LOCATION: Office 4, Mental Health Center.
The electrical hum of a flickering light can be heard, blinking in a steady rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, an office phone rings unanswered. Someone sits down; the vinyl chair creaks under their weight. There is a heavy silence. The only other sound is the rustle of a backpack being set down on the floor.
Dr. Aris: (His voice sounds slightly muffled, as if he is farther away from the microphone.) Hello, Anke. Come in, have a seat. How was the trip?
Anke: (Very quiet, almost inaudible.) Fine. The bus was…empty. I like it when there aren't people talking.
Dr. Aris: I can imagine. (The sound of a folder opening and papers sliding against one another.) You seem a little tired today. Did you sleep well?
Anke: (A metallic sound: the click-clack of the lighter. She opens it, closes it. Click-clack.) Not much. Oma woke me up early. We had to finish picking the strawberries before the sun got too strong. If you leave them out too long, they go bad...they turn to mush.
Dr. Aris: You have… (He pauses, leaning forward.) You have some pretty stained hands, Anke. Did you hurt yourself while picking?
Anke: (She raises her hands. The sound of her skin rubbing against the table.) No, it's…it's the juice. It gets into the creases of my knuckles. Oma says I look like a mechanic. (She looks at her fingernails.) I tried scrubbing them with the laundry brush, but it won't come off. It stays there… underneath my nails…that's the hardest part. It always looks like I'm dirty, doesn't it?
Dr. Aris: No, it doesn't look like dirt. It looks like you've been working. It's good that you're helping your grandmother. She feels more at ease having you around. How's the hum? Has it let you work in peace?
Anke: (The lighter's rhythm speeds up: click-clack, click-clack.) Today it's…I don't know how to explain it. It's not a loud sound. It's more like...like the air itself is vibrating. If I focus on the strawberries, it goes away a little. But when I come in here…the hum fills my ears. That's why I play with this. (She taps the lighter against the table.) It helps me know where I am.
Dr. Aris: I understand. Did you bring the camera you mentioned?
Anke: (The sound of a zipper opening. Anke takes out something heavy and carefully places it on the table.) Yes. Oma gave it to me when I was fifteen, and at first she wouldn't let me take it anywhere, but now I carry it everywhere. It's a little old. There's a small scratch here along the edge of the lens, see? And the electrical tape…I put that there because the film compartment comes open if I walk too fast.
Dr. Aris: A camera with a lot of history, then. Have you taken any pictures today?
Anke: (Shy voice.) Just one. On my way out of the farm. I took a picture of the dirt road…where you can see the tire tracks from the neighbors' tractor. I like the way the dried mud looks. (Long pause.) Sometimes I feel like if I take a picture of something, the hum from that thing gets trapped on the paper and stops bothering me.
Dr. Aris: (The sound of a pen moving quickly across paper.) That's a very interesting observation, Anke. The camera as a filter.
A long silence. Dr. Aris goes through his notes while Anke obsessively cleans the camera lens with the sleeve of her sweater.
Dr. Aris: Anke, what happens when you put the camera down? When you walk through the park down the street and there's no lens between you and the world…what do you see?
Anke: (The sound of her jacket rubbing against the chair. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.) I see…danger. The world is very careless, doctor. People walk around like nothing is wrong. My father is the worst of all. (The click-clack of the lighter stops. The silence is sudden.)
Dr. Aris: Why do you say your father is careless?
Anke: (Tense voice, trying to keep herself under control.) The other day… Wednesday…I was at the park. He was sitting on one of those wooden benches, reading a newspaper or something. And the boy…my brother...was running around. (She clears her throat.) There was someone else…watching him, but he didn't look like the father of any of the other children. My father never looked up. Not once. He was there, but he wasn't there.
Dr. Aris: What do you mean by “someone else”?
Anke: I don't know. He was just there.
Dr. Aris: What did he look like?
Anke: (Brief silence.) Tall. I think. He was wearing…something dark. I don't remember.
Dr. Aris: Was it the same person you mentioned last time?
Anke: (Her breathing becomes faster.) I don't know.
Anke: I don't know, doctor.
Dr. Aris: (A deep breath, followed by an exhale.) So…you were watching from the bus stop, right?
Anke: Yes. I was far away. But I could see him. I had my camera with me, but I didn't take any pictures. (Her voice becomes faster, more anxious.) He needs someone to watch him like that, doctor. With that kind of attention. Because my father…my father is going to lose him. Just like he lost the house. Just like he lost his wife. He doesn't know how to take care of the things he loves.
Dr. Aris: Anke, stop for a second. Breathe. (The sound of the doctor's chair moving.) I understand that you're worried, but your father has a new life. He believes his son is safe. What you're doing…don't you think it could frighten him if he found out?
Anke: (Small voice.) He doesn't have to be frightened. I'm not a monster. I'm just his daughter, and if he would let me in…if he would let me sit on the porch, I could watch the boy while he takes care of things. I could be useful.
Dr. Aris: But he hasn't asked you for help, Anke. And the police report says you got too close to the property two weeks ago.
Anke: (Quickly, almost tripping over her words.) I wasn't doing anything wrong! I just…I just wanted to make sure the window in the boy's room was properly closed. I didn't want him to get cold. His lungs are delicate, you know? Oma says it's because of the smoke that day. I…I feel like it's my fault if he gets sick, because I got him out of there. It's my responsibility to make sure he keeps breathing!
Dr. Aris: Anke, look at me. (Pause.) It's not your fault. You were seven years old. You did more than any adult could have done. But you can't be the guardian of a family that has asked you to keep your distance. If we're going to consider letting you stay out of here, I need to know that you'll stop going to that street. That you'll stop being a shadow in their garden.
Anke: (A choked, dry sob.) It's just that if I don't go…the hum becomes unbearable. It's like the hum is screaming at me that something is going to go wrong if I'm not there. (Long pause. Her breathing is ragged.) Please, doctor…Oma needs me for the strawberries, and I…I promise I'll try to be normal. I'll try not to go watch them so much. Just don't lock me up here again.
Dr. Aris: (Softer voice.) I'm not going to lock you up, Anke. But you need to understand that "normal" doesn't mean watching people from the bushes. What are you going to do when you leave here? What's the plan?
Anke: (She clears her throat. The sound returns: click-clack.) I'm going to the photo lab. I have a roll from a month ago. I want to see if the pictures came out clear. And then…then I'll go home. Oma wants us to make jam. (Pause.) And maybe I'll write him a letter. To him. No accusations, just telling him I'm doing well and that if he ever needs someone to watch the kid…I…
Dr. Aris: Anke, I've listened to you talk through almost every session about watching them, about how you think you're protecting them from a distance…but I want to ask you an honest question, and I need you to put the lighter down for a moment before you answer me.
Anke: (The click-clack stops. The sharp sound of metal hitting the wooden table.) Okay. Go ahead.
Dr. Aris: Do you think…if you could sit down with your father in a room, without hiding, without cameras…if you could talk to him and properly meet your brother, would that make the "hum" stop? Would that help your mental health more than these sessions?
Anke: (Absolute silence. A shaky inhale.) You…you think that's possible? (Her voice rises, sounding younger, almost childlike.) Would he agree? My Oma says he still keeps the pictures of the three of us, but they're at the bottom of a drawer. If he saw me… (She laughs nervously, a short, wet sound.) Yes. Yes, doctor. The hum would stop. I'm sure of it.
Dr. Aris: I can't promise he'll say yes right away, Anke. It's been a long time, and your father's wounds run deep. But…I've been thinking about writing a letter. A formal invitation for him and your grandmother.
Anke: (Quickly, excited.) A letter from you? Like a medical recommendation?
Dr. Aris: Something like that. A proposal to begin supervised meetings on neutral ground. Perhaps here, in the office, or later at your grandmother's farm. Not so you can go back to living with him, but so you can stop being a stranger. But I'd have to speak with your grandmother first and review the report. Would you be willing to follow the rules? No pictures without permission, no showing up at his house without warning…Could you do that if we gave you the opportunity?
Anke: (The sound of her hands rubbing together forcefully.) I'd do anything. I swear. I could pick every strawberry in the world if it meant he would look at me once without…without that frightened look on his face. If he lets me hold the boy once…just once… (Her voice cracks slightly.) Doctor, if you do this for me, I…I'll behave so well he'll forget I was ever here. I'll be normal. I promise. I'll be the best daughter.
Dr. Aris: (The sound of a sigh and a pen clicking.) All right. I'll start writing it this afternoon, but I can't promise your father will accept. And listen carefully, Anke: this depends on your patience. If you try to force things, that door will close forever. Understood?
Anke: Understood. Patience. I can be patient. I've waited for years, doctor. I can wait a few more months. (The sound of her picking up her backpack. Her movements are lighter now.)
Dr. Aris: Very good. We're finished for today. Your grandmother already has the instructions for your medication, so make sure you follow them. And Anke…
Dr. Aris: Don't do anything on your own. If you want this to work, we have to do it the right way. All right?
Anke: (After several seconds.) All right.
Dr. Aris: Good. Take care.
Anke: Thank you, doctor. Really…thank you.
(The sound of the door opening. Quick, light footsteps fading down the hallway. Dr. Aris remains silent for a long moment. The sound of a match striking, followed by him exhaling smoke.)
Dr. Aris: (Very quietly, to himself.) God, I hope I'm not making a mistake.
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