by Lisa Tucker
When he found himself wondering if Dorothea did that too, he rolled onto his back and cursed, sure he’d be awake all night now.
The grief counselor he’d seen after the accident had told him it was normal to feel like you were betraying your spouse. “When you start a new relationship,” she said, “any kind of new relationship, even if it isn’t romantic, you can feel you are leaving behind the old one, and this can seem like a betrayal.”
He’d been so positive this wouldn’t apply in his case because he’d never have another relationship. How could he, when his own life had ended the same day he’d lost his wife and daughter? He was a walking ghost now, and ghosts don’t get involved with human beings. They might drive cabs, and drive them safely, but they don’t practice medicine because that too involves relationships. It was something Stephen had always believed: that being a doctor, unless you’re an asshole like Phillips, requires a heart.
The irony of this day, Stephen thought, the irony of meeting Dorothea, was that she had single-handedly reminded him of both his life as a doctor and his life as a human. And by bringing her back here, to his apartment, he’d only made the situation a thousand times worse.
He’d been awake for more than an hour, but now that he’d decided that, he felt himself getting sleepy. As he drifted off, he wondered if she liked pancakes.
five
HE WOKE TO the sound of her singing. She had a sweet, clear voice and his first reaction was to close his eyes and let himself doze off for a few more minutes. But then he remembered. He jumped up and rushed down the hall.
“Are you all right?” he said, knocking on the door.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She opened the door, and he saw it was true. She wasn’t flushed and gasping for breath. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
When he asked how long she’d been up, she said since the sun rose. It was after ten-thirty now; incredibly, he’d slept almost eight hours. She was already fully dressed in one of her outfits from Wal-Mart: a khaki skirt and button-down blue blouse. Her hair was already knotted on top of her head—trapped, he thought, and then wondered why that word occurred to him to describe a hairstyle.
He asked her if she was hungry and she said a little. Then he thought of something. “Do you like pancakes?”
She smiled. “Yes. Actually, they’re my favorite.”
A half hour later, she was seated on a bar stool in his kitchen, watching his pathetic attempt to make blueberry pancakes. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was just out of practice, but everything seemed to go wrong. First the butter burned in the pan, then he didn’t drain the blueberries enough and the batter turned blue, then he knocked a plate off the counter with his elbow and it cracked in half and, finally, he had such a hell of a time getting the syrup open that he broke the cap. He didn’t realize how much he was cussing until later, after they’d eaten and after he’d showered, when he walked into his bedroom to get another shirt and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror, repeatedly saying the word “shit.”
Every time she said it, though, she cringed. When he asked what she was up to, she told him she’d counted the number of times he’d used the word while making breakfast. Seven. “When you say it, it seems very natural,” she said. “I don’t understand why I can’t do the same.”
“It’s not exactly a necessary skill.” He opened the closet to replace the shirt he’d taken into the bathroom. He’d been in a hurry, and the first one turned out to be missing several buttons.
“True,” she said, “but I hoped it would help me express myself to Dr. Phillips.”
He let out a laugh, but then he told her it was unlikely Phillips would be there today.
She waited for a moment before admitting that she was nervous about going back to the hospital. “I have my poem in my shoe,” she said. Her saddle oxford shoes were the one thing they hadn’t replaced at Wal-Mart, and he was weirdly glad to see her wearing them again. “But I’m not sure it’s enough. I want to be brave and help my brother, but I’m so afraid of having another attack.”
He was thinking about what to do for her as he went into the bathroom to change his shirt, and then it hit him. He called her to the door and opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of pills. He told her if she took one of these, she would most likely not have an attack, no matter how difficult it got.
“It sounds like a miracle,” she said. “I wonder why no one has suggested this before.”
The doctor in Stephen realized he should ask a few questions before he just handed her a prescription drug. He already knew she’d been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder; she’d told him yesterday. She’d also said that they’d never been able to find any heart trouble or disease.
He said, “Do they have any theory about what causes your anxiety attacks?”
“Theory!” she said, grinning. She crossed her arms. “The doctor doesn’t know. Father and Grandma told me I’ve had them since I was two. Essentially my whole life.”
Stephen knew it was very rare for a child under five to have an anxiety disorder, and he briefly wondered what could have caused it. “It’s one of the lighter anti-anxiety meds,” he said. “It can’t hurt.” As he twisted off the cap, he was sure she noticed that his own name was written on the label. The prescription was nearly two years old, but he assumed they were still potent. He handed her a paper cup from a stack on the sink. She filled it with water and took the medicine.
Even though he’d told her the pill couldn’t hurt, Stephen kept a close eye on her for the next half hour or so. They were in the Checker cab, the only car Stephen owned after he’d given Ellen’s Toyota to his parents, asking them to do whatever they wanted with it, as long as he didn’t have to see it again. He’d felt the same way about the house. Since he’d moved to his furnished apartment, he’d never been back to the St. Charles neighborhood where he and Ellen and Lizzie had lived. The real estate company had sold it and his mother had packed up the rest of his family’s things. He had no idea what she’d done with them.
When Dorothea started talking more freely, Stephen knew the pill was working. He’d seen enough patients on benzodiazepines to know that they loosened people up, and God knows, he thought, Dorothea could use a little of that. All that trying had to be wearing her out, not to mention that she’d gone to bed at two o’clock and gotten up at sunrise, whatever time that was.
Most of her talk was about the buildings and cars and houses they passed. She was as fascinated as Lizzie had been by things he’d seen all his life, and he found himself relaxing as he listened to her. Later, he realized he was more relaxed during that drive than he’d been since the accident. Even the intersections didn’t stress him out the way they usually did.
Obviously, Dorothea was a lot more relaxed as well. She kept smiling at the people trying to flag down the cab. “It must be very pleasant,” she said, “having people wave at you all the time.” He shook his head, but he laughed quietly.
But maybe she was too relaxed, he thought—and found himself feeling a little guilty for giving her that pill—when, not even halfway to the hospital, she suddenly announced that he was the “handsomest” man she’d ever seen.
His face grew warm, and even warmer when he realized she was staring right at him.
“Because you haven’t seen many men,” he said, as lightly as he could manage.
“I have seen hundreds of pictures in our encyclopedias.”
It struck him as funny, but he was too nervous to smile. He mumbled that people who end up in encyclopedias aren’t exactly a good sample.
“It might surprise you to hear that there are plenty of handsome men in those volumes,” she said. “I counted one time and I found fifty-six.”
He couldn’t think of what to say to this, so he didn’t say anything. After a few moments, she apologized for her bad manners. She sounded sincerely confused and more than a little embarrassed. “I honestly can’t imagine why I sa
id something so forward and impolite.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But there’s no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. Especially after everything you’ve done for me.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said, but his voice was still hoarse and strained. He wasn’t convincing even to himself.
“Thank you. However, I know I had no right to make such a personal comment.”
Now he was starting to feel bad. “It was a nice thing to say,” he told her, because, after all, it was. He forced a smile. “I’ve certainly never heard anyone say those words to me before.”
“Nor have I.”
He thought she was saying that no one had ever complimented her before. Which bugged him because he knew it was probably true. Wherever the hell she lived—and Stephen was thinking it had to be someplace weird: maybe even a religious cult or a commune founded by her father, who was most likely a nut job—they obviously had a problem with women wearing makeup or letting their hair down or even buying clothes that weren’t fifty years out of style. This morning while he was watching Dorothea stare at herself in the mirror, Stephen could tell she had no idea how attractive she was. Even at the time, he’d felt a little bad about that, a little sorry for her.
It took him a minute, but finally he said, “You’re very pretty.”
Her embarrassment was so obvious—she turned bright red and hunched down into the passenger seat like she was trying to disappear—that he instantly knew he’d misinterpreted her. When she’d said, “Nor have I,” she’d meant it the same way she meant most things: literally. She meant she hadn’t heard anyone tell a man how handsome he was. She was still upset with herself for her “forward” comment.
Unfortunately, now he had two things to feel bad about: that he’d thought a woman other than Ellen was pretty (which was more difficult to deny, now that he’d said it aloud), and that he’d made Dorothea feel bad by telling her so.
He had no idea how to deal with any of this, so he decided to turn on the radio. The first station had a talk show about sex. He quickly switched to the classic rock station.
They listened without speaking for the remaining ten minutes of the drive. He was just turning into the hospital parking lot when she shouted, “I know that song. I was just thinking about it this morning!”
It was true. They were playing “Daniel,” an Elton John song she’d been singing when he woke up.
“Is this like ‘theory’?” he said, relieved to be back on a topic from yesterday morning, before everything had gotten so complicated. “Except instead of the word it’s the song of the day?”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was surprisingly serious. “Because the song is about a brother. I thought it was on my mind when I woke up because I was very worried about Jimmy. But now it’s possible that it does mean more.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“Perhaps it’s another example of the charming coincidence.”
The way she said the last three words made them sound as familiar as the National Weather Service or the Holy Grail. He thought it was probably another of her father’s ideas, but it turned out he was wrong.
“Father doesn’t believe in the charming coincidence,” Dorothea said sadly. Stephen was putting the Checker in park, taking out the key. “He thinks I only do because I’m a natural optimist, but I know there’s more to it than that. For example, yesterday when I got off the bus, I walked to your taxicab first. I was attracted by the black-and-white squares along the roof and the bright green paint, but otherwise, there wasn’t any reason for my choice, was there?”
“No,” he said.
“Was there a reason that you were at the bus station rather than somewhere else in the city?”
“I guess not.”
“This is the charming coincidence. When things in the world that are unconnected suddenly connect, and a pattern emerges.”
He exhaled. “But what if the pattern wasn’t what you’d call charming?”
“It’s not the pattern that’s charming,” she said. “It’s that there is a pattern at all.”
He nodded, but he was thinking, for once, that her father was right. It was only her optimism that gave her this view. Otherwise she would see that a pattern of serial killings was still a pattern, to give only one example out of millions.
They were out of the cab, walking to the hospital, when she suddenly stopped. “Jimmy believes in it too. He’s actually the one who came up with the phrase. He’s very brilliant.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“He has the most beautiful red hair. It’s not straight like mine; it’s what Grandma called ‘a riot of curls.’”
Stephen stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering why she wasn’t moving on to the hospital.
“He’s very funny too. I have no sense of humor, but Jimmy can make a joke whenever he likes.”
He saw her hand flutter up to her heart. “Is it racing?” he said.
She took a deep breath. “No, it’s fine.”
He waited a minute before he asked her what was wrong.
“I called Father’s doctor this morning from the telephone by your bedside, to find out how Father was. Dr. Humphrey told me he seemed a bit better.”
This was the first Stephen had heard about her father being sick, but he nodded because he knew there was something else she wanted to say.
“When Dr. Humphrey asked me about Jimmy, I told him about this place, though I couldn’t remember the precise name of it. He asked if I thought it would help if Father came too, and I said no. Jimmy has been so angry with Father for so long, and … and one of the pictures we purchased yesterday bore some resemblance to Father.”
Stephen knew it had to be the man with the snake in his mouth. It was the only picture of a man.
“I think you made the right choice,” he said.
“Thank you, but that isn’t my question.” She paused again and looked at the front door of the psych ward. “My question is how can I be sure that Dr. Phillips was wrong? I want to see Jimmy so badly, but what if my own visit harmed him in some way?”
Stephen wasn’t a psychiatrist; in fact, he barely remembered his six-week med school psych rotation. But he didn’t hesitate to tell her there was nothing to worry about; her visit wouldn’t hurt her brother.
“I’m ready then,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Thank you.”
They walked into the hospital, and as expected, Phillips wasn’t there. The attending was Nancy Baker. Stephen knew her socially; she used to date one of the partners in his practice. She was a decent psychiatrist, though far from what you’d call compassionate.
Case in point: Nancy had barely said hello to Dorothea when she turned to him. “I heard about the situation last night,” she said, in hushed tones. “Jay left a note on the chart. I’m really sorry, Steve. I can’t believe he treated you like this. If Cummins was still here, I could complain, but he’s been replaced. Don’t know if you heard that. Of course it’s all politics. Phillips knows how to play the game better than the rest of us. He and Lorber, the new chief, are cut from the same cloth.”
Stephen let her go on like this for another minute, but then he reminded her that Dorothea was anxious about her brother.
“Yes.” Dorothea stepped forward at the mention of her name. “May I see him now?”
Nancy said, “First we should talk. I can tell you a little of the history of the case.”
“I would prefer to see him first,” Dorothea said.
Stephen noticed her glancing at the double doors that led to the ward. He asked Nancy to give them a minute, then he led Dorothea a few feet away and told her not to bolt again or they might not get to see Jimmy.
She whispered, “My brother is not a case.”
“A ‘case’ just means he’s a patient.”
“Why would I want to hear the history of anything about Jimmy from someone who has known him for a few weeks?”
“Because she’s a trained specialist in psychiatric disorders.”
“Which Jimmy does not have.”
Nancy moved over to them. “We’ll just go to my office, Dorothea. It won’t take long. You can come too, Steve.”
Dorothea finally agreed and they all headed down the hall with Nancy leading. At one point when Nancy was answering a page on one of the hospital phones, Dorothea whispered, “Why does she keep calling you Steve? Would you like me to tell her you prefer Stephen?”
He laughed softly. “Not necessary.”
“What did I miss?” Nancy said, when she returned. “What’s the joke?”
“Nothing,” Stephen said, glancing at Dorothea.
The three of them sat down in chairs around a small table. The window shades were closed, and one of the fluorescent ceiling bulbs was buzzing and cracking, probably about to go out. Nancy opened Jimmy’s chart and took out her pen. She said she had a few questions first.
Stephen was surprised by what she meant by a few. He felt bad for Dorothea, especially as most of the questions were the type he knew she would think of as intrusive. He was ready to jump in and help if she needed it, but she seemed to be doing all right on her own. He was glad again that she had taken the pill.
“Jimmy has repeatedly said your father is a millionaire. Is this true?”
Dorothea sat up straighter. “Father’s financial affairs are his business, I’m afraid. But if you are asking if he will settle the bills here for Jimmy, the answer is yes.”
A millionaire? Stephen certainly didn’t expect this. He was just wondering how Dorothea’s father made his money when Nancy asked the same thing.
“Do you know his occupation before he moved you to New Mexico?”
“No,” Dorothea said. “I’ve never asked him.”
