Ankere (Emu) by Emily Kame Kngwarreye

I glanced at the clock – five minutes to go before this session ended.  It was the same evaluation routine every month – same doctor, same sterile vanilla room, same playing cards.

Dr. H turned over the card.  I wondered if Dr. H ever tired of the responses.

“Butterfly,” I said.  Most people would recognize this inkblot card as the first in the Rorschach test.  Butterfly was always a safe answer.

Dr. H looked at me for a moment.  Perhaps I’d answered too quickly.  I wondered if I should vary my answer next month.  I made a mental note for later consideration.  Dr. H made a note under the other scribbles on this session’s yellow pad.

My eyes widened at the next card. I glanced up.  Dr. H watched closely.

“That’s not a Rorschach card,”  I said, stating the obvious.  What else was safe to say?

“No,” Dr. H said.

I remained silent. I knew this card.  It was a painting by an Australian aboriginal artist, full of lines and dots on a tangerine desert.  I recognized the artist as Emily Kame Kngwarreye.  The yam lines made her art distinctive from all others.

Was this a prompt to talk about my childhood in Australia? What did Dr. H know about my history as a child?   It didn’t matter.  I wasn’t an amateur of these games.  I waited knowing that Dr. H would fill the silence and say something further.

Dr. H sighed, resigned to giving in since I had never done so in past sessions.  “I thought it would be helpful to get your response on something different.  Mix things up a bit.”

“No. No. NO. NO,” a voice in my head screamed.  “That’s not fair.  We’re not prepared.”

I felt the acidic juices in my stomach start to foam.  Panic was building and I knew the suffocation of it would begin if I didn’t calm myself. An unexpected turn of events but I could deal with this.   I took a couple of deep breaths through my nose so Dr. H would not see the turmoil inside my head and body.  I doubted the movement of my nostrils would give me away.

“It’s a trick.  A way to get you to reveal something about us,” another voice accused.

Dr. H was watching and I couldn’t glance at the clock without possibly revealing my discomfort.  A swirl of mist seemed to cloud my eyes and I was drawn back into a memory.  Or at least what I thought was a memory.  The story had been told so many times I no longer knew what was my memory and what was simply part of the story become legend.   I hadn’t thought about that night in years.

It had been a warm evening. I’d been put to bed early since I was only 6 years old.  A remote part of Australia.  My parents wanted to experience the wilds of the country.   I remember waking to a bird’s call.  It drew me – that much I remember.  My parents must have thought I was safely asleep for the night and had left me unattended.  Getting up from the bed, I wandered outside.  The door had been left open.  Cool breezes of the night air drifted in and out as if visiting for a spell.  I have no memory of the direction I headed – only of the bird’s call, beckoning me.  A lovely trilling that I’ve never heard again.

Step by step I moved deeper into the outback until the bird’s song disappeared.  I sat down to wait.  Then I began to cry. Time passed.  I must have fallen asleep, still weeping, growing cold as the night deepened. What I remember next is the warmth that banished the cold and the gentleness of the touch.  A different sound, rhythmic and soothing gently rocked me – a foreign lullaby.  I slept.

The warmth of that presence stayed with me during the night.  At dawn’s breaking, the warmth disappeared and I whimpered at the loss.  I cried more loudly as I was placed on the wood porch.  Quiet then frantic footsteps going and coming are my recollection.  Then my mother’s relieved cry that I had been found.  Safe, I lay at the door of our cabin.

Back in the present, I glanced up.  Dr. H waited patiently.  I checked the clock.  One minute to go.

I stared at the picture.  What could I say?  A dog with motorcycle goggles stared out at me.  That would never do as an answer.  A race horse with goggles maybe but again, that was a risk I was not comfortable making on my own.  An ant farm with tracks might be acceptable.  Still…

I hesitated.

“You can’t know if that will help you,” a voice said.

“Dr. H will read into your answer.  Careful,” another voice warned.

“Cooperating will help you,” another voice argued.

“Get up and dance.  Show Dr. H something new,” a voice said.

“Tell Dr. H about the painting,” another whispered.

I struggled to quiet the voices while maintaining a nonchalant pose.  It would not do to show my anxiety.

“It’s an Australian artist’s painting,” I said.

Surprise showed on Dr. H’s face.  “How do you know?”

“My family spent some time in country when I was little.”

“That’s very interesting,” Dr. H said.  “What do you see in the painting?”

“The yam rows she is known for,” I said.

The timer rang.  Dr. H seemed conflicted, wanting to continue but knowing there was another to follow me.  Shoulders relaxed.  “That’s it for today.  We’ll talk about your time in Australia next month.”

I smiled.  “Of course,” I said.

I would have time to consult the voices and decide  on what was safe to relate.  Time to consider what I could say that would help me escape this prison of an asylum.

This story was submitted as part of the Fralin Museum’s Writer’s Eye annual contest.  I didn’t place in the contest but I liked the exercise and the story that came out of the process.  The museum picks a number of art works and then the writer can pick which one he/she wants to write a story around.

If this has been your story using this picture – what would you have written?

What do you see in the story?

Also, in this instance since the art was subject to interpretation, I left out any use of an identifier as to the patient and the doctor. I also used the dream which left the reader with interpreting what really happened.  Did these devices work?  Have you used them before?

If you choose to write a story – the length maximum was 1,000 words.  I’d love to read it if you choose to write one.