Chapter 3

Dr. Cromwell was as good as his word, and found Mr. Robinson a very neat little room vacated just that morning by a schizophrenic woman. How the lady left was irrelevant—by her own convoluted methods, as the good Doctor divulged to Ms. Beeton in hushed undertones.

How sad. Marybelle really had nothing wrong with her life, if only she saw . . . a husband who loved her, two great tots, no financial difficulties . . . oh, what a poor girl.

Such was Ms. Beeton's silent reminiscence over the girl, along with a sad prayer, more of emotion than words, though no less as strong a plea to the Almighty's forgiveness. Her illness made her do it.

She felt rather callous escorting Mr. Robinson into his new room so soon after the tragedy, but supposed that really, she ought to stop feeling so personally depraved every time something like this happened. It happened almost once every two years, and that was a moderately good number considering how many men and women passed through the graying halls of the facility. Remember, though, that I mustn't cry like last time, or I shall be scolded by the good Doctor. Ah, but I wish I were as brave as him!

Mr. Robinson seemed to sense that something had happened in the room, probably by the way the hairs on her own arms prickled from the eerie vibe. His eyes darted about suspiciously, examining everything from the floor to the ceiling, though never resting on his caretaker, as far as she could tell. Sadly, she drew the curtains and tried to figure out how Marybelle had killed herself. If I thought I had to kill myself, how would I do it?

"Miss Beeton? You look ill."

She blinked up from where she gazed out the window, contemplating the terrifying feeling of weightlessness she had felt (or imagined) as she gazed down three floors at the gray planter. He was not looking at her, of course, but had curled up on top of the new bed, eyes contemplating two dull brown Oxfords as his arms coddled his long, bony legs. Ms. Beeton smiled at him pleasantly.

"You can call me Betty. Everyone else here does."

"But your name is not Betty."

She looked at him, wondering how he was so perceptive, and his eyes met hers for the first time since that morning . . . already so long ago . . .

"It's Jennifer, true," she admitted, feeling elated that someone—someone took the initiative to realize that!

"Jennifer Beeton." He tested her name on his lips, then shook his head, the entire weight of Mount Everest settling upon his weary shoulders as he slumped forward. "Thank you, Miss Beeton." He buried his face between his knees, wordlessly.

"Mr. Robinson, are you all right?"

She advanced, cautiously, and put a hand on his shoulder. Although he did not bat it away, his shoulder became more tight and rigid, like a corpse. Seeing her touch was unwelcome, her hand did not overstay its visit, and retreated as gently as it had pursued. Wondering if she should fetch him a glass of water, she took a step towards the open door of his room.

At once, he raised his hand to stop her. She did not move any further, and posed her attention to the man on the bed.

Without raising his head to acknowledge, he murmured as clearly as he could annunciate: "Miss Beeton, I am . . . unused to such kindness as you have displayed to me today. My weakness is . . ."

He did not finish.

"Your weakness is what, Mr. Robinson?" she asked kindly.

He remained silent for a long time, finally deciding: "Never mind."

That became his favorite phrase over the course of his convalescence.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The only way to describe Mr. Robinson was to say that he lacked all interest in life. Never had Ms. Beeton observed such an apathetic, lethargic being, so inaccessible and aloof from the world. All attempts to bring so much as a smile to his countenance completely and utterly failed—he seemed too intent on dueling within his mundane contemplations and morbid fantasies. He became Ms. Beeton's special patient, dredged so deeply into his introspection that he barely pair any attention to anyone or anything in the tangible world.

Once in a while, he might say something or another that alluded to his internal life. Usually, these instances were either to himself or in his sleep, and were only caught by Ms. Beeton when she was paying especial attention to his every undertone, or if the old night matron became alarmed by the shouting coming from his room. There were probably more allusions to such unfathomable things as 'death eaters' and 'green gods' and 'Mick Ronald', but the hospital had not the capability of paying for a nurse to stay with him constantly to catch his every utterance.

Occasionally, though, he did say strange things at random times, sometimes in such ordinary situations that his seriousness seemed almost farcical. For instance, his first morning Ms. Beeton was serving him his porridge, he burst out vehemently, "They ought never respect a Death eater again, no matter who he saved!" and then went back into a semi-daze. Ms. Beeton wondered what precise part of her story angered him—something about a movie she was looking forward to seeing, Les Miserables based off the book by Victor Hugo, though she had not read the book; it had come out in May and she eagerly anticipated it coming on the tube. (1)

Another example of this unfortunate trait—which Ms. Beeton recorded duly in his records—was when, randomly, in the afternoon of his second day in the hospital, he burst into convulsive sobbing when Ms. Beeton suggested that he 'talk to her' about his 'inner world.' "I . . . I never realized how hated I had become until I overheard Sybil . . . Sybil, of all people! . . . telling Minerva how her 'inner eye clouded up every time I came near' her . . . and the woman had been sending me pathetic little love notes for years!" Before Ms. Beeton could make him explain, however, he had shut up and refused to talk for an hour.

He did end up shedding less tears as the days went by, although a week after his admittance he completely broke down his increasingly-stoic mein, and Ms. Beeton heard this confession: "Albus, you old fossil, how is it I cared for you, cared for you like the father I never had . . . despite the fact that you were becoming another Grindelwald? Despite the fact that you tore my soul to the point it might has well have become a separate horocrux in itself? Despite the fact that you constantly lied to me and never trusted me as fully as you tried to make me believe? Despite the fact that I knew how blind you really were to reality?" He went on and on, adding more and more 'despites' until he began to choke on his own stomach contents as they rose up his throat. Ms. Beeton could understand how terribly he was affected by the (possibly imaginary) man who had hurt him, and sincerely wished she could do something about it. She could not, however, do anything but sit by and wait for him to talk more.

His favorite habit was to let his head drop humbly, focusing all his attention upon his forearm, and, gently trace a faint tattoo there on his skin. It was a meditative, continual movement, and it seemed both relaxing and unnerving to him; his face was more reflective of his emotions than typically as he paid the mark attention.

Other than these instances and a few too trivial to mention, he did not display anything but passive resignation and mental retreat. Ms. Beeton and Dr. Cromwell found themselves fascinated by his case, and studied him intently. Soon they had a full file of analysis done on him. Dr. Cromwell found the results of his urine and blood tests strangely fascinating.

"He is in perfect health, as far as these go; maybe could use more calcium and iron in his diet, but there's no indication of any drugs of any sort, and just barely the faintest hint of alcohol in his bloodstream, which indicates that he was not a great consumer. Blood sugar a bit low, but not enough to classify himself with anything but deprivation of food for a few days. Metabolism like that of a teenager, actually, which shows why he can eat decently and still not gain weight."

The Doctor had scrutinized the blood diagnosis very carefully for one particular section, and actually had a new sample taken every day from Mr. Robinson after he discovered a strange peculiarity.

"There is a slight imbalance of his hormones, Betty, but not as much as I expected. To put it in short, based on these results, he is only facing an amount of depression, not strictly mental confusion or delusion, nor even a hint of multiple personality disorder. It's the deuced strangest thing."

He shrugged to Ms. Beeton after declaring this. "But, as you know, Betty, we mainly deal with alcohol and drug rehabilitation at this facility, so your Mr. Robinson is an extraordinary case that will require some learning on my part." Dr. Cromwell gave her a knowing look which made her slightly uneasy, and she left with a hurried excuse.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Accordingly, Ms. Beeton tried to help Mr. Robinson gain an interest for life. She brought him everything from paints to puzzles, but to no avail. He took everything, and did it, halfway grateful and halfway very annoyed. She still sensed an underlying scorn and prejudice towards her, as she had felt the first day with him, but knowing that he was probably not Christian while she treated him like one was a reasonable explanation for this. After all, though, he's practically the only non-Christian I've met, so I have to treat him like everyone else. I can't do but that!

One day, though, about three weeks after Mr. Robinson's admission to the facility, the cook took ill just before lunch with a bout of the flu. Cheerfully, Ms. Beeton volunteered to take her place. In the midst of her morning visit with Mr. Robinson—who was now almost the only person she had to care for due to his peculiarity and uniqueness—she found him suddenly raise an eyebrow with interest as she jabbered about the task at hand.

"You have to cook for . . . how many people this afternoon, Miss Beeton?"

"Why, about seventy!" She smiled, eyes radiant. He asked a question! Why, this is the first question he has asked in weeks! His curiosity was sparked! Oh, dear lord, thank you! He is already beginning to recover!

He clicked his tongue with disapproval. "Do you need any assistance with that? I don't suppose you know much about cooking."

"Absolutely!" Ms. Beeton stood up and brushed off her apron.

"Do you wish me to do so?"

"I would love it!" she cried, almost falling into happy laughter and tears. He wants to do something! Do something with me! He has spoken more than twenty coherent words to her in a single minute! Oh, Lord, I am so happy!

Completely oblivious to her ecstasy, Mr. Robinson followed her motion to stand. He almost did so at the speed of a normal person, though somewhat still slow—but no longer as reluctant as usual.

Good Lord! He's getting better already! I could fly!

So, even though they were not needed in the kitchen for another hour, she dragged the languid Mr. Robinson downstairs.

"I hope this mashed baboon brain and fermented chicken stock is not the common fare of this establishment," he snarked, casting a disgusted look at the ingredients she laid out upon the counter for their preparation. Ms. Beeton looked at her very unusually critical patient reproachfully.

"Well, Mr. Robinson," she fretted, eager to please him but apologetic about the fact that she could not, "We are a government founded institution, and, unfortunately, we do not receive enough money to provide the staff and patients with gourmet on a daily basis." She actually had taken that almost verbatim from something the Doctor had said once, concerning the fact that she had caught him recycling syringes.

"Hmph. I wasn't looking for gourmet, Miss Beeton, merely for something edible."

His pessimism was a refreshing change from his monotonous depression, however, so Ms. Beeton did not complain at all. She watched as Mr. Robinson strode around the kitchen, poking his large nose into cupboards with a sharpness and virile vigor previously unseen in his personality. Ms. Beeton, completely taken aback, found herself accepting a graciously-proffered chair, clearly supposed to be the observer as Mr. Robinson set out to cook lunch for a large number of people.

Margarine intended for bread went into a pan, along with the scant amount of vegetables intended for the soup—celery, carrots, and mushrooms. He found a bag of frozen green peas , which he added to supplement the sautee, as well as a few chopped onions from who knows where. He seasoned this with a tad of salt, then set the large skillet aside. A few left-over baked potatoes soon were turned into a clever gnocci, and the sautee was poured over these once cooked. Setting a plate before Ms. Beeton, he took the gray chicken breast and the truthfully dingy cans of broth, and requested to throw them away in the garbage.

"Such ingredients as these are . . . really quite disturbing," he assured her.

"By all means, Mr. Robinson!" Ms. Beeton smiled, as always, but with a positive radiance that made her most becoming.

"Tell me, though, is it any good?"

As mouth watering as his conction looked, the first mouthful had not graced her lips yet. She felt his eyes boring into hers as she eagerly pounced on the meal. "Dear Lord!" she murmured, "This is excellent!"

A slow, satisfied smile curved the edge of his mouth—but as soon as she saw, it disappeared. Nevertheless, the image remained burnt into her memory, and became her new mental picture of him. He could smile. He had smiled. At her! A glow rose through her body, rising from her feet to her abdomen to her head.

However, even as she looked at him, all the spirit and energy seeped from his body, and both strength and presence of mind evaporated. His lean form sank, desperately, dispassionately, almost accidentally collapsing into a chair.

"It's wonderful, Mr. Robinson." She attempted to assure him again, growing worried that he had not heard her the first time. He was not assuaged. "I ought to serve the meal, though," she said, rising; he obviously was not up for the task. "Would you like to help me again at dinner?"

"I suppose." Again, the impassive face of a man who had nothing to live for at all. Ms. Beeton ladled plates of gnocchi for the rest of the hospital, feeling elated and yet more saddened at the same time. Even though he had made it himself, the poor man ate his meal with the same lack of gusto he had shown the first day, and she ended up practically feeding it to him again in the kitchen. He made such a leap forward, but suddenly he's back to the way he was that first day . . . entirely . . .

"It can only be a step forward, this backfired leap," Dr. Cromwell deliberated, pondering later that afternoon as Ms. Beeton related the epic. "Of course, one can expect him to come back and leaps and bounds only to relapse eventually. His sort—the absurdly intelligent type—is prone to that. Yet, for him, with every leap forwards, there is no doubt that he will gain something from the experience, and he won't fall back as far as he was before. He'll be growing, but expects himself to grow sometimes too fast. That's why I prefer pleasantly stupid people, like you."

Ms. Beeton was somewhat surprised at her flatly calling her 'stupid', but realized it was just his backhand sense of complimenting her.

"I just hope and pray he gets better," she voiced, and sighed. "It's the saddest case I've ever seen, his is."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

A very exciting coincidence. I was just thinking that perhaps Miss Beeton should be excited to see the movie, but I was worried that it was made in 2001 or something, so I looked it up . . . and discovered to my utter delight that it came out in May 1998, just in perfect time for her to know about it in the same month of the same year. Yay! I love when these things work out perfectly.