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head of the bed, one hand through the curtains and the other holding a pocket watch. A stethoscope dangled from his neck.
    â€œThe paper, mostly,” my mother offered. “Mr. Sewell’s, of course. It’s good, sound thinking, and I believe it makes her feel—well, part of Mr. Sewell’s world.”
    â€œIs that so?” responded the doctor. “It’s good of you”—he raised his voice in that fatherly way, as Mr. Sewell had done—“to take an interest in your husband’s affairs. But you should focus on your health at the moment. And what’s this?” He put away his watch and picked up a leather volume from the bedside table. “Ovid? Classical literature for an invalid, for heaven’s sake. And what’s this—Dante’s
Inferno
?” The doctor shook his head. “
Inferno
? And you wonder why she starts fires at the first opportunity?”
    My mother cleared her throat. “She sometimes requests books from the library downstairs.”
    â€œFrom my office, you mean?” Mr. Sewell huffed and shook his head. “I should have sold off that library. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on it.” I wondered if Mr. Sewell was mad that his wife wasn’t reading
The Science of Getting Rich
. Then again, shewas already rich, so maybe she figured she didn’t need to.
    â€œYou can’t!” hissed a voice from inside the curtains. “They’re mine!” I saw a curtain billow out suddenly as if it had been kicked. The circle surrounding the bed widened for a moment, as everyone took a step back: Mr. Sewell, my mother, that flat-faced man who opened the door and now stood with his arms folded and feet apart, like a soldier at ease. I saw now that he wore some kind of all white uniform, almost like pajamas.
    â€œNo, no, this won’t do.” The doctor turned his back to the bed and addressed the others in the room. “Mrs. Sewell needs calming influences, not provocative material. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “what about yesterday? Any changes in routine? Is she still on the diet I prescribed?”
    â€œToast and tea, some broth at midday. And porridge at night, to make her sleepy, just as you prescribed.” My mother waved me forward out of the shadows. “My daughter, Martha, made the porridge herself.”
    â€œIt’s too salty!” came the strained voice behind the curtains again. Which was just silly, if you asked me, considering the heaps of fancy sugar I poured into it.
    But not last night, I remembered.
    I stepped forward a bit to a spot at the foot of the bed where the curtains parted; a bedside lamp softly illuminated the inmate, the crisp sheets pulled all the way to her shoulders, as if straining to pin her down. Her thin, pointed face was framed by a halo of patchy hair like straw, clumped over the pillows that were piled behind her. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, sizing me up, and when I met her gaze, a hand appeared from under the covers to scratch wildly at her cheek, which I saw was red and inflamed with a fiery rash. But as if fatigued by the effort it took to hold my gaze, her eyes fell to the silk coverlet.
    â€œIt’s too salty,” she insisted wretchedly.
    I turned and gave a small shake of my head to the doctor, to show him that this couldn’t be true. “It’s just plain porridge, sir.” When Ma looked at me strangely, I continued. “With raisins and cream and sugar, of course.”
    â€œInteresting. Another symptom.” He stroked his beard, then took out a small notebook and jotted something down. Then he proposed lots of syllables, explaining that this was when the brain confuses two flavors or smells. “Could be a sign of seizures. Or a sensory hallucination, most associated with
dementia praecox
—schizophrenia, as it’s also known.” Thislast term I recognized as the one Mrs. Riordan used about George.