The Skeleton Cupboard Read Free Page B

panic.
    â€œWho’s a headache, Edith? Tell me.”
    Edith’s eyes closed and screwed up, and tears trickled down her cheeks. Mouth open, she began a low moan, before singing again:
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    Between bouts of singing, Edith told scrambled stories. “Stinging” was a key word. “Stinging” and “down there.” The “downstairs department.” Aunt Charisma and scrub, scrub, scrubbing. No dreaming. Bad dreaming. No singing. Bad singing. Only scrub and sting and Lysol.
    â€œYou lie, you Lysol. You lie, you Lysol,” Edith kept repeating.
    In my mind, I tried to sing ahead, to remember the words, as Edith kept repeating the lyrics, her needle stuck in the groove:
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    She is wild–
    She’s a riddle,
    She’s a child
    She’s a headache!
    I got it and belted out:
    She’s an angel!
    She’s a girl …
    Then there was a complete stop. Not a pause but a stop. Silence. No song. No moans. No lies or Lysol.
    The small woman stood with dignity and straightened the pillowcase on her head. She looked me directly in the eyes, and despite the streams of tears still coursing down her cheeks, she extended a hand. “A pleasure speaking with you.”
    â€œAnd a pleasure meeting you, Edith.”
    â€œPlease call me Maria.”
    And Maria walked out of the cupboard and across to the other side of the lift shaft, where the inpatient psychiatric department welcomed her with its familiar revolving door.
    Seeing her go, I felt really sad. I thought about some of the recent lectures exploring diagnosis and ethnicity we’d heard at school. It had shocked me to learn that there were disproportionately high levels of psychiatric diagnosis and hospital admissions among black and ethnic minorities living in the UK. African or Caribbean immigrants were up to five times more likely to be diagnosed with schizophrenia, due to the cultural insensitivity that was ingrained in our diagnostic procedures. Poverty, racism and culturally rigid definitions of mental illness all contributed to these troubling statistics and I wondered whether Edith was herself a victim. After many years cycling through the revolving door, had her diagnosed illness become a self-fulfilled prophecy?
    â€œAs I say,” said George, breaking the moment, “welcome to our happy home.”
    *   *   *
    Alone in my cupboard once more, I shut the door and applied myself to getting the space to look more like a consulting room. As it was, I worried it might be slightly insulting for anyone who came in to see me.
    â€œWelcome to the outpatient psychiatric department. We have designed your treatment environment to match the way you feel about yourself,” the office seemed to be saying.
    I tidied up: old prescription pads, patient leaflets about fifteen years out-of-date, a guide to electroconvulsive therapy. The thought sent shivers down my spine. I opened a small cupboard next to my desk and shoved the whole lot in.
    The chairs needed replacing, so I wandered across the department to see what I could find. In an empty lecture room, I discovered a couple of low chairs. They would do nicely: no disparity in height between my patient and me. I dragged them back past the reception desk without anyone looking up or asking me what I was doing; I probably could have stripped the place entirely and taken it home piece by piece, and no one would have noticed.
    Chairs in, positioned at forty-five degrees, it looked better. A few damp hand towels removed some of the visible dust, and