The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  I had met with the clinic staff on Tuesday afternoon and once again apologized for the manner in which they learned the news. I did my best to explain my decision. They all politely nodded their understanding and offered the appropriate words of congratulations, but it seemed clear that below the surface was a genuine sense of loss. For the balance of the week, the daily routine continued, but there seemed to be fewer smiles, less friendly banter, and a kind of clipped formality to all the exchanges.

  A few of my patients were bluntly inquisitive, inquiring in incredulous tones as to why I wanted to leave. Others were quietly courteous. Admittedly, even these were disheartening. Patient relationships that had once been marked by an amused familiarity were now framed with reserve, awkwardness, and arrested gestures. Most said nothing, which, unfortunately, said everything.

  In many ways, it seemed as if the clock had been rewound, and I once again felt the exile and loneliness of the first few weeks after my arrival in Watervalley. During the evenings when I wasn't with Christine, I endeavored to busy myself with the final details of the honeymoon trip, the eventual packing and moving of my things, and searching online for a place to live in Nashville. Admittedly, all of these actions seemed surreal, as if in some way part of me thought it would not happen. And more than anything, I desperately wished I could talk to Connie. She was still away in Chicago and, per Estelle, would not return until Friday morning. Life was truly in the doldrums. The looming reality of what the engagement party on Friday night might bring began to absorb me with a smothering trepidation.

  But then late Friday afternoon, an odd thing occurred.

  Polly came by the clinic. She didn’t want an appointment and simply asked Nancy if she could meet with me in my office. I agreed, rose from my chair, and walked to the door. When I opened it, Polly was standing there, preparing to knock. I smiled and invited her into have a seat. She entered, and I closed the door behind her. However, after only two steps she stopped and turned to me. I wasn’t prepared for what followed.

  Polly had always struck me as haughty, one whose best attempts at friendliness yielded little more than cold cordiality. Her tight urbanity was always attended with an air of social judgment and seasoned indifference. But the woman standing before me was none of those things. Her face was framed in a fragile, transparent, almost affectionate gaze.

  “Dr. Bradford, there’s really no need for me to sit. I simply wanted to come by to thank you for taking care of me this last year and to wish you the best with your new position.”

  My stunned reaction was poorly masked. "Um, well, thank you, Polly. That's very kind of you." A difficult silence followed in which her kind gaze only grew warmer, and I stammered like a truant schoolboy. I felt a frantic need to assure her. "Listen, the mayor has already begun a search for my replacement, so hopefully there won't be any significant gaps in ongoing care."

  Polly listened attentively but then briefly looked down with an amused smile that was patient, thoughtful, resolved. “I’m not concerned, Dr. Bradford. I’ll be fine.”

  I nodded, searching her face, trying to grasp and understand this baffling change in her demeanor. But she remained silent, regarding me with a soft and undemanding gratefulness. She seemed unassumingly small and frail. “Polly, I’ve kept good records of your visits, so whoever follows should be able to come up to speed quickly.”

  She pressed her lips together in a reflective smile, seemingly suppressing some secret amusement. My eyes tightened, searching. She discerned this and after a moment, offered a pursed nod of resignation. “You have been very kind to me, Dr. Bradford. But I haven’t been completely forthright with you.”

  I slowly folded my arms, a reflexive gesture of attention and concern.

  "You see," she continued. "I'm quite certain I'm suffering from dementia. My mother had it, and her mother had it. So, it seems to be an inevitability. At first, I thought it was just age. But then I found myself taking a walk around the neighborhood, and I couldn’t remember how to get back home. My friends at Bridge Club began to notice it, and instead of saying anything, they quietly decided to dissolve the group. I guess they thought it was kinder than telling me I was losing my noodle and making the game intolerable for them."

  I shrugged. “Surely that’s not the case.”

  “Oh, I’m quite certain it is,” she said with amused resignation. “Nobody wants to be around someone whose mind is slipping. Dementia is a natural repellant.”

  I was at a loss for words. Of all the hours I had spent with Polly, I had not picked up on the signs. I had let my emotions about her prevail, regarding her with short indifference. In that moment, I felt an unbridgeable gap between us. She continued, speaking reflectively.

  “You know, there’s an old rhyme that goes,

  ‘Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.

  Love leaves a memory no one can steal.’

  The best parts of what I have of my life are my memories of the years with Clayton. So, I guess the old jingle isn’t true,” she said, gushing a kind of tragic, ironic laugh. “Now, I won’t even have those anymore.”

  “Polly, I’m so sorry. You know there are treatments available; medications, mental exercises, and even some theoretical diets that can help.”

  "I know Dr. Bradford. And I've read about all of them. But they're just a temporary stall. Eventually, the condition will take over. Look, you've been kind, and I have been unfair. I simply wanted to come by and thank you and wish you the best."

  “Well, again. Thank you for that. But I was only doing my job. And now I fear that I wasn’t doing it very well. In the time remaining, I wish you would let me try and see what we can figure out to help you.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she said shyly, clearly appreciative of the offer. She looked to the side for a moment, obviously contemplating some thought in want of surfacing. “Can I offer you a bit of advice, Dr. Bradford?”

  “Certainly.”

  "I've thought a lot about my life lately, and I've come to realize that when it comes to happiness, for most of us, our minds are not much engaged with the present. We let remembrance and anticipation occupy most of our joyful thoughts. We don't know how to find delight in the moment, and yet we observe the same life at a distance, and our imagination believes it to be desirable. But perhaps worst of all, we all secretly hold the fear that our happiness may never be found but fervently believe that others possess it. For most of my life, I've always thought of myself as being a half-step outside of the circle. And perhaps I was. But now, it all seems so silly."

  Having said this, she paused, and I got the sense that she was no longer looking at me, but rather through me and far beyond, her mind cascading over a thousand sounds, a thousand conversations, a thousand sunsets. Her peaceful continence of a minute earlier had dissolved into a face that was distant, confused, lost.

  “Polly?”

  My voice pulled her back, and for a second, she seemed to be gathering herself, opening her eyes widely as if to rally her thoughts. "Anyway, Dr. Bradford. My point is this, of the opportunities, the blessings life gives you, make a selection and be content. Have no regrets, Dr. Bradford. Because in time, your regrets will consume you."

  I nodded my understanding. She continued. “I will miss you, but I admire you for following your passion. We all want to live an extraordinary life. I hope that when you are my age, you will look back and feel that you have done so.”

  Having said this, she took my hand and clasped it between hers in a brief squeeze of affirmation. I could do nothing more than smile at her with a warm regard. Considering the long parade of disappointed comments and disheartened glances I had endured over the week, it was hard to conceive that the one shining voice of encouragement I would receive would come from Polly Shropshire.

  I exhaled deeply, uncertain of the moment. “Polly, are you sure you don’t want to sit and talk for a bit. I’ve got time.”

  "No," she said with retiring politeness. "You have a big even
ing ahead of you, and there's no need for me to keep you from it."

  “Well, I know for a fact you’re on the guest list. So, I hope you can come.”

  She looked at me with a rather sad-sweet musing. “Perhaps. In either case, give my best to your beautiful fiancée. I’m sure it will be a splendid affair.”

  “I hope so. But I will confess, I have my concerns. My departure hasn’t been universally appreciated.”

  Polly offered a dismissive shrug. “Oh, piddle, Dr. Bradford. You’ll be fine. Calm seas don’t make a skilled sailor.”

  I responded with a wide-eyed nod of acknowledgment. “Good advice, I’m sure.”

  With this, she stepped toward the door in a signal of departure. I opened it and spoke one last time. “Polly, take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Dr. Bradford. I have my routine and a few memories still. And as well, I have my medications. I’ve been making plans on what to do. I’ll be fine.”

  Polly stood for a moment, seemingly searching my eyes. She was smiling gently with that musing and tranquil expression touched with sadness that people have when they remember lost faces and long-ago laughter and the pureness of old joy. She turned and departed, and I reluctantly closed the door behind her, listening to it shut with a frail click.

  Despite the simple delight of having at least one soul express congratulations regarding my decision, the whole episode with Polly was odd and unsettling. For the longest time, I sat in my chair and stared out the window, doing my best to make sense of it. Eventually, I looked at my watch and realized that I needed to get home to shower and dress for the big gala. I methodically gathered my things and turned out the lights, filled with a cautious excitement about the evening's celebration. But deep, deep within...I was haunted.

  Chapter 38

  A GRAND AFFAIR

  THE PARTY WAS BEING held at Ravenoak, the home of Franklin and Baby Beth Stilwell. Located on Summerfield Road, Ravenoak was an imposing antebellum mansion that distantly emerged at the end of an arrow-straight driveway lined with ancient oaks. Replete with massive front columns, crowded boxwoods, and a tightly manicured lawn, it had been an equestrian farm of considerable acreage for decades. Some history buffs believe that General Grant slept there. Others claim that he only stopped to ask directions. All agree that it probably wasn’t for the way back to Ohio.

  Despite her name, Baby Beth Stilwell was in her fifties and well showed it. She was the youngest of five girls, and the childhood name had simply endured the decades. A slim and somewhat weathered blonde, she and her attorney husband Franklin had insisted on hosting the gathering. Baby Beth was a vivacious, outgoing sort who would readily confess that she and Franklin had more money than taste. Noting that her decorating choices had taken shabby-chic to an art form, most tended to agree. Notably, however, she gravitated to the upper crust more so than the crumbs and lived under the mantra that you could never be too thin or have too much silverware. Her audaciousness and approachability had allowed her to float successfully among the Watervalley blue bloods even though she had come from a dirt-poor family in Mississippi, a fact she often alluded to with self-effacing charm.

  Known for her rather thick moonlight-on-the-old-plantation drawl, she had just the right balance of panache and plainness to deftly negotiate the broad range of social strata who would be in attendance. Several of Madeline Chambers’ longtime friends who were definitive WFF’s, Watervalley First Families, had expressed an interest in playing hosts. But Madeline wisely knew that those chosen few would have pushed for more exclusivity on the guests list. The people of the valley were my patients, and my patients were my invitees. I had quietly let it be known that if they weren’t included, neither should I be. The Stilwells and their farm made for the perfect solution.

  The event was held behind the old mansion where the steps of a wide brick terrace swept down to a broad velvet expanse of lawn. A large, open tent to shelter the food had been assembled on one side of the sprawling rear yard while across the way a wooden stage for the band had been constructed. Dozens upon dozens of tables with neatly aligned chairs sat in orderly rows upon the open span of lawn in the middle. They were covered in white cloth, a vase of beautiful flowers, and a multitude of flickering candles. Around the distant perimeter, an endless array of Chinese lanterns and twinkling lights had been laced among the trees and landscaping. On scale alone, the entire scene was instantly impressive. Yet, something about the incredible panoramic setting lent it an ethereal, almost magical feel. As twilight fell, an indescribable swell of excitement and energy permeated the evening. The world seemed dressed for a grand occasion.

  Although the affair was catered with mounding, cluttered food stations, and a sizeable open bar, as they began to arrive, the plain and accommodating people of Watervalley also brought covered dishes with them, a gesture of hospitality that they innocently thought appropriate. Baby Beth quickly and graciously instructed the staff to set up a couple of long folding tables in the food tent. These were promptly covered with white cloths and gatherings of flowers. Thus, along with the elaborate displays of shrimp and cheeses and prosciutto hors de oeuvres, there was also an extensive array of lima beans, pineapple casseroles, Jell-O molds, and congealed salad with tiny marshmallows. As well, several of the rustics made the journey from the parking area in the front field and rounded the back corner of the house toting large coolers of beer. Everyone was proud to be there.

  Christine was as gorgeous as ever and floated among the crowd effortlessly, her every movement full of faultless and distinctive grace. She was animated, relaxed, clearly in her element. I did my best to do the same, grandly shaking hands and conversing with people whose names always seemed to escape me in the moment. But it was exhausting. As well, all the congratulations were accompanied by a kind of awkward reserve and small talk seemed to be in short supply. I was leaving, and the knowledge of this was written on the faces of all who spoke to me.

  In time I discreetly slipped away and blended into one of the food table lines. But I had chosen poorly. I found myself behind Lester Clancy, the carriage owning octogenarian who was going to drive Christine and me away from the reception. We spoke briefly, but he quickly exhausted my ability to pay attention. Finally, he proceeded forward. But in the process of filling his plate, he moved so slowly I probably could have declared him legally dead. Mountain ranges had been formed in less time. And to top it off, as I waited, I gradually realized that the old fellow was apparently cursed with weapons-grade flatulence, a troubling harbinger regarding the first moments of the honeymoon.

  I managed to find a vacant table in one of the darker, distant corners of the yard only to realize that Maggie Chambers, Christine's grandmother was staring at me from a distance. She had me in radar lock and was closing rapidly. Despite her five-foot-four-inch height, she walked with a rather imperial stride. I started to eat faster. Previous encounters with Maggie included flannel shirts and farm boots. But tonight, she was elegantly turned out with a startling tilt toward the edgy; big earrings, layers of pearls, and a black dress with a dangerously plunging neckline that was likely to keep all of the old fellows at the party on their toes. This was a Maggie I had never seen, a blossom that was not yet content to fade. It was our first meeting since learning of her generosity. So, I hastily swallowed a sausage ball and prepared to assume my gratitude game face.

  Upon her approach, I stood and smiled as if I hadn’t previously noticed her. She was carrying a martini glass and curiously, never broke stride, embracing me in an enthusiastic hug followed by a brisk kiss on the cheek. With Maggie, it was always a game of one-upmanship in which the last person off balance was the loser. Her unabashed show of affection had thrown me, but only momentarily.

  “Hi. I’m Luke Bradford. I don’t think we’ve met. But I’m pretty sure I know your evil twin.”

  Maggie’s face creased into a foxy grin. “My, you are witty.” There was a flowing and elegant charm to her voice. Maggie was revealin
g her theatrical side.

  “Well, I do appreciate the hug, although I can’t help but think it was done for show. Pandering to the crowd, eh, Maggie?”

  Her cunning regard continued. She spoke with dry authority. “If I was doing it for show, handsome, I would have grabbed your ass.”

  Shock factor was one of the prime arrows in Maggie’s quiver. I was undaunted.

  “I’m sure that’s a Kodak moment Christine will want for the wedding album.”

  She demurred, clearly noting that her shot had missed and took a sip of her martini. “You’re not as much fun as when we first met.”

  “That’s because early on I didn’t recognize you. I mistook you for an attack dog.”

  Maggie grinned, pressing her lips together in a moment of deliberation. "Christine said you could be a charmer." She stepped beside me and gazed back across the lawn; body language that suggested a cease-fire. Presently she was silent and followed my example of staring out across the crowd. In the near distance, the band was tuning up, and the loud and lively party goers were beginning to gravitate in that direction. Despite our history of hostile exchange, her simple gesture of rubbing her shoulder against mine made it easy to engage in conversation that was effortless and intimate.

  She absently ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “So, why are you out here on the periphery like the ugliest girl at the dance?”

  “Given my pending departure, I’ve taken the notion that the guests would enjoy themselves more freely in my absence.”

  “I think you’re being a little hard on yourself.”

  For some reason, confession came easy. “The truth is, I’ve never been much of one for small talk. I mean, I like these people...I really do. I just don’t always know what to say to them.”

  She nodded. “A lot of the people of Watervalley don’t have a lot to say. Unfortunately, sometimes you have to listen for a long time before figuring that out.”