After my husband's assistant saved him in a car accident, she developed delusions. She claimed she could talk to every object around her.   My husband, a psychiatrist, suggested bringing her home so he could look after her and help her recover.   During the first month, she said the moth orchids I'd spent 10 years nurturing had cried to her about being held prisoner. My husband moved them outside into temperatures of roughly -2℉ to 14℉. They froze to death.   During the second month, she hid in the storage room, sobbing that the wedding portraits on our wall were spying on her. My husband burned every photograph in front of her.   Then he turned to me and said, "This is the most effective treatment. Otherwise, she'll keep having these episodes."   Late one night, a powerful peach scent filled our bedroom. Red welts broke out all over my body. Panicking, I begged my husband, Conrad Hale, to take me to the hospital.   But his assistant, Lydia Voss, blocked the doorway and cried, "You can't open it! The door's asleep. How could you be so cruel as to wake it?"   "All right. We won't disturb it," Conrad soothed her.   Then he told me, "Just put up with it for now. You can go in the morning."   The next day, the doctor said regretfully, "The worsening allergic reaction triggered persistent contractions. We couldn't save the baby."   Lying in that hospital bed, I thought of the door he'd left shut.   The door to my heart would never open for him again.