Read The Gallery for Free Online Page A

“We may be drawing closer to a diagnosis,” the doctor opined, raising one finger, “but we will never clarify what is the illness and what the disruption until we can provide an entirely calming environment for our patient.”
    â€œDoctor,” interrupted Mr. Sewell, “there are days she doesn’t even recognize me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and he looked less like a titan of industry than a lovesick schoolboy. “I wonder, are we doing all we can? Is this the right environment for her? I just wonder about the influence of these paintings.”
    â€œYes, I agree. They’re too stimulating, many of them.” Here I caught the doctor eyeing a canvas where a half man, half goat pursued a particularly nimble and naked forest nymph. “Better that they be removed.”
    And here is where, as one would say, all hell broke loose.
    Mrs. Sewell rose up on her bed like a demon, tearing down the curtains around her and attacking the doctor, her husband, even my mother, as one and all scrambled to simultaneously contain her and protect themselves from her claws.
    The doctor produced a shot from his bag and,with the help of the man in white, whose ham-hock arms were able to absorb her fury, injected Mrs. Sewell with something that transformed her from she-devil to blubbering mess.
    â€œI had hoped we wouldn’t have to do this again, Rose.” The doctor shook his head.
    My mother took the weeping Mrs. Sewell in her arms like a child, murmuring and smoothing her hair—like my brothers when they fell, I thought, and me too once—while the doctor gestured for the men to join him in the next room. I stayed frozen where I’d retreated near the door, just beyond their circle.
    â€œDo you see her in there, crying like a baby, holding on to that maid like her own mother? Entirely necessary,” the doctor opined. “Here we have a woman entirely alienated from her own femininity. I see it every day in my practice. Women given the vote, but not the judgment to exercise it. Women given an ounce of freedom, which they use to smoke and drink, to dance on tables! Do you see?”
    â€œQuite so,” interjected Mr. Sewell. “Why, I’ve always said—”
    â€œWhen women think they’re equals to men,”—I was impressed to see that the doctor’s self-importance did not shy even for my employer’s—“like men, they will gravitate to what is attractive and easy, andsociety will lose its moral center.” With a deep sigh, the doctor produced and popped in a peppermint, like an orator after a great speech. He turned finally to Mr. Sewell. “Now, Archer, I know that you are anxious to speed your wife’s path to recovery. And yes, while there are many excellent facilities—why, we Americans are at the forefront of modern psychiatry! The forefront, I say!—Mrs. Sewell’s best chance at recovery lies at home. For it is here that we must help her reconnect with her femininity. Her mother died when she was young, yes? So let her be mothered again”—my own mother stepped into the circle at just this moment—“here in her childhood room, and she will mature into a true woman again.”
    â€œYes, but what about these paintings?” interrupted Mr. Sewell. “They’re making her crazy.”
    My mother broke in with urgency. “I’ve promised her they won’t be moved. They may not provide the calming environment we hope for, but the prospect of their absence is far more disturbing to her than their presence.” She seemed to only realize her boldness, as she ducked her head, casting her eyes down, away from her employer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sewell, it’s just I’m sure it’s the right thing for her.”
    â€œShe has a point, Archer,” the doctor murmured from the notes he’d started scribbling.
    Mr. Sewell’s face froze for a moment, the