Don Simmons sat in his car staring up at the old hospital—a scar from times past on the landscape. He remembered Martha’s descriptions of the building, like a mediaeval dungeon high on a hill overlooking the town. For anyone living in the twenty-first century and aware of local history, the building was a reproach to mankind’s understanding of mental illness. On one side of the dirty red brick structure, a visitor could see the bars on darkened, narrow windows and easily imagine pale contorted faces straining for sunlight. Even today, Don thought, he could hear the screams of the mad. But that was more than a century ago. Surely the province’s views of mental health had become more intelligent over the decades. But instead of tearing the structure down, the Ministry of Health had used fire, to house research of some unspecified nature.
On her return from a weekend visit to Hammersmith, Martha would talk about this very building which she had to visit. He remembered her talking of sitting in her car in the parking lot frozen in place and unable to move one muscle to get out of the car, climb up the steps to open the heavy, wooden doors. Long hallways of bilious green and yellow lay before her once she was inside.
Over coffee, Martha would ask Don—How can they house human beings in there in this day and age?
Don knew that, once upon a time, families were so ashamed of their ill, their deformed and their mad that they hid them away in attics and basements or such institutions as The Grove, for the Insane. He had no answer for her.
For months, Martha had tried to resist the pull of duty back to Hammersmith. Every time she returned to Toronto, she seemed suffocated for air and starving for food and drink. But like a black vortex pulling her downward, Hammersmith finally won and she returned to live there.
Don tore his gaze from the decrepit building and climbed out of his car. How many times had she come here to meet with Dr. Rupee? Impossible to count. He heaved open the side doors and found himself in the hallway leading to the stairs. Much of the building reminded him of his old high school. The musky smell of sweat and tears overcame him. He sank to a nearby bench to compose himself.
Martha had told him many stories about the hospital, its history and Dr. Rupee. The problems Martha had to cope with were monumental. Dr. Rupee would see her in the doctor’s lounge littered with coffee cups and newspapers. The plastic seats on the chairs and couch were cracking and splitting open with age. From the lounge on the second floor, you could see out into a massive courtyard where the patients walked or sat or cried or screamed.
The worst time, Martha told him, was when a guard or matron lashed out at one patient—a young woman who rarely spoke. But that day, she had for some unknowable reason started to swear. Swearing led to shouting and shouting led to pushing another girl down. The matron, red-faced in her fury, had reached out, grabbed the young woman by the hair and bashed her head against the wall. What could be expected? The matron had snapped even though they had been carefully trained in methods of quieting patients. When Martha saw this she said—If you must live with the mad, you cannot avoid the contagion. Is there any line between the lucid and the mad?
Martha was right, Don had thought. Although each and every one of the staff had been drilled in compassion, how could it really stick in such a grim place? Even with the best will in the world, you would one day snap. When the young woman’s head hit the wall with a sickening thud, her entire body went slack and she crumpled to the ground. Dead. No way back to life.
The other inmates in the courtyard gathered around. Even those farthest away came running as if guided by instinct and the smell of blood. Fingers were pointed. The guard was surrounded and set upon by the women like a pack of mad dogs. They did not need any sticks or stones or any kind of weapons. With their bare hands, they hit and beat her until she was on the ground. The leaders of the pack administered the final blows with their feet. Now two dead bodies lay in the corner of the courtyard. The sane become mad...or something like that, Don thought. What difference is there really?
