier, but could still carry enough for the Madame to hear. She smiled to herself as she lit her cigarette. They thought she was crazy. Insane. One small flash of a briefcase being flung towards a nurse and suddenly you're a psychopath. Well, the Madame wasn't a psychopath. She knew exactly what she was. Her gaze flickered across the locked case while the nurse babbled to her superior. She sounded so delightfully panicked, like a sweat shop worker who failed to fulfill her daily quota. "You wouldn't know it when you saw her, but she's got tricks up her sleeve!"
"It's your fault for not checking her thoroughly."
"But I did, I swear on me kid's life! And keep yer little one away from her, she has a temper, ya know!"
"My boy is fine," the voice grew impatient. "He's away from the patients. No matter how…" The softer voice made a long pause and continued speaking with a condescending tone. "… dangerous you think they are."
"She's barking mad!"
"Have you forgotten where we work, perhaps?!"
"Not just trivial mad. Not just tossing words around and moaning into her chest mad. Not the knock-her-up-with-medication-and-let-her-sleep mad! She's fookin' mental!"
"Oh, don't be such a baby!"
"It's true! She's the devil!"
"We don't call patients devils! Have you hit your head this morning? I asked you to give me her file twice already! I don't care if she's performing some Aztec ritual in there; I want to know what her condition is!"
"Oh, she'll tell you what her condition is, worry you not!"
The Madame listened to the argument, ears perked up and alert. She rolled her eyes. Oh, those dramatics! Why would they have wasted her time with that useless woman, anyway? She demanded that she spoke to the head, and if only had listened to her, two of the nurses and a doctor wouldn't have been pacing around like headless chickens.
A devil. Oh, a devil, am I?
So you think I'm mean, do you? Do you think I'm cruel? Mad, violent, domineering?
She took another long drag, flicking off her lighter. The smoke billowed out of her nostrils.
Well, yes. I'm all that… and heaven, too.
"This is what they gave us – "
"Yes, alright, alright, I'll handle this…"
"Do be careful!"
"Oh, sod it you old cow! I have dealt with the violent ones before! They're no better than children. For God's sake, be a professional!"
The door finally creaked, after about half a dozen locks and jitters coming from the heavy set of keys and the intricate web of locks. As soon as the Madame saw the nurse's image, her cigarette holder slumped in her hand. The backbone of the hospital, as the Madame understood Mundy was, closed the door and approached her seated figure. There was an odd air of doubt in their eyes. For one, the nurse did not look like she held any authority, and the woman did not look like she belonged in this institution.
First off, the nurse did not look like a nurse. There was none of that calm composure, no cutthroat gaze that all medical professionals seemed to have. Sure, her eyes were dull and glazed-over, but this suggested lack of sleep and faint annoyance rather than contempt. Her small, round face seemed even smaller under her brown spectacles, which seemed to enlarge her eyes about three or four times. She was particularly petite for an Australian woman; not in weight as she was in size. Stout and short, like a teapot. Her chestnut hair was short and rather curly, parted on the left side and cascading around her face. This was probably the most presentable feature she had, all fluttery and shining in the daylight that came peering from the locked rectangular window, smeared a bit with white paint. This mess of a hospital hired a mess of things. This woman did not seem competent to clean after the patients, let alone be in charge of the staff handling them. If it weren't for her white uniform and cap, she could have fooled anyone for a common housewife who made a wrong turn and turned up there.
The patient, meanwhile, did not seem of her rocker at all. In fact, she seemed rather glued to it. Smoking the tangy, spicy cigarette, crossing her toned, tanned legs and on occasion flicking her thin fingers through her perfectly-manicured strands of light brown hair, she seemed incredibly well-to-do. Not to mention rather… French. Her posture was nothing short of perfect, her bright blue eyes gave out complete and total detestation, and her lips were colored with a very aggressive shade of scarlet. All in all, she looked nothing like a typical madwoman.
Then again, Mundy never saw anything as "typical".
Furrowing her pencil-thin eyebrows, the woman looked at the nurse. She watched her white, unsightly shoes, well-ironed skirt, loosely-fitting blouse and the small cap that she saw no point it. And then down from the cap, carefully watching the woman's spotted complexion, wide bust and thick calves. Abso-fucking-lutely disgusting.
"I should guess," the woman puffed out some smoke, "that you are the head nurse."
"Yes, I am." Mundy nodded. "I have been told that you wanted to see me specifically."
"Were you now?" The woman quirked up an eyebrow. Lazily, she pinched the end of her cigarette, putting it out. The tips of her fingers were badly burnt and calloused already, so the heat of burning nicotine and paper did not bother her. Or, at the very least, she pretended that it did not bother her. She placed the cigarette holder on her bed and reached for her briefcase. Mundy, meanwhile, opened the manila envelope. She squinted at the black-and-white, grainy photograph and skimmed over the woman's name.
"Alright, let's see what we have here," she stopped, clutching the file tighter; "Here we are… Jean – et Chap-it."
The Madame's head shot backwards at the butchering of her own name. Her pupils seemed to shake in anger before she commanded herself to breathe and steady her reflexes. There was never a time when she thought that she would have to correct people how to pronounce her name. She swallowed some hot saliva.
"It's Jeannette. Jeannette Chaput."
Ja-net Sha-poo is what Muriel Mundy heard. She would never call her by her full name, as she liked to try and connect with the patients. Giving them a nickname was one way to do this. In an instant, she had forgotten the correct pronunciation of the woman's name, and returned to her own.
"So," she started, "what did you need, Jeannie?"
The tall Frenchwoman erected in place, her temple twitching rather violently behind her sharply-cut bob. Her teeth were almost grinding through her explanation.
"It's Jeannette. Or Chaput, if you need to maintain some level of formality," she told the nurse, glaring at her under her thin eyebrows. Mundy did not seem to notice the change of tone, and continued briefing herself with the file. Her finger travelled down the marital status (widowed), family status (one brother, two children), surgeries performed (none), habits (tobacco abuse, alcohol indulgence), and the last thing she went over was the time and that she was registered within the unit.
"Missus Chaput," Muriel started, and noticed that the Frenchwoman looked at her in disapproval once more. Probably because she wasn't addressing her as Madame. Still, she said nothing, and the nurse simply took in a mental note to call her as such. She cleared her throat before continuing, "It says here that you were brought here yesterday, around midnight."
"That is correct," Jeannette nodded curtly.
"You apparently had a nervous breakdown during one of your business meetings," she read aloud, looking up at the woman as if she expected confirmation. The Madame sighed, shaking her head and looking around her jacket pockets for her cigarette case. She found the small silver container, opened it with a click, and then clucked her tongue at its emptiness.
"Not my… finest moment," she admitted, putting the box away. "And I should suppose that my superiors will fail to see me the same way again."
"I see," Mundy said, closing the file. "And what exactly do you do, Jea-… Madame Chaput?"
"I am the chairwoman and executive officer of Serge Chaput Industries. My responsibilities are far-reaching and I carry them out diligently. I perform many duties in my firm, ranging from corporate take-overs to micromanaging my workers." Her response seemed rehearsed, almost as though she repeated those three sentences fifty times every night before bed whereas some people might have said their nightly prayers.
"I heard of that company," Mundy said with a smile. "You make… coats."
"We make more than just coats, I assure you. We created a vast textile empire and our products are recognized throughout the world. Even your backwater society has heard of us, I see."
"Well, there's a bit more to our backwater society than Australium," Mundy said with far less vigor. Clearing her throat, she reminded herself that all patients had a right to express their opinions here, even if they were dead wrong. "Now, unless I'm mistaken, Serge Chaput started out as a family business."
"Indeed," Jeannette nodded. "Over five generations of quality."
"Were you born into the empire or married a Chaput?"
"Married," she responded, unamused. "If you looked into my file more carefully you would see that Lemaire was my maiden name. Now tell me…" the woman spoke briskly, leaning forward ever-so-slightly, "How exactly is this relevant to my arrival?"
"I just needed to see if your job was stressful enough to have triggered an outburst." She smiled encouragingly. The smile did not come off right, and Chaput responded by moving up her nose in distaste. Mundy tried to remedy the situation, flicking open the file and clearing her throat to speak. The Madame, sadly, beat her to it.
"It is not. It was a dreadful moment but I still have no idea what triggered it."
She really didn't. One moment, her board of directors was planning on expanding their influence further into the Asian market and showing designs of army coats, and the next moment the woman was crying on the floor, scratching the hardwood, her sobs forming a salad of unrelated words. The memory bubbled to the surface, but she managed to suppress it while maintaining her perfect composure. She would never know what exactly triggered the outburst, but in this case, she was better off not knowing. If her plan succeeded, she would be back on the board and feeling better than ever.
She'd be back home again. Of course, it's never good to get one's hopes up.
"You were flown to Australia…" Mundy's drawl snapped the woman out of her train of thought. "In a straightjacket…" The Australian woman's eyebrows shot up in her hairline in surprise. "Per your own request."
"That is correct," Chaput answered. "In my condition, I had no idea what I was capable of doing. I believe it was a necessary precautionary measure."
"Well… to each his own."
At that moment, Madame Chaput reached for her locked briefcase and placed it on her thighs. Still speaking to Mundy, she snapped it open and pulled out a rather large folder, complete with documented studies, photographs and patient case histories. Small corners of the papers were sticking out of the budging file, and after she removed the briefcase off her pin-striped burgundy skirt, she stood up and paced towards the nurse.
"You see, before my flight, I have managed to make a couple of phone calls and ask about my state. The information I was able to receive was rather… enlightening."
Mundy's eyebrows furrowed, and she moved her head slightly to the side in hopes that she misheard.
"Enlightening?"
"Enlightening, truly. Apparently, I am not the only person who has had this problem. And after searching through some similar cases I have managed to deduct my own diagnosis."
"Diagnosis?" Mundy asked.
"Yes, diagnosis. Good God," Chaput flung her hand in frustration, "Are you selectively deaf? Do certain words fail to reach your ear? Must I repeat the last word of every sentence I say… say?"
"What do you mean by diagnosis?"
The woman failed to understand the question. Surely a medical professional, or what went by the title of a medical professional in Australia, could have had a clue about what a diagnosis is. She decided not to bother explaining it. She continued to walk around the room, the file still clutched in her hand. She ran her gloved palm over it, admiring the glossy red surface.
"I have managed to list my symptoms and deduce the lowest common denominator that satisfies all of them. Insomnia, anxiety, violent outbursts and substance dependence. There are a handful of symptoms that do not match my condition, however I feel like I should overlook these."
"Um."
"I am afraid I did a good chunk of your work for you. Yes, Madame Mundy," she presented the stack into the woman's arms, over the now very thin-looking medical file. The Australian woman's eyes widened as she concluded, "Through pain-staking research and using many reference points, I am now one hundred percent positive that I suffer from what is known as, in your circle, schizophrenia."
Mundy watched the woman with wide eyes, gingerly opening the file and looking over the conducted studies, schizophrenia sufferers' anamnesis, treatments that were not yet proven to be effective and, on top of all that, a full detailed list of symptoms. Most of the more common indications were checked with a little red pen, some were crossed out, and some even had little notes scribbled on the margins, such as Unimportant, Easy to overlook, and Only once a month.
The French were very meticulous when it came to their homework. And their mental conditions, it would seem. It was a shame that Madame Chaput was far off from the truth.
"A-alright…" Mundy stuttered, not quite expecting such a hefty case file. Maybe Bernice ran for her dear life in fear of being lectured to death. Yes, that was probably it. Of all the loons she had to deal with, she had never come across such a verbose one. She was in for something horrid. She could feel it in her bones. A strong urge to check on her son flew over her. Though now she feared that the Madame would barely give her any time for that.
"As you know, the treatment for this is long-lasting, difficult and downright ineffective. This is what I thought at first. However, due to extensive research, I have found that your people have introduced a new method of curing many illnesses. In theory, it could work. But I had to travel down here."
"I… I understand," she spoke, the statement sounding almost as if it were ended with a question mark.
"You best do, because you are the only one that can authorize it."
"The only one?"
"Well," Chaput blew some air out of her long, pointy nose that she usually used to pry into other people's business, "You are the lowest-ranking employee that can make it happen. You see, I have no desire to chase after directors and the ministry of health." She leaned towards her, hands tucked behind her back and a wicked grin on her face. "I am well prepared to pay a hefty amount if I could undergo the treatment and leave as soon as possible." She winked.
The gesture was too obvious to go unnoticed. Mundy leaned forward, the thought of a bribe in her head. As a respectable medical practitioner, she wouldn't have been caught dead receiving a bride. But still, she was curious. What treatment was so sought after?
"Uh… Jeannie -,"
"Madame Chaput," the woman corrected sternly.
"Madame, what kind of treatment did you have in mind?"
The Frenchwoman stood up, looking around the room. She proceeded to the door, making sure that it was locked, and then draped the window until no light could come inside the block. Muriel was slowly but steadily beginning to realize how mad this woman might have been. Still, dealing with patients was a lot like dealing with dogs. They only went out of bounds when one showed fear. She remained still, eyes alert but not showing any emotion whatsoever. The woman spoke in a low tone that was not exactly a whisper, but was the lowest register she could take up.
"How long has the Australium-based treatment been in testing?"
Upon hearing those words, the old nurse went into overdrive, shaking her head vigorously and uncovering the window until a rush of light came out. While the tall Frenchwoman shielded her face from the harsh light, Muriel Mundy stood in front of her, arms akimbo, her voice slow and steady, although it rose in pith and volume. Some things were simply not meant to be talked about. This was one of them.
"That testing is still not - !"
"I understand that it has not been used on human specimens yet," Chaput interrupted in her in-the-know tone of voice. That was the only register she used besides the condescending intonation that made others feel lesser than dirt. This was her way of being polite. "But I would also like to say that I would pay a hefty price if I were to be the first person to use it. Theoretically, the chances of me getting better are quite high. And I promise that you, as the woman who made this possible, will be awarded by your superiors. Just think of that momentarily."
This rich French person was no mental patient, Mundy found herself thinking. She was just a bitch.
"I'm afraid I cannot let that happen," she said sternly, putting away the heavy files atop the briefcase. "The procedure is risky. No person can undergo it and leave without consequences. Let alone a non-Australian as yourself, Jea-… Madame," she quickly corrected herself, shaking her head. "I am very sorry."
Chaput watched the nurse briefly, letting out a small chuckle in disbelief. Her eyes flickered over to the woman's spectacles, only to discover that her decision was unwavering. She made up her mind about not letting her undergo the treatment on such grounds. For a business woman, she failed to see that the risk of failure was greater than the risk of somebody overhearing her intentions. Her bottom lip stiffened, retracting itself into her mouth. She took a wide stance, making herself appear even taller. Mundy was not intimidated by this.
"What is stopping you, if I might ask," she asked through gritted teeth.
"The Hippocratic oath," she responded. To that, the Madame tossed her head back and laughed. Dear God, what a laugh. Not refined or elegant in the slightest. It was that shallow, snorting laughter, that one would possibly be ashamed of if aware of.
"Those are for doctors, you foolish woman!" She insisted. "I do not wish to have my time wasted here. There are other institutions here that can…"
"Madame Chaput, you have to listen to me!" Mundy spoke out of place, an act that the Frenchwoman found shocking and admirable at the same time. If only she had somebody as aggressive as this nurse in Sales…
"What is there to listen to?"
"The procedure has serious side-effects!"
"I know about those! I am willing to take the risk!"
"You could die!"
"Don't you think I know that?!" The woman barked out, marching around the small room as her high-heels clicked on the concrete. They gave her a speedy tempo in which she spoke, her initial coolness and aloof nature slowly fading away. Even her French seemed to thicken now, as she stopped picking out her words. "Don't you think that I 'ave spent all my time investigating this thing?! I 'ave been looking for a way to get me better, so I could stop worrying about… about this… these outbursts!" She ended, flailing her arms out. Despite this display, Mundy was cooler than ever. During all her years here, she knew exactly how to respond to a patient when they were asking for the impossible. The trick was to stay perfectly still, and never raise your voice above theirs.
"Madame, I assure you, you have no grounds for this treatment."
To that, the Madame's jaw dropped. She walked up over the pile of documents on the leather briefcase, gesturing at them. She was babbling now, losing control over her actions, but she never felt more confident in her entire life.
"I 'ave given you all these… these facts and folders, and if there ees even the slightest - !"
"You have completely misdiagnosed yourself! One of the symptoms you crossed off were delusions! Those are the hallmark symptoms!"
"Delusions are a trait of those who have no control over their - !"
"That is the point, Madame, an ill person does not have control. They have a disorder! Dis – order!" She explained by parting the word and placing the dis and the order in separate little boxes, formed by her cupped hands. The woman's temple still twitched.
"Whatever it is, I want eet… ahem, it gone! I wish to undergo the therapy. I demand it! I cannot go back home a nervous wreck, I cannot live like this!"
Mundy looked at her straight in the eye. Her breathing steadied and her voice dropped down. She wanted to address her as Madame again, but looking at her like this, she looked more like a very distressed child. Her chest was stuck out, her body curved and her arms were stretched backwards, curled into fists.
"Please, listen to me! This hospital has standards; we could not endanger a life on purpose. You need to be diagnosed properly," she started, noticing that Chaput was getting rather impatient. She was breathing heavily, and her bony fingers were curling around the handle of the heavy case. "Before that, nobody can give you any sort of treatment, but I assure you, it isn't - !"
Her sentence was stopped short as the briefcase flew across the air, whooshing right past her. She moved to the side in the nick of time, actually feeling the small frays that held the leather together grazing her flushed cheeks. The case crashed into the wall and slid down like syrup against a kitchen knife. It fell on the cold ground, opened, empty and abandoned. The nurse barely looked away from it.
"I should have known you would do this, too!" Chaput clenched the files in her hands. Some papers already flew out, but she did not mind to pick them up. What did it matter now? She got it wrong. She got everything so horribly wrong. "I should have known this place is run by… by repulsive bushmen!" She screeched, flailing her arms about, sending even more documents flying. Mundy only leaned her head to the side.
"Are you calling me a repulsive bushman?" She asked, testing to see if this outburst was a short-lived one. Maybe, come her second sentence even, she would calm down and begin apologizing for the insult, most likely insulting her even more in the process. Unfortunately, it would last long enough for the Madame to respond to that question.
"No, that would be your employer!" She said, crashing the file against the ground with great force. Even the nurse had to flinch at that. Luckily, the Madame failed to notice this, falling into her bed and hugging her torso. She was breathing through her mouth, either to calm herself down from her anger or from fear of herself. The Australian stood and watched, fixing her glasses. For a moment, she did not say anything. There was something wrong with this woman, something truly, definitely wrong.
"I'm afraid there is no quick-fix solution to your problem. First of all, we don't know what the problem is. You will have to stay here for observation, I'm afraid."
"I can't," the patient barely muttered. "I can't… I have to leave as soon as I can… I need to go home, can't you see?" Her voice was desperate, like a tall wall she had built around herself came crumbling down. She was not in control, and it was killing her.
/***/
After watching the woman briefly, and realizing that she wasn't going anywhere, the nurse had to close the heavy doors behind her. She locked them padlock by padlock, the image of the Madame's weeping, shaking body still in her mind. She alerted Bernice that the devil was locked away safely in her hellhole, to which the older nurse huffed. After that, Muriel went to pick up her son, who entertained himself by throwing candy wrappers into the small rubbish bin. Those new glasses of his were a gift from God. He never missed a shot. The receptionist commented something about him making a decent living as a crack shot, precision wise. Muriel said that she'd die before she let her son hold a gun.
Just like that, she went outside, into the hospital lot, where her faithful vehicle has been waiting. Her son entertained himself by kicking a small rock with the tip of his boot.
"You look pale, Mummy."
"You know what, Vicky dear? I feel quite pale, if 'm honest."
What person would ever chose death that easily, she thought, letting go of Victor's hand and searching her pockets for her car keys. What kind of person would jump straight to the possibility of death if given a choice between life and the slim possibility of life?
She looked up into the road, at her son, as soon as she heard the honking in the street.
He was standing like a deer in headlights, and that was exactly what she saw. Just her son and a large navy-blue blob that came speeding towards him. The boy's eyes were open wide in shock and fear, looking at the giant, whirring hunk of metal. Muriel shouted, words came out of her mouth that she didn't even know existed. She couldn't even hear them. It was like she was a screaming mute. Her legs just started moving, running towards the boy. Everything became slower. She could see the gravel flying up in the air, kicked by her feet. She could hear her own heartbeat, rushed even in this new blurry, rushed reality. Her boy did not budge until she jumped at him, embracing him tightly. She had become a barrier, a savior, pushing him off the road and onto the dusty desert. She landed on her son, feeling a sharp, shooting pain in her arm. Her breath was quick and heavy, and suddenly, everything was back in normal speed.
"Whatch where yer goin' you flighty broad!" The driver shouted, shaking his fist from the black Hudson's window. Both Muriel and the boy watched him drive off with bated breath, before Victor looked at the road and pointed at some shattered plastic.
"Mummy, my glasses!" He whined, looking at the mess of glass lenses and broken plastic frames.
"Oh, screw the glasses!" She cursed, grabbing the boy by the collar, bringing her face into his. "What the hell was the matter with you?! You could have died!"
"I didn't see - !"
"Who knows what could have happened if I wasn't there! What would have happened?! You'd be scraped off the bloody road with a shovel, you would! You'd be dead! You hear me, Victor Mundy?! Dead as a bleedin' dodo! Oh, just you wait until your father hears about this! He'll snap his belt on you, mark my word!"
"Mummy, yer hurtin' me…"
"Don't call me Mummy! You could have gotten splattered! And then I… I… "
There was still fury in her eyes, but it seemed to be wavering, sinking away. It was like a small crackle left after a roaring fire had burned out. Her eyes glazed over not with anger, but with realization. Slowly, she moved his body away from her face, still holding him tightly by the fabric of his red shirt. Regaining her composure, albeit the shaky, nauseous kind mothers would often be left with after such a fright, she stood up and marched to the hospital, her son's wrist in her hand. He barely managed to keep up with her fast step, and was more than a little confused when she rushed back into the asylum.
The boy was left at Robin's desk with a strict order that he wouldn't move. The chief of staff stood before her, his hands planted on his hips.
"Missus Mundy," he started in a high-pitched tone. "I hope you aren't planning on working here for much too – OY!"
"Oh, come on, Dover!" Mundy retorted, pushing him away and making her way through the echoing hallway, nostrils flaring. "Move yer bloomin' arse!"
/***/
Jeannette Chaput was never a great fan of surprises. That episode during her meeting was one of the things she wished to avoid. Everything in life had to be meticulously planned, previously announced, and after that, constructed flawlessly. For such a perfectionist woman, life was only a messy, loud, obnoxious challenge that she needed to put under control. Unfortunately, she found that she couldn't even put her behavior under control. She straightened her pin-striped suit, slid her gloves back on her wrist and began combing her fingers through her messy hair. She was not going to spend her days in this establishment if they were unable to help her. There would be more doctors, more advanced medical treatments. She would return home, either alive and well in the head, or not at all. And if that ridiculously intrusive, nasty, ghastly… bushwoman tried to stop her, she would have to undertake extreme measures. Possibly hit her over the head with that briefcase. Or stab her in the back.
She wondered if anything inside the room was sharp enough to cause massive bleeding when applied to human flesh with massive force.
The door opened with a series of rattles and clicks. Speak of the devil.
"Oh," Chaput cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. "You have returned."
"You bet your arse I have," she quipped, standing in front of her. She watched her above her thick-lenses, her eyes cold and stern. It was the same look she would give her son whenever he went out of line. It was meant to cripple, paralyze just until she got a point across. It worked with snooty, presumptuous Frenchwomen. Jeannette was taken aback by this curse, her composure withering. Her back hunched slightly, more from exhaustion than from Mundy's coercion.
"Is there…" The Madame swallowed, her eyes narrowing, "Is there something you needed?"
"Actually there is. I needed to talk to you about something. I just realized why you were so quick to risk your own life, and I'll be damned if I don't give you my two cents on it!"
"Madame Mundy!" The woman moved her head back, unable to force back an involuntary, quivering smile. "I hardly think such… such language, such tone is within your code of conduct!"
"I was never too keen on maintaining my bedside manner when it wasn't the primary issue," Mundy explained. "Besides," she sat on the woman's bed, making her scoot over in silent frustration. "I'm not here as a nurse."
Chaput moved her head away, eyes squinted. Mundy looked into her own lap, running both her hands over the starchy white fabric. She sighed, almost regretting her approach. The most important thing a caretaker could do was to make her patients feel safe. It sometimes meant putting them in a glass bubble and tiptoeing your way around them. But this woman was different. She was alone, confused and impatient. She had built a wall around herself for protection. She already had her own bubble, however unhealthy and… downright irritating it must have been. In this case, the wall needed to be torn down. Her method might have been unprofessional (and she always prided her immaculate professionalism, or what went by professionalism in her eyes), but it was a way to get this woman to speak. And if she succeeded at that, her methods were suitable.
"I'm here as a mother."
Chaput's facial expression softened at the word.
Mother. It was quite strange to be called that without a negative adjective. Her throat tightened, like she was swallowing a heavy node that was twice the size of her esophagus. Mundy saw her discomfort; no small detail passed her.
"I understand that this is a little sudden for you. But I have just had a rather… unpleasant experience that cleared my mind about your willingness to undertake a potentially life-threatening treatment if it would bring you home soon."
Chaput did not respond. She did, however, begin picking at the small frays of her smooth silk gloves.
"Tell me, where are your children now?"
"My children? They have been staying at my brother's home in Marseilles."
"For how long?"
Jeannette searched her mind, looking for the day when she sent them there permanently. It wasn't too long ago (though it was the longest period of grievance she had to suffer through), but she needed more time to remember due to the fact that she left her home prior to that.
"About…" she swallowed, "About… six months. But the children are becoming restless. My sister-in-law suggested that they commute from Paris to Marseilles in intervals, but I…" She stopped for a moment, shaking her head. "I doubt that would be any better."
"And have you had any prior episodes while you were with them?"
The woman looked into the distance, quite blankly, like a ewe before slaughter. She closed her eyes, rubbing the left one with the bottom of her palm. She withheld a sniff, settling for a sharp exhale.
"The first episode I had was… was roughly five months after my son was born. I was giving him a bath I remember…" She stretched her palm across her forehead and ran it through her silky hair. "I started thinking about this myth… about how infants can swim due to a reflex they picked up in the womb… and then I blacked out."
"You… fainted?"
"… no," she shook her head, clearing her throat. "No, I didn't faint. I just… disconnected from my body."
"I see…"
"The next thing I knew my daughter was pulling him out of my arms," she smiled to herself. It was not a smile of fond memory, Mundy could tell you that. She saw it on patients, talking about their traumas. Like holding their dying pet that was run over by the neighbor's car. They laughed at themselves for being so useless; or in some cases, chasing Mister Jingles down the busy road. There was nothing comical about it.
"What happened then?"
"I, uh… I don't recall. After that I was almost catatonic. I called the incident an accident, I couldn't… I couldn't perform. I have no idea what triggered it at all."
"You didn't know…"
The Madame's lip quivered.
"You lost control."
The woman was not able to respond to that. She turned her head to the side, her breathing steady but quite loud. Mundy knew this type. She was a perfectionist, a megalomaniac who strived to fix everything around her as quickly as possible. This included trying to fix herself. It was all actually quite simple. The woman missed her children. She would rather die than disappoint them. She would rather die than lose them. That came to Mundy's mind during that single moment of clarity, screaming at her son lying on the dusty road. It finally made sense.
Slowly, the nurse placed the palm of her hand on the Frenchwoman's bony knee. Jeannette looked at the woman, forcing a meek smile, which Mundy reciprocated.
"I know you miss your children," the nurse said calmly. "I know you can't wait to get better and return to them. And I know you're scared, and I know you're looking for a quick way to fix this. Well, the truth is, there isn't one. The Australium only numbs the mind, freezes your inner turmoil. That is not what you need. What you need is to find your fears. You need to understand them."
"But how?" Jeannette spoke, her mouth askew. "I… I'm scared to face them again. Who knows what I might do? Half the time, I have no idea what I should do…"
"I understand, Jeannie."
"Jeannette," the woman rectified. But the truth was that she wasn't Jeannette Chaput, chairwoman and CEO. She was Jeannie, simply. At least, she wasn't at this moment in time. Right then, she was Jeannie. She was just a mother, scared for the fate of her children. The nurse only nodded at her correction, but did not go back to correct herself. She continued, without skipping a beat.
"Being a parent isn't always knowing what you're doing. Take it from a woman who brought her son to the mental hospital twice in one day!"
Jeannette snorted.
"Being a parent," Mundy spoke, her voice smooth and silent, "means doing what you think is best at that given moment. Doing things that would even benefit them in the long run. And in your case, the best thing you need to do for them is to take care of yourself."
The two women slowly moved away from each other. The small blocks of logic began stacking themselves in the Madame's mind. Figuring out her issues, bringing them to the surface and dealing with them would be difficult, time consuming. She had no control over it, it had to be done. If it meant seeing her little boy again… if it meant not having her daughter look at her with that look of panic…
Mundy extended her arm to her new patient.
"I promise I'll help you through it."
The Frenchwoman watched the nurse's proffered, clammy palm and gingerly grasped it. As surprising as this might have been, the woman's handshake was firm. Not bone-crushing, but just firm enough to feel confident in that person. It was the ideal grasp that she strived to sustain as a woman of business.
And she was about to shake on the biggest development plan of her entire life.
"Thank you, Madame Mundy."
"That's what I'm here for, Jeannie."
"Please. We are not on first name basis."
"Alright."
"Also," the woman looked at her under her furrowed brow, "it's Zsa-nette."
Adelaide, Australia, 1969
Victor Mundy admired his old childhood home. Nothing changed much; patches of mold still attacked the corners of the room, the roof was still leaking when it rained heavily, there was always a soft smell of freshly-brewed coffee and blueberry muffins in the air. He was drinking a cup of strong Earl Gray at his dining room table. Lately, coffee seemed to give him heartburn for some reason. Drinking half a gallon of it per day would do that. But, as always, his pharmacy of a house always seemed to provide everything he needed. Once again his eyes wandered across the olive-green carpet, over the large, rather kitschy bookcase embroidered with a golden trip at the edges. It was quite a large piece of furniture, stuffed with cracked sea-shells shining like polished pearls, old, dusty books that had begun to decompose with old age, small matte stones that her child brought home from a day at the beach. However, the most interesting shelf was the third one. It was stacked with many yellowed letters, signed, sealed and cut open with a kitchen knife. The envelopes were in one pile, the actual letters sorted by date of arrival across the never-opened encyclopedia set. And in front of those sheets of paper scribbled with black, smudged ink, there stood three photographs. Each one in its smooth brown frame that Muriel Mundy changed every year, each one looked at roughly a dozen times every week. And each one of them portrayed two old girls, laughing about who-knows-what. One tall and slim, the other short and stout. One borne in fine silk and designer fur coats, the other in plain, floral cotton dresses. They looked nothing alike, but in those strange poses, cackling, coughing, snorting and what have you, they were exactly the same.
He couldn't help but to smile whenever he looked at them.
"So how's work, Vicky?" Muriel asked from the other end of the table, her head resting in the palm of her hand as she idly read a freshly-delivered letter. Her son took a long, loud sip from his mug.
"Can't complain. They put us on a new map. Every battle now's an uphill climb. Literally! But I can manage it," he spoke while he shook his head. "You taught me to withstand anything. Also don't call me Vicky."
"I noticed your scope's been getting dirty," Muriel said, looking at her son's weapon. She used to be terrified of that thing. Now it was even common to look at. In fact, everything her son was doing as of late came naturally. He was employed. He was doing what he loved. She would never understand it, but, unlike her husband, she had learned to accept it.
"It can't be. I clean it every day."
"With vinegar?"
"You know mum," Vicky – ugh, Sniper – responded, "Vinegar is not always the answer to everything."
"It served me right so far," she spoke with a small shrug. She then continued to read her letter, dropping her classes down to the tip of her nose. Her son asked her about the letter.
"What's Aunt Jeannie writing about?"
"Oh," Muriel squealed with a smile of fondness and whimsy, "She's just telling me how great it is in Paris. You know, I'm so glad she settled in nicely with her children."
"Oh yeah?" He asked, finishing his lukewarm beverage. "What's she saying?"
His mother sat up straighter in her chair (as straight as she could, anyway, troubled by her small hunch), cleared her throat and began reading.
"Dear Muriel, thank you for keeping me informed of your proceedings. I just recently received those photographs you sent me. My, my, my. Could you believe I once wore a cape? I wouldn't be caught dead in it now. I do suppose it was a bit theatrical. At least your son thought so. By the way, I have to say that he has become quite a handsome man. You should be grateful that your…" Muriel frowned at the writing, taking a small pause before continuing, "that your mousy appearance and tiny physique skipped a generation."
"Ha!" The Sniper exclaimed, chuckling to himself. "Good ol' Jeannie."
"She's a perfect bitch, she is," his mother muttered quickly.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Vicky dear. I keep wanting to send you the family photographs, just to see how we're holding up. It's a shame they always get mixed up in the mail. Even when I try to mail them inside one of the letters, they always find a way to cut them out. It's a new law here; it would take far too long for you to understand."
Muriel laughed sarcastically at that quip, though her earnest smile remained plastered on her face long after she read her good old friend's closing line.
Tuscany, Italy, 1969
It was quite hard to say goodbye to an old friend, but it was much harder to come to terms with the fact that she could never return home, knowing that her kids were so deeply disappointed with her. In the end, she would rather die than see herself fail her children. Her episodes were gone, the cause brought out into the open and examined thoroughly. She was fine, but she needed to be better than fine. She needed to be a perfect mother. Or, at the very least, not to be an abysmal one.
Muriel had shown her how mothers deal with her children, through thick and thin. She listened to her talk about her son, about his mischief, about his friends and a strange interest in shooting down tiny woodland creatures. She had a son in person, and Jeannette only had his image in a photograph. She was looking at the old brownish piece of paper, holding the embodiment of her children.
She held it tightly with her long, bony fingers, noticing once again that she had gotten much older. She wasted too much time in fear, waiting for the right moment to return home. Who knew what her children thought of her now. She was dead to them, for all they cared. But in some strange, bizarre way, she knew that they were better off without her.
Her daughter, for example. She always had such a wonderful way with words. It was a pity she wanted to be an actress, instead of a great orator. Make speeches; do not repeat them, her mother oft said. But the girl still continued to recite her Shakespeare, Moliere and Racine. It was a shame, really. But Jeannette comforted herself in the fact that, without her strict guidance and nitpicking, the girl was able to live her dream. She was probably happy right now, performing in front of an applauding audience. She must have been. She had been doing so much better without her mother, she must have!
And her son… that small little ball of jet-black hair, sitting in his sister's arms, always reminded her of a little commander. His eyes were always alert and inquisitive, taking in everything. He was quite a yappy little whippersnapper. He gave his orders, no matter how ridiculous they were. Not to mention how feisty he was. That boy had a career in the military. He could have been a general without her presence. No snooping in the back for him. None of that useless intelligence delivery, no siree! He would be a leader, not a cowardly turncoat lurking in the shadows, not a backstabber that done her husband in…
She placed the photograph back on the table. She was giving far too much personality to a two-year-old that she hadn't seen in decades.
Once again, she looked at the unsigned letter. The last thing she wanted to was let down her friend. Muriel had done so much for her already, always telling her that she will get through her issues and see her children again. She could explain the benefits of staying away from her children to herself, but not to Muriel Mundy. So, it was back to performing her little scheme, sending her letters to her associates in Paris so they could mail them to Adelaide. No photographs. No dubious information about her children. Nothing.
Not that there was anything to say about them. Nobody could say anything about their whereabouts. God knows she tried asking her friends, family, but in the end…
In the end…
The soft summer breeze gently swayed her light brown locks, bringing forth the smell of sea and olives. The soft sun baked her skin, leaving it a nice, coppery tone. There was no sun like this in Paris. That was reminder enough that her children were far away from her imperfect self as possible. She would rather die than risk being destructive towards her own children. With a sigh, she signed the letter.
P.S.
The kids are alright.
She wrote it for she knew it to be true.
Looking up at her signature, she burst out laughing. It was her usual, high-pitched, snorting kind of laugh. All these years, and she still managed to let her hand slip and sign off as Jeannie.