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I had just finished the eighth grade in the summer of 1939, and Jimmy was getting ready to start college at Cornell. We were working here in the barn together and talking about all kinds of things when he asked, “Are you excited about starting at the regional high school this fall, Peggety?” I shook my head. “You aren’t? Why not?”
I was embarrassed to say why, but he coaxed the truth out of me. He was an expert at digging deep and getting me to share my feelings. I told him how I didn’t have the right clothes to wear and how I would feel out-of-place in such a big school. “And besides,” I added, “Pop doesn’t see any reason for me to go. He never went past the eighth grade, and he owns his own garage.”
Jimmy showed up at my apartment a few days later with his girlfriend, Tina, and her best friend, Cathy. They sat me down on the rickety chair in our backyard, then Cathy wrapped a towel around my neck and gave me a real beauty-parlor haircut. She’d been studying how to do it in the high school’s vocational program. Tina gave me some movie-star magazines to look at while Cathy was cutting, just like in a real beauty parlor. Jimmy disappeared into the garage, where Pop was replacing an alternator, leaving us to our “girlie stuff,” as he called it. When Cathy was finished, Tina squealed and oohed and aahed over me and made me feel pretty. Then Jimmy came back, and he carried on like he didn’t recognize me, saying, “Who is this pretty young lady? I don’t believe we’ve ever met.” I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror.
“I’m going to be working in Flo’s Salon on Main Street,” Cathy told me before she left. “You come on in whenever you need a trim.” Tina said I could keep the magazines. Later, I found three grocery sacks on my bed, filled with used clothes that the girls must have outgrown. Jimmy never said a thing about the clothes, but I knew he was behind it. And when Pop told me that he’d changed his mind about me going to high school, I knew who had talked him into it.
I returned to my present dilemma when Pedro nudged me with his muzzle as if trying to soothe my hurt feelings. I was being cut adrift, asked to give up my job and leave my home, and I had no idea where to turn or what to do. If I took another factory job somewhere, I might make new friends and recover the sense of belonging that I’d lost when the war ended. But who was I kidding? A few million soldiers had just returned home from the war and every available job would go to one of them. I heard someone enter the barn and oh, how I wished it could have been Jimmy, coming to rescue me again. But it was Mr. Barnett.
“I was just coming to look in on Pedro,” he said. “I thought you’d gone home.”
The word home touched a nerve, and I maneuvered to Pedro’s other side to hide my tears. I didn’t want to bother the Barnetts with my problems or ask for their advice about my future. They had enough heartache dealing with their son’s future right now. They didn’t need me to unload my problems on their shoulders, too. “I don’t mind checking up on Pedro,” I said. “He’s a great horse.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re still here. I forgot to mention it earlier, but Dr. Morgan’s office called. He wants to talk to us again before we visit Jim on Sunday. Would you be able to come with us to our appointment tomorrow? You were a great comfort to Martha and me the last time.”
My tears flowed but I didn’t have to hide them. “I would be happy to, Mr. Barnett.”
* * *
Dr. Morgan wasn’t one degree warmer or friendlier than he’d been the last time. Once again, he lit up a cigarette as soon as we were seated and delivered his news through clouds of smoke, looking at the file folder in front of him, not at us. “Corporal Barnett has finished the prescribed course of insulin treatments with little noticeable improvement,” he began. I felt like he’d punched me in the gut and knocked all the wind out of me. He could have at least paused for a moment to let us digest the bad news, but he plowed on. “The orderlies reported that he did react to the last few injections, becoming upset and trying to push the needle away—”
“For heaven’s sake, why didn’t they stop?” Mr. Barnett asked. “Especially if the comas weren’t doing any good?”
Dr. Morgan seemed irritated by the interruption. “As I was about to say, the corporal’s reaction was a positive sign. His emotional affect had been flat up to that point.” I remembered Joe Fiore’s description of the water treatment as torture and wanted to point out that anger is a natural response to inhumane treatment.
“When will our son be able to come home?” Mrs. Barnett asked.
“I don’t recommend that he leave the hospital until there is some improvement.”
“Not even for a day? For a visit?”
“No. The corporal suffers from severe depression and is still uncommunicative. He doesn’t interact with the other patients or participate in group therapy.”
“So what’s next?” Mr.B. asked.
“I’ve scheduled him to begin a course of electroshock therapy next week.”
I bit my tongue to remain silent, hoping this treatment wasn’t as bad as it sounded. But as the doctor went on to explain, it turned out to be even worse than it sounded. “Electrical currents are applied to the patient’s brain to disorder the mind and jolt the patient out of his emotional distress. It can be quite effective in cases of severe depression like the corporal’s. The shock treatments are applied three times a week for a period of two to six weeks.”
“Is it dangerous? Are there risks we should know about?” Mr.B. asked.
“No procedure is without risk. In this case, we will deliberately try to induce a seizure or a convulsion. This temporary disordering of the mind can halt the cycle of depressing thoughts and suicidal ideation. One side effect may be memory impairment. The patient may forget names or seem confused—”
“Don’t let them do it!” I begged Mr. Barnett. “There must be some other way!”
The doctor pinned me with a stern look. “If there were, I would have prescribed it.”
“But you don’t even know if it will work on Jimmy.”
“There are never any guarantees, young lady.” He stubbed out his cigarette, signaling that the meeting was over.
“Wait. What positive results might we expect?” Mr. Barnett asked.
“Electroshock therapy can have a calming effect on patients suffering from battle fatigue. They report fewer nightmares and angry outbursts afterwards. Many experience varying degrees of memory loss, as I said, but that can be a positive thing if any troubling, traumatic experiences are also erased. Our goal is for the patient to reach the point where he’ll interact in group sessions with other patients.”
Mr. Barnett closed his eyes and sighed. “We’ll have to trust your judgment, Doctor.”
We went downstairs, expecting to be able to visit with Jimmy as we had the last time, but we were turned away. “Visiting hours are on Sundays only,” we were told.
