Someone was knocking at the door to the waiting room, a frantic, shrill rap like a woodpecker’s beak. It was 9:55, ten minutes past the official end of his session. The psychiatrist rose from his chair with a silly, blushing smile and indicated that Bill should leave by the middle door. “What you’ve described sounds like a complicated problem, Mr. Chalmers. I sense that we’ve glimpsed just the tip of the iceberg.” He hurriedly wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Let’s start you on some medication to eliminate the numbness. We’ll review your progress in a couple of weeks.”
Bill stood staring at the prescription in his hand. “Two weeks? Should I come back sooner?”
“That might be helpful,” Kripke said softly, shepherding Bill through the door. “You can call tomorrow for another appointment if you wish.”
THE FRENCH PHOTOGRAPHER
Bill had been at his office since seven in the morning, laboring through a stack of papers on his desk and sulking about Kripke and his infuriatingly soft voice. What did Kripke know about events in the world? Kripke hid in his house with his fake waterfalls and lollipops. So Bill was angry, that was the great psychiatrist’s conclusion. Bill stared at his computer screen. The message prompts pulsed like African driver ants about to burst through a valley, obsessed, eating everything in sight, eating his hands at the keyboard, his body, the desk, even the computer itself, leaving nothing but white bones. He was ant food. He was weeks behind. His typing was slow. His brain was slow. Slow. He slammed his numb hand on the desk. He would have to adapt, he would have to find places to take out his anger. Isn’t that what the good doctor said? He struck his hand again and marveled at the way the skin turned white and then red. And he was hot, dripping sweat. The office was boiling. Ant weather. He took off his jacket and tossed it in the direction of a chair.
Amy arrived with a new stack of documents. Was it 9:00 already? More documents? He almost yelled at her.
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Chalmers?” said Amy, her tender face clouding over.
“No.”
She stood at the door and smiled. “My mother’s getting remarried on Sunday.”
Bill repeated the words to himself. He looked at her standing at the door, the tilt of her in the doorway. “Amy,” he said.
“My mother is getting married again. It’s the first time she’s been happy in seven years.”
“That’s wonderful.” What a sweet young woman, Bill said to himself. And to think that he had almost shouted at her. He had to get hold of himself.
“I just thought I’d tell you,” said Amy, appearing embarrassed. “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Chalmers?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. So your mother’s getting remarried.” He managed a smile. Surely, Amy knew that he was far behind in his work. She was a gentle young woman who had concentrated on staying out of everyone’s way ever since Jenkins had hired her straight out of high school. Could he talk to her? She might understand.
“The photographer from Transaction is ready, Mr. Chalmers,” said Amy. “He wants everyone to come now.”
“How long will this take?”
“He didn’t say.”
With a sigh, Bill picked up his jacket and went to the reception area, where several of his colleagues paced back and forth on the burgundy rug. The photographer and his assistant bustled about with cameras and light screens and tripods.
“I don’t want the photograph now,” boomed George Mitrakis, who was sitting in his shirtsleeves on the Queen Anne sofa. His face was flushed and wet with perspiration. “We’ve got problems now. Come back tomorrow.” The photographer looked at George briefly, said nothing, and continued setting up his equipment. Next to George on the sofa was Ms. Theroux, talking to someone on her phone. She had taken off her watch and placed it prominently on the coffee table. “I thought you were ready for us,” George shouted at the photographer. It seemed to Bill that everyone was in a foul mood. Possibly it was the heat. The air conditioner was blasting out warm air like it was January, and, what’s worse, a rumor had drifted up from below that the air conditioners worked perfectly on floors one through thirty-six. In an effort to reduce the heat, someone had let down the white blinds on the floor-to-ceiling hall windows. The partners hardly ever noticed these windows, but so much sudden white in the halls was disorienting.
“Will we be on the cover?” asked Mr. Kramer.
“They pay me just for the shooting,” answered the photographer. “You ask the wrong person.” He took a small yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it against his delicate cheeks, then returned the handkerchief to the pocket.
“This heat is a disgrace,” said George from the Queen Anne. The president took off his tie and began punching buttons on his telephone.
“Where do we go?” someone said.
“He wants us standing around George. George and Lisa stay on the sofa.”
“It’s after nine-thirty.”
Harvey Stumm appeared, so suddenly that Bill was still slumped against the reception desk, with his hands twisting in his pockets, and he just had time to tuck in his shirt to keep himself from looking as unprofessional and overwhelmed as he felt. He regretted his appearance even more when he saw that Stumm did not seem at all touched by the heat, but was fully buttoned up in a brown checkered suit, with his small white face perfectly dry. Only his tie was loosened imperceptibly.
“What an imposing group,” said Stumm.
“Thank you, Harv.”
“It’s hot,” said Stumm. “Nobody can think in this heat. I can’t think in this heat.”
“I’ve called down to Mr. Kelly to get the air conditioner fixed right away,” said George.
“Good,” said Stumm. “That’s good.” He stepped carefully over the electrical cords and stood behind George. Bill was on the vice president’s left, Diane Rossbane on his right. David Hamilton, Nate Linden, and Milt Kramer crouched unhappily in front of the sofa. Lisa Theroux had mysteriously vanished.
A light exploded prematurely under the reflection tent, then again. “Merde,” the photographer said and glowered at his assistant. On the floor, some kind of transformer hummed and buzzed.
Stumm leaned over the Queen Anne and began talking quietly to the president. “While I’m here, George, let me mention one thing about the Sperry deal.”
“The Sperry deal is under control,” said George.
“I’m sure it is. One thing. You don’t want to be talking to Lancaster in this final stage. Lancaster won’t be able to keep up. You want to be talking to Benjamin Lloyd.”
“I like Bertram Lancaster,” said the president defensively.
“Of course you do,” said Stumm. “But that’s not the point.”
George sighed and nodded.
One picture had been taken. When could they leave? Bill was baking in his jacket, he felt like he was going to faint. Someone came in with a call from the West Coast. Bill opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was already 9:42.
Later that morning, there was a knock on Bill’s door. The sound seemed to come from another planet. Harvey Stumm entered, a rare visit. “Good morning again,” the vice president said and smiled. Bill snapped out of his trance and turned off his monitor.
Stumm unbuttoned his jacket and leaned against the edge of Bill’s work table. “A nuisance, that photographer. Came up from New York.” Stumm paused, letting his eyes quickly roam over the minor commendations framed on the wall. “Alex must be what now? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Fourteen.”
“Yes.” The vice president paused. “I thought I’d see how things with Digitel are coming along.”
“Okay.”
Stumm pursed his small lips and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Digitel is an important account,” he said softly. He was staring at Bill.
Then the ants exploded out of the screen. Bill could feel them climbing, biting. Ant food.
“You did a fine job setting that up last year,” sai
d Stumm. He paused and glanced at a document on Bill’s work table. “Still. We’re getting some complaints. Do you need any help?”
“Excuse me,” Bill heard himself saying. He went to the rest room, where he poured water on his face and pressed himself against the cool of the tiles.
MARCELLO’S
In the middle of the week, Bill started on Prozac, at twenty milligrams per day. The capsules were a muted green and yellow.
“Finally,” said Melissa that evening as she sat at the vanity and gingerly dabbed her face with skin toner. The cotton balls were like snow against the red of her scrubbed face. She glanced at Bill in her mirror, then dipped a Q-tip into a jar of cream, transferred the cream to her fingertips, and rubbed it under her eyes. A different cream, beige colored, filled the cracked lines around her mouth. “It’s too hot to cook,” she mumbled. “Why don’t we get some Chinese. Or Marcello’s.”
“Finally what?” asked Bill, holding a handkerchief to his nose. A fine gray dust hung in the air from the grouting of the new bay windows downstairs.
“Finally we’re getting some treatment for you.”
Bill detected in her voice that familiar tone that meant she thought she’d been wronged. Perhaps she was just irritated by the heat, or her reflection in the mirror. “The doctor didn’t say—” The telephones rang, the nearest in the bathroom, its chisel transformed into grating reverbations by the hard tiles and glass. Melissa flinched. “I’ve got it,” Bill blurted. “Hello.… Hello, David.… I can’t.” Bill squinted at his watch, trying to read it in the half light of the bathroom: 7:03. “I know it’s Tuesday.… I don’t have time tonight, I’m sorry.… Fax? Our fax machine is broken. Yes. I’ll come by your office tomorrow.… Nine.… Yes, I can e-mail you. Goodbye. No. Goodbye, David.”
Bill returned to the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, where he had been sorting through the past few days’ worth of magazines and catalogues. One by one, they thudded as he tossed them into a cardboard box. Every few minutes he squeezed his hands to see if the numbness had lessened, but the only effect of the Prozac so far was to make him nauseous. Two boxes full now. Herrington, Signals, Peruvian Connection, House Beautiful, Sharper Image, Newsweek, Eddie Bauer, Fabrications, Lands’ End, Time, InfoAge, House and Antiques, Lifestyle Fascination, Downeast, Architectural Digest, Antique World, Country Living, Business Week, Gardener’s Eden, Trafalgar, Victoria, Horse and Rider, Ballard Design, MacWorld, Illuminations, Tech and Spec. “Fabrications has sent us two catalogues this week.” “We’re big customers.” “Did they give us a refund for that comforter?” “I don’t know. Look on the last Visa statement.” “There wouldn’t be time for it to appear on the last statement. Didn’t they give you a slip or something when you sent it back?” “No. I never really liked that comforter. We shouldn’t have bought it.” “What do you mean? We talked about it. We both loved it.” “I don’t think I ever liked it.” “Then we should tell them to stop sending us the catalogue.” “That’s impossible. They’ll keep sending us the catalogue until we’re dead. Even after. Helen Wolfe got catalogues in her name for a year after she’d died.” “Did you look at the Eddie Bauer?”
“Stop,” shouted Melissa. “Stop. If you don’t stop I’m going to scream.”
“I’m finished.”
She began rubbing her moist face with powder to take away the shine. “I feel like our life has been on hold since the middle of June,” she said. “When was it? June twenty-fourth? June twenty-fifth? It was a Wednesday, I think. Wednesday, June twenty-fifth. It’s been over six weeks.” Her voice wavered, and he looked over at her and saw tears in the mirror. She dabbed at them quickly. Then, with her little finger, she spread a small quantity of ochre paste beneath her eyes to conceal the dark shadows. “Let’s go on a trip. When you’re well. That would be good for us. We need a trip. Please let’s go on a trip.”
“Shh,” Bill whispered, “I don’t want Alex to hear any of this.” He cracked open their bedroom door and peered down the hall. A thin layer of gray dust lay on the banister leading to Alex’s closed door. On the television, the muscular voice of an anchorman—funds for the refurbishment of the Mammal Hall of the Smithsonian …
“Why shouldn’t Alex hear this?” said Melissa. “He’s your son. He’s worried about you. He should know what’s going on with you. Do you know what’s going on with him? You hardly see him. He’s stopped fencing. Now he’s playing chess. He’s got all the games between Kasyski, or whatever his name is, and that computer on his computer.” She paused and put a spray of pink blush on her cheeks. “You should play with him. Do you know anything about chess? You should play with him.”
“I don’t know how to play chess. I knew when I was much younger.”
“What?”
“I’ll learn chess. I was just getting the hang of fencing.”
“You funny man,” she said suddenly, laughing and throwing her arms in the air. Her face softened. “Since when did you learn fencing? Go get some pizza. And take Alex with you. He needs to get out of that room.”
“No one has said that the numbness will stop,” said Bill, facing his wife’s back at the vanity. “Nobody has said it’s psychiatric. You sound like you think it’s all in my head.” He waited for her to reply, but she began massaging her eyes. “Dr. Petrov is running more tests. I talked to his office today. So it’s probably not psychiatric.” Bill hurled his jacket onto the divan and walked to the window. The damask drapes were half drawn, and he began wrapping the cord around his left index finger, tightly, watching the tip of the finger turn red. How odd, he thought, that there could be blood with no feeling. Behind him, the remote clicked and the television became silent.
“That television was making me deaf,” said Melissa. She took a deep breath, he could hear the air sucking. “I’m just glad you’re taking the Prozac. That’s all.”
“The shrink is trying it out,” he shot back. “He doesn’t know. I don’t know. Maybe something will happen. I don’t know.” He turned from the window and saw that she was sitting up very straight now, despite her exhaustion, and was staring at him through the mirror. Their eyes met in reflection.
“So what if it’s mental,” she said softly. “What difference does it make what it is, as long as you can get over it.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. I should get another doctor. A good neurologist. That’s what I should do. I’ll get another doctor tomorrow. These doctors don’t tell you anything.” He sneezed. Damn those bay windows, he thought to himself.
She continued to gaze at him through her vanity mirror. “Bill.” Now her voice was careful, as if she were handling porcelain in her shop. “I’m beginning to think that you have some … factitious illness.”
“Factitious illness?” He laughed bitterly. “You mean fictitious illness. At least get the name right.”
“Factitious.” She turned around on her vanity chair and looked directly at him. “It’s a psychiatric condition.”
“Who told you that?” Bill said. “Factitious illness. Did Henry tell you that?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Have you been talking to Henry about me? I asked you not to talk to Henry about me.” His face throbbed.
“Henry is my brother. And he knows about these things.”
“Henry thinks he knows about everything.” Bill kicked a leg of his bureau. It made a hollow sound. “I knew Henry was going to get involved in this. You might as well tell me what Henry said.”
“Henry said that some people develop psychosomatic symptoms to prevent them from doing certain things.”
“Bull!” Bill shouted. “Do you believe that? Henry never liked me. You know that Henry never liked me. Henry would have been happy if you’d married that college roommate of his and stayed in Fayetteville.”
Then she went to him and put her arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve made you feel worse. I don’t know what to do.” She kissed him on the base o
f his neck and put her head against his shoulder. “I promise I won’t talk to Henry about you. I just want you to be well.”
What was wrong with him? The thought pinched and cut in his mind as he embraced her. He took a deep breath and could smell the lavender in her skin cream. “The shrink said that I’m angry,” he said, holding her close. “Do you think I’m angry?”
“A little. What else did he say?”
“He said I’m under stress. And I have to diffuse my anger.”
“Yes.”
He held her against his body. There was so much that he wanted to tell her, so much was twisting and tilting in his head. Nothing was the same anymore, trees, light, the sound of footsteps, air, yes, even air. “Melissa. Do I seem different to you? Since the accident?”
“Of course you’re different. You’re ill. What are you talking about? Is there something else?” She hesitated. “Do you still love me?”
“Yes, I love you. It’s not that.”
“You’re sick, Bill. I just want you to be well. That’s what I want.”
“Melissa, look at me.”
“I just want you to get well.”
A bell jingled brightly as Bill and Alex opened the door to Marcello’s Pizza. “Yo, Mr. C., how are you,” shouted one of the girls behind the counter. “I made your pizza personally. Large mushroom and extra cheese. Maybe you should try something else next time.”
“Nice suggestion,” said Bill, “but you don’t know my wife.” His voice was drowned by the breathy groan of the refrigerator that contained the soft drinks and prepackaged salads. Bill and Alex stood just inside the door, wriggling out of their slickers and hats. It had begun to rain, but the inside of Marcello’s was as hot as ever, with the two ovens burning furiously and the heat of the day still thick across the little café. All of the workers behind the counter wore bandanas around their heads to keep from dripping into the food.
“Number 89, meatball and ziti,” someone yelled. A man with an umbrella pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting for their orders, slapped his money down, and hurried out with his sandwich. The doorbell jingled. He had been in such a rush that he’d collided with two of the hanging baskets of plastic flowers, which swayed after he’d gone like waves from a passing boat.
The Diagnosis Page 19
