Call Me Zelda Read Online Free PDF

with the Murphys, the Hemingways, Dos Passos, Duff Twysden. That damnable Stein, who always banished the wives to tea with her wife while the artists and writers got high on each other’s bold ideas.” Her voice became brittle.
    “There were too many parties, too many salons, too many nights watching half-naked Negroes, half-sober painters, half-mad homosexuals….” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Waking up mornings was the worst part. It was like the sickly, bitter flavor on the tongue after drinking coffee. It was so good going down, but the aftertaste made you damn near hate it.”
    My eyes moved over the pages and it occurred to me that her writing allowed her to open up. I considered this for a moment, then made my thoughts known.
    “How would you feel about writing to Dr. Meyer instead of talking to him?” I asked.
    Her gaze met mine straight on and I understood that being direct was the only way to get through to her. She was no fool. Tricks would not get her to reveal anything.
    “About what?” she said.
    “Your illness. Your past. What you think precipitated your collapses,” I said. “It’s all he wants, you know. It’s all any of us want: to help you reach in and determine the source of theproblem to help you avoid it in the future. To heal. To prepare you for living outside of a clinic.”
    She did not recoil from my words as I anticipated she would. After a few moments, she nodded her head.
    “I’ll do it,” she said. “What shall I write?”
    “Start at the beginning, wherever that is to you.”
    “Can it be like a story?” she asked.
    “It can be anything you want. Whatever feels natural.”
    “Could I only write for you?”
    This presented a problem. Anything my patient shared I was obligated to tell the entire team caring for her. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I also didn’t want to betray her. I decided to put her at ease for now, and later decide what to do if she wrote anything.
    “Yes, you may write just for me,” I said.
    “And you promise not to show Scott.”
    “Of course I won’t show him,” I said.
    “He thinks expression ruins me,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “Because he thinks he should be enough for me. He needs me to orbit him. He wishes to pluck me from orbit when he needs me and then send me back once he’s used me up.”
    Herein lies the problem , I thought. But it was a common enough problem in marriages. Didn’t we all want devotion? Undivided attention? Why did it break the Fitzgeralds so badly?
    “You clearly crave creative expression,” I said. “I know about your dancing. Do you play an instrument? Paint? I feel that more outlets would nurture your physical and mental health.”
    “I do love to paint. I studied with the best in France. I love to make things with my hands, too. You should have seen the dollhouse I made for Scottie at our home in Delaware.”
    Her words fell flat and her face contorted. A sob rose in her throat and she collapsed on the bed. It had been too much. Ineeded to back off, but I wanted to calm her. I approached her carefully and reached to touch her back. She flinched but did not push me off. I sat next to her and rubbed her back in wide, slow circles. She turned her body and wrapped her arms around me, crying until she fell asleep.

FOUR

    The taxi stopped at the entrance to the pebbled drive, and Lincoln, the driver, opened my door and helped me out like he did once a month. He treated me as if I were the most important and elegant woman who’d ever ridden in his backseat.
    “You sure you don’t want me to take you all the way up to the door?” he asked, as he always did.
    “No, sir,” I said. “I like the walk through the trees. But you are the finest gentleman I know for asking.”
    He smiled his wide, half-toothless smile and ran a hand over his black, stubbled hair.
    “Aw, honey, you make an old man feel young.”
    I reached into my pocketbook to pay him and he hurried back to the passenger seat.
    “No