Words won’t hurt

1

At the schoolyard I am allowed to stand with a group of six girls. When I say something, they laugh loudly. I prefer not to say anything. They never ask me to come along, to play at their house after school, or to go to the swimming pool. Or to come to birthday parties. But I don't mind. I don't do well in crowds. I am always happy when the break is over and the school door opens again. I like math and Dutch. I also like reading, but the lesson goes so slowly. The teacher is often angry with me. When it’s my turn to read, I never know where we are with the lesson. I usually get an A in math. It seems as if the teacher doesn't like that. That's why I better make some mistakes, every now and then.

During geography and history, I fantasize. Hoogezand, Sappemeer, Veendam, Winschoten. In my mind I cycle across The Netherlands, all the way to the most southern point, where The Netherlands, Belgium and Germany meet at one point. I don't have to ask for directions. I know the map by heart. I love history, too. The Batavians, the Vikings, Emperor Charles, Napoleon, Jan van Schaffelaar, William of the House of Orange. In my mind, I am making my own journey through time. As the national heroine Kenau Simonsdochter Hasselaer, I defend the city of Haarlem against the Spaniards. It is school-break again, much too soon.

The boys are pulling the girls' hair. My hair the most. Would they have done the same to Kenau Hasselaer in the past? Of course not. "Hey, bitch!" I hear right behind me. At the same time a tug at my ponytail. I turn around and hit Johan on the nose. A strange cracking sound, and blood everywhere. There is no more playing at the schoolyard. It is deathly quiet. All the children look at me. Then the teacher comes outside and pulls me inside by my shoulder. "He pulled my hair," I say. "And he called me names."

"Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words won’t hurt you," is all the teacher says. I have to go and sit in the small room. When school starts again, I am still there. The two paintings in the room are hanging crooked. I have just hung them straight, when I hear my mother's voice in the adjoining room. And the teacher's. A little later I have to come in, too. "Johan has been taken to the hospital," the teacher says. I look at my mother. She is angry, but not at me. "Come on," she says, standing up. "We are going home."

At home I get a cup of hot chocolate with a slice of cake. Mom strokes my hair. I hear her sobbing, but she won't say why. The next day I am allowed to stay home.

On Monday I go back to school. Johan's nose is bandaged. I finish my math quickly. I start working on the lines that I still have to hand in. "I am not allowed to fight at school." Two hundred times. "And Johan must keep his hands off my hair," I add mischievously.

During the break, no one pulls my hair anymore. I am not allowed to stand with the group of girls anymore. I don't mind. I prefer to be alone. Just like I prefer to walk home alone. Then I can walk neatly on the tiles of the sidewalk, without touching the seams. And on the zebra crossing, where I am only allowed to walk on the white areas.

When I arrive at the apartment building, I walk up the staircase. Four flights of twelve steps. Left leg first, and I must not forget to count, otherwise I have to do it all over again. The gallery has a checked pattern of black and gray tiles. I have to walk neatly on the black ones, 34 black tiles to the front door.

Mom asks how it was at school. "Learned the province of North Brabant," I answer. "Breda, Tilburg, 's-Hertogenbosch. But you may also say 'Den Bosch'." My mother strokes my hair and puts a cup of hot chocolate on the table, with a slice of cake next to it. "Don't you want to play outside for a while?" Mom asks. "The weather is nice." I decide to do Mom a favor. Boys are playing soccer on the field behind the apartment building. I am always allowed to join in as a goalkeeper. I'm pretty good at that. I have to, as the bushes behind the goal are full of thorns. Mom always gives me some candy to share with the boys.

After an hour I want to go home. I have to return my book to the library tomorrow, and I haven't finished reading it yet. And I still must change my dolls’ clothes.

Mom has cleaned up my room. She has done her best to line up my dolls neatly, but still one of them is leaning. And one of the dresses isn't straight. It doesn't matter. Mom is busy. And I need to change the dolls’ clothes today anyway.

I help Mom preparing the table for dinner. Mom finds it difficult to put the cutlery straight next to the plates, so I always need to do that. The forks and knives straight next to the plates. Not under them. The spoons next to the knives, so that they just don't touch each other. Also filling the glasses with water. One little finger under the rim. When Dad comes home, we eat. Dad never asks about school anymore. I tell him that the city of Bergen op Zoom is not in the mountains, but he is not that interested.

That night in bed I finish reading my library book. Downstairs I hear Dad and Mom talking loudly, as they have been doing more often lately. “Nothing but problems, for almost ten years!” I hear Dad shouting. Mom cries.

2

There is a lady visiting us. Mom and the lady are drinking tea. I am drinking hot chocolate. The lady puts her glasses on her pointy nose and has a large piece of paper on her lap. I don’t understand most of the questions she asks Mom. She asks where Dad is. He hasn’t been home for a few days. Then the lady asks Mom if she can talk to me alone for a moment. Mom gets up, strokes my hair and walks to the kitchen.

“Do Mom and Dad argue often?”, the lady asks. She acts very friendly, but I don’t know if she is really nice.

“A little,” I answer softly. “Just last week, when the teacher was angry at school.”

“Was that because you hit a boy hard?”

“I didn’t hit him hard, but I hit his nose.”

“Why did you hit him?”

“He pulled my hair. And he called me names.”

“Calling names doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s what the teacher said. And Dad too.”

“That boy had to go to the hospital.”

“They don’t bully me anymore, at school.”

“Do you have friends at school?”

“No.”

“Do you think that’s bad?”

I shake my head.

“Do you regret hitting that boy?” the lady asks after a minute of silence.

I shake my head again.

3

Mom helps me pack my bag. She has promised me to dress up my dolls once a week and to put them neatly next to each other. “Crazy! Why does this have to happen to me?” I hear my father mumble from behind the newspaper. There’s a lot of bad news in the newspaper, these days.

Then the doorbell rings. The lady with the pointy nose comes in. Mom gives her my bag. Then she gives me a hug. Her cheeks are wet. I don’t cry. I don’t want Mom to be sad.

Forty-nine girls live in the house.

We eat at long tables. Ten girls and a nun-sister at each table. There is a free seat at one of the tables. Before dinner, we have to pray out loud in turn. Today it is my turn. I pray that my aunt Ella's child may be born healthy and that aunt Ella may quickly find a nice husband. I get a slap on the ear and have to go to the cold dormitory where we all sleep, without any food.

Later that evening, when the others are also in bed, a few girls start singing. Ella is getting a whore’s child. I don't know what they are talking about. I am hungry and cold, and finally I fall asleep.

A few weeks later, Mom comes to visit me. We are sitting in an empty classroom. One of the sisters is sitting in the back corner. She is fat and has a bun in her hair.

"What is a whore’s child?" I ask. I see that Mom is shocked.

"Who says that?"

"The girls say that aunt Ella is going to get a whore’s child."

I see that Mom's eyes are getting wet, but I don't want to make her sad. "It's okay, Mom, they're all crazy. It's a madhouse here, isn't it, Mom?"

Mom blows her nose really hard, and presses me against her. I smell the soap from home. Then the fat sister with the bun in her hair says it's time to go. I sniff the smell of the soap from home once more, and feel a salty drop on my face. Then the fat sister with the bun takes me away.

At the end of the next morning, we walk from the classroom to the dining room. "Ella's getting a whore’s child," Simone whispers, as she walks past me towards the stairs. Simone is the biggest of them all. All the girls do what she says. She has started singing about aunt Ella. She makes Mom sad. She has to stop.

I see her standing at the top of the stairs. I run up to her from behind and give her a push. It goes very easily. She falls forward. Her head hits a step hard. It sounds like a heavy stone. She doesn’t move. She doesn't even cry. There is a lot of blood.

A few girls start screaming loudly. Two sisters come running. One of them starts screaming really weird. Then the fat sister with the bun comes running. It hurts when she twists my arm and pushes me in the direction of the punishment room.

“Did you push Simone down the stairs?” asks the Mother Superior. Her left eye closes a little when she is angry. There is a brown pimple next to her fat nose.

“Yes, sister,” I answer. I can’t resist to keep looking at the pimple.

“Mother Superior, you must say! And look at me when I talk to you!”

“Yes, Mother Superior,” I answer, but my eyes are drawn to the pimple.

“Look at me!”

Her eyes are even uglier than the pimple, but I manage to hold my gaze and not let go.

“Why did you push Simone down the stairs?”

“She makes my mother cry.” I now lock my eyes into hers.

“But your mother isn’t here, is she?”

“Yesterday she was. And then she had to cry. I don’t want that. No one may make my mother sad.” My eyes are now pinned to hers. I haven’t blinked for a minute.

“Crazy.” She is now talking to the fat sister with the bun, who is standing in the corner. “Lock her up!”

The fat sister with the bun grabs my arm hard. I keep looking at mother superior until I am pushed into the hallway. I haven't blinked yet.

4

I have my own room now. The clean white clothes are nicer than the grey-blue uniforms. I am also allowed to eat alone, in my room. Every day I am allowed to walk in the garden with the fat lady with the bun. When I sit on the bench, she ties up my feet and I am allowed to loosen my hands for a while. When I am back in my room, the doctor comes. I keep the pills under my tongue. When the doctor has gone, I spit them out. The pills make me sleepy.

The school teacher has brought books. Arithmetics, Dutch, geography and history. When I spit out the pills, I can study well. I have almost finished all the arithmetic exercises. There is nothing new in the language book anymore. A number of chapters have been torn out of the history book. From the table of contents, I learn that the chapters about hedge sermons, witch-burnings, the iconoclasm and the military interventions in Southeast Asia have been torn out. I study geography at night after dinner. Sometimes I take one of the pills I secretly hide. I get nicely relaxed and dizzy, and I dream about how I travel around the world. In France I paint. In Italy I am a singing gondolier. In Israel I pick oranges. In Nepal I can see the whole world from the highest mountain.

Every few days the doctor comes by. He wants to make me better, he says, but I don't feel sick. He usually talks to me. Whether I regret having pushed Simone. Whether I don't want to go back, learn and play with the other girls. Whether I don't miss my mother.

No, I don't regret having pushed Simone. And I don't want to go back to the other girls. I have a nice little room by myself now. And nice white clothes. And as much time as I want to learn. Yes, I miss Mom very much.

The doctor says that I better regret having pushed Simone down the stairs. Then I might go back to the big dormitory, and only then can Mom visit me again.

The doctor doesn't really want to cure me. He just wants to take my room away. Sometimes I feel like giving him a punch in the nose like I hit Johan at the schoolyard, but then I might never see Mom again. Just before the doctor comes, I always take half a pill. Then I'm relaxed and calm. 

5

Once a year I must go to court with Mother Superior, the doctor and the fat sister with the bun. The first time I was scared. Today is the sixth time. I don't care anymore.

The judge is always someone else. This time he looks nice. He asks questions to Mother Superior and the doctor. Whether I am still in isolation. Whether there has been any progress. "Not enough," the doctor says. "She is not cooperating," I hear him say. "And a total lack of normal social behavior," he continues. "A psychopath."

I have learned that it is better to only talk when I am asked to. As a reward, Mom was allowed to visit me three weeks ago. Mom's hair has turned gray. And she has a lot of wrinkles on her face. After she left again, I haven't talked to anyone.

The judge asks Mother Superior, the doctor and the fat sister to leave the room. He wants to talk to me alone. “She’s dangerous,” the doctor replies, but the judge raises his hand and the doctor says nothing more. Then I sit alone opposite the judge.

“How are you?” the judge asks. He has a round face with gray hair and kind blue eyes, but I find it hard to look at him.

“They say I’m crazy,” I answer, after I finally have the courage to focus on his eyes.

“And? Are you?” I look at him, uncomprehending.

“Is it true, that you’re crazy?” the judge continues.

“They say so, sir. I mean… I… excuse me… I should say ‘your honor’, right?”

“You can say whatever you want. If you prefer to say ‘sir’, that’s fine.”

“I was taken away from Mom. That was six years ago. Mom is hardly ever allowed to visit me. I live alone in a room. I don’t mind that. And I smashed a boy’s nose at school. And I pushed a girl in the house. Yes… I am really crazy.”

A clock hangs on the wall. I hear the clock tick 27 times before the judge says something again.

“The boy had to go to the hospital. The girl fell down the stairs. She is dead.”

I hear the clock tick. 35, 36, 37. Aunt Ella’s child is also dead. Never born, Mom said a few years ago. Aunt Ella fell down the stairs. And then her child was dead. From the corner of my left eye, I feel a tear trickle down my cheek to my chin. Then it falls onto my hand.

“That case with Johan, that was an accident,” I answer softly, almost whispering. “Not that I hit him, but that he had to go to the hospital.”

59, 60, 61.

“And what about the girl?”

“When she started, everyone joined in.” I stop whispering. More tears are rolling down my cheeks now, but I don’t sob. “And the sisters didn’t care,” I continue. “It seemed as if they were okay with it.” I wipe my eyes and cheeks dry with my sleeves and decide to stop crying. The judge is a nice man. I take a deep sigh and focus on his blue eyes. I can’t let go anymore.

“Calling names hurts, too.”

The clock ticks on, but I’ve lost count.

“Suppose, if you would be allowed to go outside with the sister for a few hours, where would you like to go?”

For a moment I don’t know what to say. I haven’t been outside the gate for 2,231 days, apart from the annual visit to the judge, in the back of a windowless van.

“Home,” I answer after 17 ticks. To Mom. And change my dolls’ clothes. Preferably when Dad isn’t home. And to the library. Return my book and borrow new ones. Or maybe I should go to the bookstore to buy books. Because, of course, I can’t get back to the library in time. Then I’ll be late to return them again. I have saved 32 euros 75 cents.”

The judge is still looking at me. His eyes are very friendly. The lines around his mouth curl a little.

“And which books would you like to buy?”

“Mathematics.” That is easy to answer. “And English. And French, if possible. French is a beautiful language. And a book about the stars and planets. Astronomy, yes, now I remember. Astronomy, not astrology. I don’t believe in astrology. And a world atlas. I would also like to watch films. I used to watch Star Trek at home sometimes. But the sisters won’t approve of that, I guess.”

I lower my eyes and bow my head. Maybe I am asking too much of the judge.

“You may go back now, with Mother Superior and the others,” says the judge. “We will see each other more often.”

When we arrive back at the gate, it is already dark. I am glad to be back in my room. It has been a busy day. After dinner I want to read something about South Africa, but I am tired. I lie down on the bed, but I cannot sleep. From my secret hiding place I take half a pill. I walk into the bookshop and I can choose what I want. The pile is so big that I cannot carry it. When Lieutenant Spock comes to helping me, I know that I am dreaming. I wake up startled, take a sip of water and lie down again.

6

“Here are your clothes. Get dressed, we’re going on a trip!” is all the fat sister with the bun says, as she throws a pair of blue trousers, a grey jumper and a jacket of the same color on my bed. “Eat quickly, we’re leaving in half an hour!”

The doctor is already waiting. As often happens, today he checks whether I’m swallowing my pills. When he’s gone again, I do what I always do in this case. After flushing the toilet, I put on the clothes that are laid out. The trousers are a bit loose around my waist. We never get belts here, but I’ve hidden a piece of rope. That works fine. The jumper and jacket are comfortable.

Today I’m sitting in the backseat of a car with side windows.

We stop at home in front of the door. The sister gets out first and then opens the door on my side. Mum is already waiting outside. I hug her. I’m now as tall as her. I can feel that she’s become skinny. She is very happy to see me.

While Mom and the sister are talking, I walk to my room. I straighten my dolls and smooth out their clothes. Mom has taken good care of them. My room still looks the same. The wallpaper in the corner is coming loose a little. I take the 32.75 euros out of my little savings box.

I tell Mom that I would like to go to the bookstore. And then have coffee. I will treat her. But that won’t be necessary, Mom says. She has money herself. For the books and for the coffee.

The driver drops us off in front of the bookstore. The three of us walk inside. I stare around. It has been a long time since I have seen so many books.

“Don’t you want to go somewhere else?” asks Mom. “To the park? Or, if the sister allows it, to the cinema?” I answer that I would rather be in the bookstore and that I would really like to treat her on a coffee later.

When I have selected seven books, the sister wants to take a look. I have to put one book back, but I can choose another book in its place. After I'm done, we queue up in one of the lines at the checkout.

In the line next to us, an old lady sits in a wheelchair. Her face is wrinkled, her hair is white. She has happy eyes. She looks at me and smiles. I smile back. I don’t have any trouble looking back at this friendly woman. Where would she live? Would she have her own house? Would her husband still be alive? Or would she live in a nursery home, in a small room, where the sister brings food three times a day, and where the doctor sometimes comes by? A small room just like mine?

A boy comes running, grabs her bag from her hands and runs to the exit. "Hey, come back! Stay here!" I hear the sister shouting behind me, as I run out of the line, chasing the thief. I shout as loud as I can for anybody to stop him, but no one listens. Everyone steps aside, even the man at the exit with the walkie-talkie does nothing. The thief runs out of the store. I have to go faster!

Outside on the sidewalk he stops and turns around. “Anything the matter with you?” he shouts. “Get lost!”

I can’t control my speed and bump into him. He stumbles over the empty bike rack behind him and falls backwards onto the street. The bus with screeching tires only comes to a stop a few meters past the bike rack. The bag is on the sidewalk next to the empty rack. I pick it up, turn around and want to walk back into the store, but the man with the walkie-talkie grabs me. Mom wants to pull me away and when that doesn’t work, she starts to hit him on the arm. “Let her go, idiot! She didn’t do anything!” While hitting him, she shouts all kinds of words that she once forbade me to say, but I understand. It’s all a mistake. The man with the walkie-talkie will let me go soon.

But he won’t let go of me. The sister pulls Mom away, but she can’t until two other men come out of the store. The three of them pull and push Mom backwards. I’ve never heard Mom cry so hard. The man with the walkie-talkie pushes me to the ground and half sits on me, his knee in my back. I keep calm. I’ll explain everything to the judge. It’s all a mistake. He’ll understand me.

7

23 days later I am taken to the judge with the blue eyes again. I tell him exactly what happened. The judge listens. He is a good man. Everything will turn out well after all. I am allowed to go back to the house, back to my familiar room. I am allowed to take my books with me. My life is as it used to be.

For 87 days.

On day 88 I am taken back in the car without windows. There is a different judge. The room is a bit bigger. There are cameras in the room. I have to sit down. My feet are tied to the table with a chain. A man sits down next to me. He is wearing the same black robe as the judge and the others sitting at the front of the room.

A woman sitting at the front, on the left side of the room, starts talking. A hopeless boy who was running in panic. He did not want to steal anything. He could have easily run away, couldn't he? But he did not. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the store and was then pushed under the bus by a psychopath on probation. A psychopath who even wanted to walk back into the store, as if nothing had happened.

When the judge asks the man next to me to proceed, he tells the real story, as I must have told him a hundred times. A young woman, who could not stand to see an old lady being robbed. Who was the only one who did what everyone should have done. Trying to stop the perpetrator.

The judge looks at me, over his big glasses on the tip of his potato nose, and asks me if I am sorry. I have practiced everything with the man next to me countless times. Say that you are sorry, he has pressed me hard. And ask for forgiveness.

I can hardly get up, because of the chain, but I do it anyway. I look at the judge. Then at the man next to me, who nods at me. Then at the people and the cameras in the room, as far as I can turn around. Then at the judge again.

“They have to keep their hands off other people’s stuff,” I answer as clearly as I can. “Robbing an old woman. How do they dare? Cowards!”

I can barely suppress my anger. I feel tears welling up, but I hold them back. No one will see my tears today. I lock my eyes into the judge’s, over his sagging glasses. If anyone knows what is right, it is the judge. Right?

Exactly two weeks later, I have to go to court again. The judge and the other black dressed people enter. We are only allowed to sit down after they are seated. Then the judge starts reading.

It is long-winded, but the phrases I pick up are ‘innocent boy without any chances’, ‘violent since her childhood’, ‘psychopath’, ‘high chance of recidivism’ and ‘detention under hospital orders’. “Am I going to prison?” I ask the man in black next to me. He shakes his head, holds my hand for a moment, but then I am pulled away. I am led outside, where a van with barred windows is waiting. As I step outside, hundreds of people start shouting. My hands are cuffed and I can't cover my ears. But then they start clapping and singing. Left and right I see banners with my name on them, and that they love me. Some throw flowers at me. Everywhere I see camera flashes.

A long, long time ago I often fantasized about being famous. A movie star or a singer. People clapping for me, cheering me on, shouting that they love me. My photo in all the newspapers.

As the van with the barred windows drives away through the clapping and singing crowd, my dream comes true for a moment.

The most beautiful moment of my life.

8

It's been 4,565 days now, since I was brought here in the van with the barred windows. Twelve and a half years is often celebrated. Twelve and a half years at work. Married for twelve and a half years. The club has existed for twelve and a half years. Twelve and a half years in the madhouse. Or, with a more formal description: Twelve and a half years in the Forensic Psychiatric Center.

The first year was difficult. I still had a room to myself, still do, by the way, but it was basic to the bare minimum. I wasn't allowed to read books. I wasn't allowed to do anything at all. Not even eating alone. I had to stay in the communal area longer and longer. I went crazy, from all the hustle and bustle and sometimes from the screaming of other patients. But I was already declared crazy, of course. I usually took the pills the doctor gave me. At least that made the time go by a bit faster. And I could tolerate the hustle and bustle a bit better.

After I had been to court again after a year, things went a bit better. I was allowed to help in the library. And also take books to my room. In the fifth year I was also allowed to help in the garden. The garden helps me with my regularity. Planting bulbs in October. Raking leaves in November. The garden is at rest in December and January. The crocuses appear in February. I wait until there are a lot of them. Then I start picking and put vases with fresh crocuses in the recreation room every few days.

The doctor sometimes stays a bit longer. Massage on my bare skin is good for me, he says. It is not good for young women if they never get massaged, according to the doctor. I may be crazy, but not that crazy. But I just leave it like that. Last year he arranged for me to have a TV in my room. And every week I get some extra chocolate and a few muffins. I save half for Nellie, a skinny girl of about twelve, who moved here 91 days ago. I feel sorry for her. She had hit a boy in her class with his head against the wall. When he wouldn’t stop calling names, she threw him to the ground and sat on top of him until he was quiet.

The judge had asked her if she felt sorry. “He called me a skinny grasshopper,” she had replied. “For two years now.”

“Calling names doesn’t hurt,” the judge had said.

“You still have a lot to learn,” had been her final answer. They had led her outside, to a van with barred windows. There were no cameras, no sheering people. There was no one there at all.

I still go to court once a year. I have seen many different judges. The last time, there was a brief discussion about probation. But that didn’t happen. I am a psychopath. A danger to society. The last time I was only on probation for a few hours, and I already threw someone under the bus. And the feeling of regret just won't come.

I don't mind. Not anymore. It would be nice to live with Mom again, but Mom is allowed to come by regularly now. When the weather is nice, we walk through the garden together. Her hair has gone completely gray now. She walks a little hunched over. After our walk we always sit down on a bench in the garden together. Mom then pours two cups full of hot chocolate milk from the thermos flask she always brings with her. And she always brings two slices of cake in her plastic container.

She lives alone, but it's better this way, she says. She works at an office. She always has Fridays off. She hasn't seen Dad for years. Neither have I. Fortunately.

Furthermore, the outside world doesn't interest me that much. A few years ago, I would have liked to meet a nice man, but that's over. 29 is still young, a nurse recently said to me. Nurse Lisa is 44, unmarried, and is here day and night. Just like me. But I am a patient. Still, I see her as a friend. She might stay here for the rest of her life, she once told me. Who knows, I might too, I thought. I am not fit to marry. And certainly not for children. What child wants a mother from a madhouse?

9

“You should stop counting the days,” Nurse Lisa says as we prune the rhododendron. She looks at me and smiles. “It makes you grow old quickly.”

“I don’t mind,” I answer. Nurse Lisa is the only friend I’ve ever had. She has a good intention, but it gives me peace of mind to know that I’ve lived here for 8,608 days now. I’ve seen the garden come to life 23 times. The crocuses, the primroses, the hyacinths, the rhododendron.

The nurses have baked a cake for me. This morning they sang, together with the patients. I cut the cake and we all celebrated my birthday. Another year older, the headmistress said when she came by to congratulate me. I’ve only grown one day older, of course, just like every other day. 14,610 days. 40 years.

Yesterday Mom called. She can’t come today. She’s not feeling well. The headmistress agreed that I may visit Mom in the afternoon, with nurse Lisa.

I sit next to nurse Lisa in the car and enjoy the sunny landscape. Forests and meadows alternate. We drive over a long bridge, under which the water of the river glistens in the sun. We stop at a petrol station and enjoy coffee and a muffin. I haven't had such a nice birthday in years.

During the last part of the journey, clouds gather. We drive into the village. The butcher's and the bakery shop have disappeared. In their place, a supermarket has now been built. People rush, with their shopping trolleys, to their cars in the drizzling rain. We drive slowly through the village. My former school has also been converted into a new building. A group of children are playing in front of the building. They stomp in the puddles on the square with their wellies. From the door, a woman with a colorful dress wrapped around her, is calling them in a foreign language. Amnesty International and Dutch Refugee Council, I read on a number of posters that partially blind some of the windows.

When nurse Lisa parks the car in front of Mom’s house, the rain has started to fall harder. The front garden, once Mom’s pride and joy, looks desolate. I decide to ask nurse Lisa for permission to help Mom with the garden. Maybe next week, when nurse Lisa and I have finished our own garden.

We walk to the front door through the rain. I ring the doorbell and count to ten. I try again. I count to ten again.

“Maybe she’s out shopping,” nurse Lisa says.

“Can’t be,” I answer, while I look inside through the letter slot. “Her coat is hanging on the coat rack. And her shopping trolley is in the hallway.”

Nurse Lisa calls again, knocks on the door and the window, and I shout through the letterbox. Then nurse Lisa grabs her phone.

The police arrive in 9 minutes. They open the door in 31 seconds. Then we walk in.

Mom is sitting in her armchair. She often takes an afternoon nap, she once said. I want to wake her up carefully.

I grab her hand, but let go in shock. I carefully touch her cheek, but it feels just as icy. Then the walls start to spin. The police officer manages to grab me just in time. He carefully lowers me onto the sofa. Nurse Lisa sits down next to me and puts an arm around me.

“She peacefully fell asleep,” she whispers. “She didn’t suffer any pain.”

10

Together with nurse Lisa, the new headmistress enters my room. “Nice meeting you,” she says, shaking my hand. Her gray eyes are friendly, but I can see that she has been through a lot. Her cheeks puff out a little when she smiles. I have no trouble looking her straight in the eye, and I say my name. “Pleased to meet you,” I add, as Mom taught me when I was little, but which I only say when I like someone.

“Madam Headmistress would like us to show her around together,” says nurse Lisa.

“I haven’t trimmed the dahlias yet,” I whisper to her, but she whispers back that that’s okay. I lead the headmistress to the recreation room. In the kitchen I explain to her how the oven works. In the library I show her my self-invented indexing system. In the garden I tell her all about the seasons, and the work that nurse Lisa and I have in the garden, except in November and December. Luckily, she doesn't see that there are some withered flowers on the dahlias.

After the tour I am allowed to make tea for the three of us. How long I have been here, she wants to know. "Almost thirty years," I answer. To be precise, 10,946 days, but that sounds strange, nurse Lisa has told me again and again.

The headmistress says that she would like to talk to nurse Lisa for a while. I am glad that I can leave again. I still have to trim the dahlias.

It is time again for my annual visit to the judge. The headmistress is also coming along. And the new doctor. Nurse Lisa has lent me some of her clothes. A light blue dress with a slightly darker jacket. And she has helped me put my hair up. She wanted me to put on some lipstick, but I can't stand that.

The judge is nice. She asks me to tell her what I do all day. I tell her about helping with cooking, sometimes helping nurse Lisa and the other nurses with feeding patients, my work in the library, my indexing system, and the garden. If we will get home on time, I can still rake dead leaves. “But of course I’m not in a hurry, Your Honor,” I correct myself just in time.

Of course, judges are not allowed to laugh in court, but I’m sure I see a smile on her face. Then she continues talking to the headmistress and the doctor. A few times I catch the words “supported living.” I have no idea what they’re talking about. But maybe I’m not listening properly. I always have trouble concentrating in court.

On the way back, the headmistress and the doctor sound very cheerful. We stop at a roadside restaurant for coffee. The headmistress asks whether I want a pastry with it. I would love to, but I don’t dare. Pastries are hard to eat. Maybe I’ll do it wrong. Maybe I’ll drop it. I ask if I may just have a cookie. The headmistress orders two. I put one in my pocket. For nurse Lisa.

The next day, nurse Lisa comes to pick me up, to go to the headmistress’ office with her. She wants to talk to me. I walk along, trembling. Did I do something wrong after all, yesterday?

When we enter the spacious room with a large wooden desk and a sitting area with a sofa and three armchairs, the doctor is also there. After we sit down on the sofa, the headmistress pours tea herself, but I don't dare to reach for the cup.

"I have very good news for you," the headmistress begins. Her gray eyes sparkle. Her cheeks puff out a little. I look at the doctor and nurse Lisa. They also look happy.

"We told the judge that you are a strong woman. You have a great sense of responsibility, you help with cooking, with the garden, even help other patients, and the library, you manage it all by yourself." The headmistress pauses for a moment, sipping her tea.

“And the judge thinks you deserve a chance.”

The headmistress looks at me kindly. I think she expects me to say something, but I don’t know what to say.

“In the village where you come from, there is a ‘supported living’ project. Five people and a supervisor live in a house. The residents do as much as possible together, or in turns. Cooking, cleaning, shopping… there is even a garden.”

“And,” the doctor interrupts, “they are looking for assistance in the local library!”

I look around the circle. The headmistress, the doctor, nurse Lisa, all three of them look happy. The headmistress leans forward and takes my hand.

“Congratulations, my girl… you may go back into society!”

11

Winter has come early this year. The garden looks peaceful this Friday morning, with a layer of frost on the grass and the bushes.

Early in the morning, nurse Lisa helped me with my bag. There is not much to pack. Some clothes and some toiletries. I put on my jeans, my sweater and my coat. I take my dolls with me in a separate box. Nurse Lisa will also help me buy some new clothes.

After packing, the nurses and a few patients surprise me with a festive breakfast. After breakfast, we visit the headmistress. She wishes me all the best and even hugs me. With nurse Lisa, I walk through the cold December air to the car. Our breath turns into white clouds and we first have to scrape the frost off the car windows.

Then we set off. I remember the road from six and a half years ago, my fortieth birthday. The day that started so beautifully and ended so sadly.

I sit next to nurse Lisa in the car and look at the dark clouds. Forests and meadows alternate, here and there still covered in a layer of frost. We drive over the long bridge, where the water of the river crawls under it like a grey snake. We stop at a petrol station and enjoy a last coffee and a muffin.

During the last part of the journey, the clouds become darker. We drive into the village. On the supermarket grounds, people rush with their shopping trolleys through the bitter cold to their cars. We drive slowly through the village. On the square of my old school, two men are smoking. They shout something to someone in the doorway in a language I don't understand. The posters of Amnesty International and the Dutch Refugee Council are still there, but on one of the posters a strange sign has been sprayed in black paint. The paint on the door and windows is partly peeling off. The gate is rusty. We stop and ask for directions to the house. The two men kindly show us the way.

The thin man who opens the door introduces himself as Nico. “I am the project supervisor,” he explains to Nurse Lisa. He says nothing to me.

The house used to be a general practice doctor’s centre, Nico explains. That’s why there’s a hallway with quite a number of rooms. The largest room is the shared living room. And next to it is the kitchen. At the back are two toilets and two shower rooms, separate for men and women.

Nico has to raise his voice, because in the living room a man and a woman are arguing about the remote control. The kitchen smells of burnt frying oil. The doorknob feels greasy. We walk through the hallway to the back. At the back I smell the toilets.

“This is your room.” Nico points to the right, opens the door and leads us inside. I feel a little nauseous because of the sickly moldy smell, but I control myself. Breathe in through your mouth, I tell myself, and breathe out calmly.

A bed is against the wall with yellowed wallpaper. On the outside wall, there is a small table by the window that looks out onto a wall of half-decayed bricks. Through the open door I can still hear the two quarrellers in the living room. Through the inside wall I can hear a woman singing along with the radio, horribly out of tune.

“Where is the garden?” I ask Nico.

He looks surprised. Then he points outside through the window. I see a small courtyard, two meters wide, full of rubble and scrap metal lying around, and a tiny strip of soil where weeds have been in charge for years.

“And the library?”

“What does she mean?” Nico looks surprised at nurse Lisa. He doesn’t understand.

“Why don’t you ask ‘she’ yourself?” nurse Lisa answers. I’ve never seen her eyes so dark. I’m scared.

“Well?” Nico has now turned to me. With his hands on his hips, he tries to act tough, although he’s a miserable little man. “I’m going to work in the library,” I answer, locking my eyes into his. I must not blink.

“Work…” I hear him sigh, as he turns around and walks to the door. “Well, come on! Get your stuff out of the car!”

“I want to see the library,” I say to nurse Lisa. “After all, that’s where I’m going to work.”

The lady in the library knows we’re coming, but hadn’t expected us yet. “Oh yes, through the Participation Act,” she says to nurse Lisa. “We weren’t expecting her until next week. But it doesn’t matter! We can let her start right away.”

“Can you please just talk to ‘her’ herself?” nurse Lisa interrupts. Her eyes are just as dark as they were to Nico. Fortunately, the lady in the library doesn’t notice anything.

We get a tour through the library. The lady isn’t unfriendly, but she talks to me as if I were a six-year-old child. Three times I see a book that’s not in the right position on the shelf. “The Dutch ij should be categorized under i, not under y,” I patiently explain to the lady at the third book. The tour is over quickly.

“Putting books back, vacuuming, making coffee, and getting sandwiches at lunchtime,” the lady answers, when we are sitting in her office and I, apparently unexpectedly, ask her what kind of work I will be doing. “And writing reminders, if people don’t return their books on time.”

“Doesn’t the computer do that?” I can’t help but ask. “And how about if I start adjusting your indexing system? In Dutch, the correct indexing is ‘Linden, van der’, but Vanderlinden if it’s American. Or Flemish. And ‘Den Helder’ belongs under the D, not under the H.

The lady looks at me, then looks at nurse Lisa, who looks back without saying anything, and then back at me.

“You’ll start at nine o’clock on Monday morning,” she says finally. “And bring a dustcoat.” Then she looks at her watch. “Duty calls,” she says, as she gets up. Nothing we can do but following her example.

“Can we drive past Mom’s house?” I ask, when we are back in the car.

“Of course,” nurse Lisa says, as she starts the car, switches on the heater and turns onto the road. I look at her sideways. Her eyes are moist.

12

The green paint on the front door and the window frames has largely disappeared. There are new, ugly curtains hanging. The front garden is a mud puddle, in which a pile of rubble and decayed wood and a car tire are overgrown with weeds. The garden gate has half sunk in. “Let’s just drive on quickly,” I whisper. “Can we go to the supermarket?”

“What do you want to buy?” nurse Lisa asks, when she has parked the car on the supermarket parking lot.

“I don’t want to buy anything. Just sit quietly for a while.”

“There’s a syrup waffle stall over there on the left. Shall I get you a syrup waffle?”

“Yes, please. That sounds delicious. We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Then I’ll buy two for each of us. Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

We enjoy our syrup waffles in silence. I finish the first one quickly. I want to take as long as possible with the second. We both look straight ahead. To the people who, deeply hidden in the collars of their coats, load their groceries into their cars and then drive home. To the comfort of their own, familiar homes.

“I don’t want to,” I whisper softly. From the corners of my eyes, I see nurse Lisa turning to me.

“I don’t want to,” I repeat.

“What would you want?” nurse Lisa has taken my hand. We sit like that for a minute.

“Back home,” I answer. “Just like all those people here. Away from the cold. Quickly back home.”

We look at the Christmas decorations on the square. The lights are already on. It is only three o’clock, but the lights give this dark day a warm glow. We see a man and a woman loading a shopping cart full of Christmas decorations into their car. A little further away, two men are tying a Christmas tree to the roof of their car.

“Wait here, I have to make a phone call,” nurse Lisa says suddenly. “Just five minutes. And I'll bring hot chocolate milk."

I close my eyes. Mom strokes my hair and puts a cup of hot chocolate milk on the table in front of me. With a slice of cake. She asks how it was at school. "Learned the province of North Brabant," I answer. "Breda, Tilburg, 's-Hertogenbosch. But you may also say 'Den Bosch'."

Nurse Lisa carefully puts the hot chocolate milk in the cup-holders on the dashboard. "Listen carefully," she says, while she takes my hand. "I just called the headmistress." She looks at me and squeezes my hand.

"We're going back home. For now, you can stay. Christmas, New Year's Eve, then we'll see, but you'll be home for the holidays."

She hugs me and holds me tightly. I feel her tears against my cheek. "You'll be home for the holidays," she whispers.

We enjoy our hot chocolate milk in silence for ten minutes. Then nurse Lisa starts the engine. “Let’s go. We’ll be home by dinner time.”

13

The dark days before Christmas are beautiful. The two long ribbons of lights on the highway show us the way home. The red ribbon on the right, the white ribbon on the left. The water under the long bridge contrasts beautifully darkly with the yellow ribbon of the lights on the bridge. On the other side, the contours of the forests are now visible. We pass the highway restaurant, where the Christmas lights are now on.

It is already completely dark when I hear the familiar crunching of the pebble stones on the driveway. Nurse Lisa parks in front of the door. Two other nurses are already waiting in the doorway and help me with my bag and the box with my dolls. Inside, the comfortable warmth and the smell of my favorite dish come to meet me. Two patients start crying hard and hug me, as if I have been away for years. I almost had. Today I narrowly escaped my captivity.

We immediately sit down to eat. I have never eaten such delicious sauerkraut with sausage. The patients are very noisy, but I can tolerate that very well today. Everyone is happy. And everyone is nice.

After dinner I get up to clear the plates for the dishes, but nurse Lisa stops me. “The headmistress is still here,” she says. “We’ll just stop by.”

For the second time today, the headmistress hugs me, but this time a bit longer. Finally, my tears come. I start shaking uncontrollably, and the two of them help me onto the sofa. They sit on either side of me and each put a hand on my back.

“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to say in fits and starts. “I’m so terribly sorry. You’ve been so good to me. And nurse Lisa too. Always have been.”

I take three deep breaths before I continue. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but… I can’t do it. I can’t!” Finally, I dare to admit it. To the headmistress, to nurse Lisa. And to myself.

“What would you like?” the headmistress whispers after a short silence. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves, look at the headmistress, at nurse Lisa, then back at the headmistress. I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.

“I want to stay here,” I answer determinedly. “Just like nurse Lisa. Just stay here.”

14

The day is just dawning. After breakfast I helped the nurses cleaning up. Now I need to hang the Christmas lights outside. I have already rolled out the string with the lights. I have tested the lights and replaced two bulbs. Now I have to neatly drape the string through the bushes. That is a very precise job. If I attach a bulb every thirty centimeters, it will be just right. I keep on working diligently. The cold does not bother me. My breath condenses into little clouds. The frost on the bushes and the grass will disappear soon. Too bad. But who knows, it might snow again.

It was a long conversation, last night. I had asked if the headmistress did not have to go home, but she did not need to. She often stays overnight, nurse Lisa had said later.

The headmistress had explained to me that I was no longer a ‘patient’. The judge had decided accordingly. And that was very kind of the judge. Everyone deserves a new chance, right? And because the judge had now ruled that I was no longer ill, I was allowed to make a fresh start. That would not be easy, and that is why there were ‘Projects for Supported Living’ throughout the country. To make the transition to society easier. And for me they had found a house with supported living in the place where I came from, so that the transition might…”

“But if I am no longer a patient, then…” I was shocked by myself. It had been very rude to interrupt the headmistress, but she had looked at me and nodded.

“Go on,” nurse Lisa had said.

I had taken another deep breath and then looked at the headmistress. “Everyone always says that there is a shortage of staff,” I had started. “The nurses, the doctor, the previous headmistress. It is even on television. Time and time again. ‘Shortage of staff in health care,’ it is on the news, everywhere.”

I had looked at the headmistress and nurse Lisa in turn. “If there is a shortage of staff…” I had taken a deep breath, and as I had exhaled again, I had said:

“… then I will come and work here.”

The headmistress had said something about cutting back and not being able to pay a salary, but I had not wanted to talk about that. “I can cook, help feed patients, manage the entire library, take care of the garden,” I had replied. “Just like always.”

The headmistress and nurse Lisa had looked at each other. “I don’t need a salary,” I had continued. “I get food, don’t I? And new clothes, if my old ones are worn out.” For a moment I had gathered courage for the most important thing. “And I would like to keep my room. It is well insulated. Sometimes I can’t handle noises.”

Then the headmistress had asked me to go to my room for a moment. She had to talk to nurse Lisa for a moment, she had said.

After 23 minutes, nurse Lisa had picked me up from my room again.

“It’s okay,” the headmistress had said. “You may stay.”

She had handed me one of the three full glasses and tapped her glass gently against mine.

“Welcome home.”

I have draped the first string of lights through the bushes. I plug the plug into the socket in the outside wall and walk a few metres back. After I have moved three lights a little, I am satisfied and continue with the second string for the tall conifer in the border in front of the entrance. The conifer is our Christmas tree. With a long stick with a hook, I can even drape the garlands in the tree. One of the nurses calls me in. Coffee time. Okay, first have a coffee. I will straighten the last garland later. In the past, I would have skipped the coffee. But since I work here officially now, that won’t be possible any longer.

It has been a long working day. The Christmas tree, helping with lunch, washing the dishes, and tidying up the library. In the evening after dinner, I finally have time to dress up my dolls. I take the green dresses and red blouses out of the box. They will look neatly dressed, for Christmas.

“We will be home for the holidays,” I whisper.