“Look, Laura, I’m afraid I need to have a word with Stephanie in private,” the woman says. I look her over. The nurses at this hospital all wear scrubs in a pale aqua green, but the doctors tend to dress like they’re homeless. This one is no exception, but she does wear a white lab coat thrown over a sweatshirt and jeans. The name tag on the coat says DR. A. LAROSE.
“I’m her mother,” Laura bristles, “I have every right to be here.”
“Well, Stephanie isn’t a minor,” Dr. Larose says with a pacifying smile. “And in the name of patient confidentiality, I must ask you to leave.”
Even Laura seems to wilt under her stare.
“Fine,” she mutters. She leaves, her heels clacking. The curtain swings shut, and all that’s left of Laura is her cheap perfume floating in the air.
“Wonderful,” says the woman. “I was hoping I’d be able to talk to you, Stephanie.”
“You’re not my doctor, are you,” I say. It’s not a question.
“What makes you say that?”
“You showed up too fast. This is a small, regional hospital, always overrun and understaffed. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone for at least an hour or two.”
She feigns a hurt look. “It isn’t that bad, you know.”
“You didn’t answer the question. Are you my doctor, or aren’t you?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“I’m going to call someone.” I cast a glance around—where the hell is that little remote that lets you summon a nurse?
“Wait.”
She does have an air of authority about her. She must be Laura’s age, although she looks much younger—probably a result of a healthier lifestyle rather than Botox. In any event, my hand stops in midair halfway to the magic nurse-summoning remote.
“I was telling the truth. I do need to talk to you. I’m Dr. Amelie Larose, resident psychiatrist. I’d like to say I’m head of the psychiatry department, but that would be a lie, since I’m the entire department.” She gives a self-deprecating chuckle.
All right. What did I do to warrant the attention of the entire psychiatry department? I fidget in the uncomfortable hospital bed. “How can I help you, Dr. Larose?”
This was meant to be sarcasm. It falls flatter than the hospital pillow underneath my head.
“I was rather thinking I could help you,” she says. “I’m going to get straight to the point. I’ve been following your exploits. Ever since you released that podcast two years ago.”
“Oh, well, that’s good news. I thought no one actually listened to the podcast. Good to hear that at least one person did.”
She measures me with a look, a look that tells me to shut my trap. Which is what I do. Something tells me that Dr. Larose isn’t my number one fan.
“And I know what you’re trying to do here,” she says. “It’s so popular these days, to dredge up these old cases—to try to get to the truth, supposedly.”
“That’s exactly what I’m here to do,” I say coldly.
“Or, rather, to try to get into the spotlight—no matter what impact it has on those still living.”
“I wasn’t trying to get into the spotlight,” I bristle. “I—”
“And now you’re snooping around the abandoned cabins,” the woman says. “Digging up the old tales of witchcraft, of Sophie Bergmann running through the woods on all fours. Stephanie, this might not be any of my business—”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say. “It’s none of your business.”
“But if you’re really interested in the truth, as you claim you are, then what I have to say might be of some interest. After all, I’ve been Tony Bergmann’s doctor for much of his life.”
The revelation strikes me dumb. And yet, of course she is. Somebody had to be. After all, Tony isn’t some mythical boogeyman. He’s a person, and the son of one of the town’s most prominent families. The warmth of embarrassment rises into my cheeks.
“I can’t talk to you about Tony, of course,” Dr. Larose says. “Because of patient confidentiality. I’ve never met Tony’s mother, Sophie Bergmann. By the time I came here to do my residency, she was long gone. And who could blame her! The place is hardly bursting with convivial charm. I wasn’t going to stick around either after my year of residency was up, yet here I am. Do you know why?”
I shake my head.
“I saw the state of the mental health services in this town. And it’s criminal. There are people who direly need help, and not only do they have no way to get it, they have to deal with the backwards people who live here and all their prejudices. No wonder Tony spiraled so far out of control. But, like I said, I’m not here to talk about Tony. I’m here to ask you to please stop feeding these stupid stories about haunted cabins and satanic rituals in the woods. You’re making life worse for actual, real people, who are neither witches nor Satanists and who really don’t need these tall tales circulating all over town, stoking intolerance.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I can hardly see how something that happened decades ago has any bearing on those people.”
She sighs. “You’re being obtuse,” she says. “I know you’re smarter than that, Stephanie. Or are you? Do you actually believe all these legends? Or are they just the right kind of sensationalist tripe your audience will gobble up?”
“I don’t know if I believe them,” I say levelly. “That’s why I’m investigating.”
“Sophie Bergmann wasn’t a witch,” Dr. Larose snaps. “And Tony Bergmann isn’t some monster. I can’t believe I have to say this to a seemingly rational, educated young woman from the city. All the things I’ve heard about Sophie Bergmann over the years. You wouldn’t believe it. People here are so naive they’ll believe in anything. The poor woman probably had schizophrenia.”
“Huh?”
“Schizophrenia,” she repeats, slower, like I’m a stupid child. “It’s textbook. My supervisor told me about Sophie when I did my residency. He was a good psychiatrist, a real treasure, but there’s only so much one man can do in a place so mired in superstitions it might as well be stuck in 1600. He never got to actually diagnose Sophie’s condition, let alone treat it. It was so poorly understood back then—and especially here. Even if there had been a way to explain it to her husband, you can imagine what kind of stigma it carried. Especially because, as we now well know, schizophrenia can be hereditary. Pierre was in denial. To him, it would have been an indelible stain on the family legacy. And he’d already decided to blame his wife’s symptoms on witchcraft. She was no longer the person he’d once fallen in love with—that had to mean she’d drugged him with some love potion. It’s incredible how far some people will go to rationalize away things that contradict their beliefs.”
“So she was schizophrenic,” I echo.
“Yes. Most likely.”
