by Sally Mandel
Ken and Barbie must come from California, she decided, and closed her eyes. She heard the piping voice at the back of her head, chanting,
You never could take parting lightly;
Separation always grieves you.
First a kiss and then a hug, but
In the end he always leaves you.
Whiner, she said to the voice. Shut up.
She fell asleep, and the next thing she knew, someone with blue-black hair and Indian features was smiling at her and rolling up her sleeve. Sharlie gazed into the brown face and murmured, “I’m glad you’re not a blonde.”
Chapter 26
Dr. Elizabeth Rosen’s office was on the ground floor, overlooking an expanse of green lawn and, just outside the window, a gardenia tree. Sharlie sat in a wheelchair next to Brian, twisting her hands in her lap. They were icy cold. Shaking hands with the psychiatrist a moment ago, she had been ashamed of her clammy fingers in Dr. Rosen’s strong, warm ones.
They sat in silence as the doctor leafed through the file on her desk. The pages fell, crackling. Each time, the sound startled Sharlie. How was it possible to feel so benumbed and yet raw enough so that a whisper or a minute gesture made her want to leap up screaming from the wheelchair? A highly strung slab of concrete, perhaps?
“Charlotte,” Dr. Rosen said. A statement, not a question. Sharlie wondered if she were required to respond, but the doctor looked up at her and smiled. “Lovely name.”
“Thank you,” Sharlie said with her cement lips.
“We all call her Sharlie,” Brian offered. Sharlie felt something now, a prick of resentment, which was quickly swallowed up in a distracting reverie about her name—perhaps it would be pleasant to be a Charlotte—Sharlie was a little girl’s name, which was okay if you never made it to forty—but a middle-aged Sharlie? No maturity, no dignity, like their one-time chauffeur, the balding, paunchy Sonny—if he’d used his actual name, Frederick, maybe it would have been tougher for Walter to fire him. Maybe if Sharlie were a Charlotte, she’d feel more authoritative…
She started, realizing that Dr. Rosen’s eyes were fixed on her. “It’s always tense the first time,” the doctor said quietly.
“We’ve never been to a psychiatrist before,” Brian said, then laughed at the sound of his words.
Dr. Rosen watched the two pairs of eyes reach for each other and hold, dark-gray eyes lost in blue. She waited, reluctant to disturb the mysterious, intense communion. After a while she said, “Tell me your plans.”
Brian blinked and said, “We’re going to get married.”
“We hope,” Sharlie murmured.
“For sure,” Brian said flatly.
Sharlie dropped her eyes.
“Do you want the transplant?” Dr. Rosen asked.
Sharlie waited for Brian to answer, but the doctor’s green eyes were trained on her. Finally Sharlie said, “Sort of.” Brian made a soft sound of dismay.
“Most people in your situation feel ambivalent,” Dr. Rosen said.
Sharlie smiled. Oh, that’s what you call this sensation? And all the time I thought it was terror.
“But basically she’s positive about it,” Brian said, then turned to Sharlie. “Aren’t you?”
Sharlie nodded, but so halfheartedly that Brian looked stricken.
“We don’t expect anybody to jump up on the operating table and say, ‘Take me, I’m yours,’” the psychiatrist said.
“But she has to want it.”
“There are always doubts.”
Dr. Rosen and Brian stared at Sharlie expectantly. Her eyes looked trapped.
“I don’t think I want to say anything,” she choked.
“What do you think would happen to you if you went ahead and had the transplant?” Dr. Rosen asked.
Sharlie felt as if her words were coming from somewhere far away, muffled perhaps by the sensation of thick stone encasing her thoughts. “People do strange things afterward—run around naked, attack the nurses. Nice, gentle people.”
“Oh, Sharlie,” Brian said.
“She’s right,” Dr. Rosen interjected. Sharlie and Brian stared at her, Sharlie with gratitude and Brian surprised. “But post-operative psychosis can usually be avoided with therapy. That’s one of the reasons you’re here. Also let me reassure you that oftentimes that kind of bizarre reaction is a response to the drugs. It disappears within a few days.”
Brian looked at Sharlie. “You wouldn’t attack anybody.”
Sharlie looked unconvinced, and Dr. Rosen continued, “Probably not. More often a man who receives a young girl’s heart will become temporarily impotent. Things like that. Donor identification.”
Sharlie’s face tensed, and Dr. Rosen prodded, “You’ve been thinking about that?”
“Not every waking moment,” Sharlie replied. They all laughed, and Sharlie felt her cement shroud crack a bit.
“What about the people who can’t hack it?” Brian asked.
“We’ve made some mistakes,” she answered.
Sharlie said, “I couldn’t bear not handling it. All those other people waiting …”
“That’s not your responsibility,” Dr. Rosen said firmly. “We make the final judgment, and most of the time we guess right.”
“It’s only an operation,” Brian said. “I mean, of course it’s more complex, but do you go through this for kidneys?”
Dr. Rosen smiled. “Just think about the mythology, the language. ‘You’ve stolen my kidney’? ‘You’ve got to have kidney’?”
“In my heart of hearts, I want to get to the heart of the matter,” Sharlie said.
“Yes,” Dr. Rosen nodded. “It’s quite a burden. Sometimes an exhausted heart patient is just too worn out. Unless there’s a compelling reason to withstand the stress.”
Brian smiled at Sharlie, stretching his hands out, palms up. Here I am. Compelling enough? He turned to Dr. Rosen. “When do you think she’ll get off the pot?” He looked startled. “I mean, out of the hop … hospital. Damn.” Brian wasn’t used to muddling his words.
Sharlie grinned at him now. Shit or get off the pot, huh? Well, she could hardly blame him for feeling that way. Dr. Rosen had put it together, too, and shot her a quick glance. Sharlie’s cement cracked again, shuddered, and fell away, crumbling into nothing.
“I’m sorry, Bri,” she said. “I want it, but I’m so scared.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Dr. Rosen saw Brian’s eyes begin to water, too.
“All right,” the doctor said softly. “Tell me about your donor. Who’s it going to be?”
Sharlie began to talk, choking through the tears at first, about Margaret Mead and Dorothy Hamill and Charles Manson and the Reverend Jim Jones and all the others, dead and alive, wonderful and dreadful, the parade that strutted and stomped and danced and hunched across the sterile air above her hospital bed. Her words tumbled out uninterrupted until at last she came to a halt, suddenly crushingly tired. Dr. Rosen stood up. She reached a hand across her desk and held Brian’s briefly, then Sharlie’s.
“All right, then, Sharlie. Or would you like me to call you Charlotte?”
Sharlie hesitated and then nodded shyly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlotte. And Brian, thank you for coming.”
Brian pushed Sharlie to the elevator in her wheelchair. They had been silent, but now Brian said, “Well, Charlotte, what did you think?”
“Oh, shut up,” she whispered.
“Why not, if you like it better?”
“It sounds ridiculous coming from you. Charlotte’s my … my stage name.”
A nurse in the elevator shot them a curious look, and they moved out onto the eighth floor.
“Now look,” Sharlie said, dismayed. “She thinks I’m a star.”
“Why not? You’re in California.”
“You say ‘why not’ more than anybody I ever met.” Sharlie said as he pushed her into her room.
“Why �
� oh, shit,” Brian said. Sharlie got out of the wheelchair, walked the few steps to her bed, and climbed in with Brian lifting her by the arms. Then she settled back against her pillows, gave him a weak smile, and fell instantly asleep.
He pulled a chair over next to her bed and sat down. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed pasty. Even while she was asleep, her breathing came in short little puffs. Brian took her hand and stared down at the slender fingers. So he said “why not” a lot. Well, at this very moment there were nothing but why’s in his head.
Sharlie gasped a little in her sleep, and Brian glanced at her anxiously, feeling his body stiffen. He averted his eyes from her mouth, open slack against the pillow. She seemed like a stranger, and all at once he felt a rushing sensation inside his head, screaming sirens. Out. Let me out. Of this room, this love, this life that was attached inside him like a dying fetus, clinging to his intestines. Where was his own life, all the pieces that were his? His work, his clients, his crazy, hectic days in court, his fierce dialogues with Barbara, his tennis games with the vital, energetic Susan? All squeezed into some dark, musty corner of himself to make room for this disease of hers, this remorseless struggle that allowed no distractions. Her disease was his disease, her battle his battle, her pain his pain. Out!
He released her cold fingers and dropped his head into his hands. Double contradictory shame—self disgust at the panicked impulse to abandon Sharlie, and the more shadowy repulsion at his inability to flee, a certainty that his identity had become so intertwined with this tenuous life on the white bed that he could no longer free himself and stand alone.
He sat bent over his hands until self-loathing became a numbed exhaustion. Then he looked up at the sleeping figure again. She was breathing more easily now, with faint color under the pale cheeks. She stirred in her sleep, and he watched the outline of her legs slide apart under the sheet. He found himself remembering the last time they’d been together in his apartment. He’d felt the urgency of her body, arching toward him. Was she dreaming now, her legs open like that? He wanted her. Even now, in this sterile room with her so close to death. He wanted to be inside her, as far into the center of her as he could thrust himself. He wanted to reach out and touch her breasts as she lay there.
Feeling the sudden, hot obstruction between his legs, he thought, Christ, maybe Sharlie’s right. I am a necrophiliac.
Chapter 27
The E. in the nameplace on Dr. Rosen’s door did not prepare Walter for the red-haired woman who ushered them into the sunny office. He knew his face registered shock, and he turned to see Margaret smirking at him. He held out a chair for Margaret and waited until Dr. Rosen was seated behind her desk before he took a chair next to his wife.
“Isn’t that a little underhanded, that E. Rosen, M.D. on your door?”
“Underhanded,” she repeated. She was tired, and ran a weary hand through her hair. Walter noticed how the late afternoon sunshine glinted on the soft curls, making a golden halo around her face.
“How’s anybody supposed to know you’re a woman? E. E for Edward, E for Englebert.”
Dr. Rosen’s smile stiffened. “I guess you put your full name on your door to warn people you’re a man.”
Walter sniffed but settled back in his chair. Dr. Rosen sifted through the file on her desk. She ran her finger down a page of medical history, then looked up, controlled and professional. She directed her first question to Margaret, figuring she’d let the husband get used to the sight of what was probably his first woman doctor, and by the look of him, his first psychiatrist.
“How do you feel about your daughter’s operation?”
Margaret said quickly, “Fine. Fine. I mean, of course, I wish it weren’t necessary, but if it’s going to help her …”
“It appears from the records that she’s lived at home with you all her life. Is that true?”
“Yes. Except for the times in the hospital.”
“It must have been tough on you.”
“Well, we didn’t have any choice.”
Walter interjected, “You do what you have to do.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Rosen, giving Walter a brief glance before turning back to Margaret. Walter felt himself resenting all the attention his wife was getting from this redhead, as if Margaret had done something besides wring her hands all these years. He had coped with Sharlie. Why didn’t this headshrinker ask him a question?
“How do you think you’d feel if your daughter were to get well and become independent? Move out of your house? Live her own life?” Dr. Rosen asked Margaret.
“Hallelujah,” Walter said, more loudly than he had intended.
Dr. Rosen turned to stare at him. “You’d be very glad, Mister Converse?”
“Well, I meant I’d be overjoyed if she got well enough. It would be a miracle, what we’ve been hoping for,” he said, floundering in an attempt to rectify the harsh sound of his interruption. She thinks I’m a brutal bastard he thought. Dammit, she’s got me all twisted around, this lady with the tired green eyes. Who gives a shit what she thinks anyway?
He gave her his best commander-of-the-fleet look and said, “Is there some special way we can help?” He was forced to admit she didn’t look overly impressed by the manly authority in his voice.
“You are helping,” she said.
Was that a condescending smile, the bitch? he wondered.
“What we want to ascertain is what effect a heart transplant would have on your daughter emotionally. It’s impossible to predict with total accuracy, of course, but we like to get a general impression of her life up to now, and what you envision for her after the operation, should it be successful.”
“You already met with her, didn’t you? And Brian Morgan,” Walter asked. Dr. Rosen nodded. Walter meant to make the point that Sharlie’s emotional condition should have been evident already, but somehow the words twisted away from his tongue. Instead he blurted, “What did they say about me?”
They all sat in silence while Dr. Rosen gazed at Walter. He felt his face redden and suddenly remembered the time he’d strayed into the midst of his mother’s weekly bridge game to ask her what the word menstruation meant. He was six years old and curious about something he’d overheard at school, but Mother was not amused.
Dr. Rosen watched the embarrassment rise in his face. She let the query pass. After a moment Walter asked, “When can we see Dr. Lewis?”
“I’ve spoken with him already, dear,” Margaret said quietly.
Walter forgot his recent embarrassment. “You did what?”
“While you had your conference call. I happened to pass his office as he was coming out. I introduced myself. He was very gracious and helpful.”
Walter felt his jaw muscles clamp down against the molars in the back of his mouth. He glanced at Dr. Rosen and saw her watching him intently. She wants me to lose my cool, he thought, sitting there with her little pad and pencil waiting for me to go nuts. He turned to his wife. Okay, Margaret honey, I’ll be oh, so civilized. But I’ll get you later, I swear it. “Did you ask him for the statistics and the information about the procedure? We don’t want any surprises,” Walter said, trying to mute the petulance in his voice.
“I wrote it all down,” Margaret explained. “We can go over it after dinner if you like. Whatever I didn’t get, you can ask him yourself.”
Walter brooded in silence. He might as well have stayed home and gotten all the news from Margaret over the telephone. He gave Dr. Rosen a sickly smile.
“I was delayed in New York, unfortunately, so I have to catch up with Margaret here.”
“Yes, I see,” Dr. Rosen said pleasantly.
I’ll bet you do, thought Walter. He rubbed his jaw. Dr. Rosen closed her file and looked up at them.
“We can talk again soon when there’s been more testing. But if you find you want to talk, don’t wait for a formal appointment. Call my office anytime, and I’ll clear
an hour for you.”
Margaret got up and held out a hand to Dr. Rosen.
“Thank you, Doctor. It’s comforting to know you’re available.”
Dr. Rosen walked around her desk to show them to the door, and as he got out of his chair, Walter noticed the trim legs under the psychiatrist’s soft pale-gray skirt. He felt the impulse to know all about her, whether she was married, whether she had kids, whether she liked sex, and if so, what kind of sex. She had firm breasts under that white jersey top. Not the big clunkers so many other men seemed to find attractive, but enough to know she was a woman, enough so that lying above her he would feel their soft pressure against his chest.
By the time he reached the door, he was sweating a little, and he surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jacket so that he could offer Dr. Rosen a dry palm on his way out.
In the elevator Walter and Margaret were silent. They walked to the parking lot without exchanging a word until finally Margaret coughed and said, “She seemed like a pleasant person. Intelligent.”
Walter slid behind the wheel of their rented Chevy. Goddamn rental people didn’t even have a Buick, for Christ’s sake, and this thing felt like a Mack truck compared with his own comfortable Coupe de Ville. Every bump jolted him to his back teeth.
“Do you notice how bumpy this car feels? Maybe there’s something wrong with it,” Margaret said.
“You just don’t have the proper padding on your ass,” he replied. “The princess and the pea.” He swerved to avoid another pit in the road.
Margaret didn’t respond, and when he stole a look at her face, he saw the tight knot beside her mouth.
Lost her sense of humor, that’s what. Well, under the circumstances he supposed it was understandable.
