Double Deceit

by Julienne Brouwers

  While my computer was starting up, I rubbed my temples. I’d once again been struggling to fall asleep last night. The day had yet to begin and I was already feeling drained. I logged in, noted the time at the bottom of my computer screen and realised that only a few minutes remained to get a much-needed dose of caffeine.

  I stuck my head around the door to Hans’ room again and asked if he wanted a coffee as well.

  “Thank you. Lots of milk please,” he added, as if I wouldn’t know after so many years. Hans looked at me thoughtfully and I wondered if I should have put on some makeup this morning. “Are you alright?”

  I put on an expression of reassurance and nodded.

  He swivelled his chair to face me and folded his hands in his lap. “Do you think you may have returned to work a little too early?” He was wearing the grey, woollen jumper that reminded me of a college student from the nineteen eighties. His green eyes looked at me gently through his round glasses. “After all, it’s only been a month or two.”

  Two months and nine days, to be precise, since my life had changed forever. “As if I’d forget,” I said, immediately regretting my sneer.

  He generously ignored my comment. “Would it be a good idea if you were to take some more time off? It’s no problem to hire a temporary employee. You see …” He faltered for a moment and an apologetic expression appeared on his face. “You look a wee bit tired.”

  I swallowed an unpleasant response and forced a smile. “That’s a very kind gesture. But I’m fine. Honestly. It’s actually quite nice to get some distraction at work,” I added, which was only partly true. It was hard to admit that I was desperately trying to salvage my life and sanity.

  “Two cups of coffee coming right up,” I said breezily and swiftly left Hans’ consultation room to avoid any more complicated questions. When I returned a little later, to my relief a female patient was sitting across from Hans. I set the mug on his desk, closed the door between our rooms and took a sip from my own coffee, after which I walked to the waiting area.

  “Mr Visser. You’re next.”

  A man of about seventy years old staggered towards me.

  We shook hands. “Have a seat.”

  He lowered himself slowly onto the chair opposite me.

  I put on a friendly expression. “How may I help you?”

  “Doctor, it’s the valve again.”

  I looked at him questioningly. “The valve?”

  He pointed his finger to his chest. “Drives me nuts. My heart valve. I think the leak has worsened again.” The old man’s local accent led me to presume he’d lived in this neighbourhood all his life.

  I opened his digital patient file and noticed that he indeed was suffering from tricuspid insufficiency for years.

  “I used to be quite sprightly for me age, you know – was fit as a fiddle. But now …I’m worn out all the time, can’t even walk to the bingo room in one go. I need to stop at least twice on the way – I practically look like an old man.”

  I smiled.

  “My ankles are all swollen up,” he went on, looking at me with a glint in his eye. “How am I supposed to chase the ladies?”

  I took my stethoscope from my pocket. “May I have a listen?”

  The old man slowly unbuttoned his tiger print shirt and I slid the diaphragm of my instrument under his vest. I confirmed the heart murmur that was so typical of this disease. Then I took his blood pressure and saw that it was elevated.

  “Right. You may button up again.”

  While he was getting dressed, I went through his patient file and noticed that he was taking medication for high blood pressure.

  “Well, Mr Visser,” I said, turning my attention back to my patient. “You’re suffering from what we call a tricuspid insufficiency.”

  He looked at me in confusion.

  “Also called a leaking valve, on the right side of the heart,” I explained. “It shouldn’t cause any serious problems, however it’s important that we keep it under control. Your blood pressure has risen again. Are you taking your medication every day?”

  He paused for a moment before answering. “Sometimes I forget about the pill.”

  The ringtone of my mobile phone suddenly sounded and I scolded myself for forgetting to turn the sound off. I noticed ‘anonymous’ on the display.

  I turned away, raised a finger at Mr Visser and gestured: this will only take a moment.

  “Jennifer Smits speaking.”

  “Good morning Mrs Smits, this is Detective Armstrong. My apologies for calling you at this time. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  I thought of my morning routine of showering, waking Tim, changing his nappy and getting him dressed, trying to get him to eat his sandwich, Tim throwing up and me changing his jumper, luring him into his seat on my bike with sweets, three goodbye kisses at his day-care and cycling for half an hour.

  “Not a problem at all.”

  “Good. I just wanted to update you on the investigation into the death of your spouse.”

  A knot formed in my stomach. I glanced at my patient, who was sat less than a metre from me. “Can I call you back later? I’m at work.”

  “Certainly.”

  After writing down the detective’s number, I hung up and wondered if the coroner might have found something – something abnormal that shouldn’t have been there.

  “Hello?” I heard from afar. Mr Visser waved his hand in front of my face. “Doctor Smits, are you all right?”

  I apologised and then gave my patient a friendly yet firm lecture on taking his medication, to which he promised to try harder.

  In the following hour I saw a mother with a son who had burnt himself with an iron, sent a patient with a prolonged cough to the pulmonologist and prescribed antibiotics to a student with a throat infection.

  Around half past nine, to my relief, I had a ten-minute gap in my programme during which I quickly got another cup of coffee.

  Once back in my room, I sat down on my chair, took my mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled the number.

  “Armstrong,” he barked.

  “Good morning detective. This is Jennifer Smits speaking. You called me earlier this morning. You wanted to have a word with me about the investigation into my husband’s death, Oliver?” At first impulse I’d felt surprised that the police considered his death suspicious. However, I knew professionally that they were obliged to perform an investigation and after giving it more thought I was happy that they wanted to rule out any foul play.

  He paused for a moment. “Yes, yes,” he stammered, in a friendlier tone.

  I heard the rustling of paper in the background as I took a sip of my coffee.

  “We’ve received all the test results. I’m happy to inform you we’ve discovered nothing abnormal. The toxicology tests didn’t reveal the presence of any drugs or medication. The autopsy on your husband’s body was also entirely in line with our expectations.” The detective coughed and then carried on summarising his findings. “No traces of violence were found. Neither on the body, nor at the location where your husband was discovered. Finally, no foreign forensic material was detected.”

  I hooked my feet around the chair legs and leaned backwards, mumbling a few words of relief.

  “Your husband had a large wound on the back of his head that matched the rock he landed on. In all likelihood, he became unconscious almost instantly after his fall and died as a result of severe blood loss from his head injury. I feel therefore confident to conclude that your husband’s cause of death was related to an unfortunate chain of events after an accidental fall. He just had terrible luck, to summarise it bluntly.”

  His words echoed through my mind. Unfortunate chain of events… Terrible luck…

  How was it possible that he’d plummeted down the slope with such force that his injuries were fatal, I wondered. It was hardly the edge of a cliff or a steep mountainside. Perhaps he’d been all worked up by our argument to the point of becoming reckless.

>   “Mrs Smits, are you still there?”

  I snapped to attention. “Yes, I am,” I quickly said.

  “Is everything clear?”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my face. “I guess so,” I responded, although I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved with this conclusion or not. Oliver’s death just seemed even more senseless.

  “So what happens now? Is this it?”

  “Yes. We’ll finalise our report, for which we won’t need your help. You can come over to our office and collect your husband’s personal belongings. I’ll leave them for you at the reception. If anything else comes up, we’ll contact you. Although that seems unlikely.”

  “Thank you so much for your explanation and efforts.”

  “At your service. I wish you all the best.”

  I was ready to hang up when Detective Armstrong interjected, “Oh yes, one more thing.” After a short pause he continued, broaching an odd topic. “Well, it may be a bit of an impertinent question I suppose … but were you by any chance aware of your husband preferring certain types of underwear?”

  I wondered if I’d misheard. “Certain types of underwear?”

  “Did he have a rather distinct, unusual taste in this area?” His voice sounded as if he felt as uncomfortable as I was with this conversation.

  “Not a chance,” I assured him.

  “He didn’t have, er … dare I say a fetish, as they call it nowadays?”

  What was this man talking about? “He always wore normal boxer shorts. You know, typical men’s underwear. Why are you asking?”

  “Right,” he mumbled and then paused for a brief moment. “That’s peculiar. Your husband was wearing red, lace knickers when he died. They appeared to be ladies underwear.”

  I felt utterly gobsmacked. A long awkward silence filled the air as I took it all in. “This doesn’t make any sense. He never wore anything like that.” What was that man thinking? Was he taking the mickey out of me? Surely, he wasn’t inferring that my husband wore my underwear, or worse, that he’d get turned on by it?

  “I see. Perhaps your husband may have liked to wear your knickers. Or he may have bought a pair for himself to give it a try. Trust me, this seems quite normal compared to the situations I’ve encountered. You wouldn’t believe the things I come across. Just when I think I’ve seen it all, a unique situation will present itself that knocks my socks off. There are a lot of weird people out there. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit and be done with the absurdity, or rejoice in the quirkiness of my job.”

  I felt lost for words. “But how …” I stammered.

  “Very well. Not to worry. Mrs Smits, you take care now. I wish you and your son all the best. Goodbye.”

  Before I could even respond, he’d hung up.

  My eyes strayed to the pile of post that lay on my desk that I just didn’t manage to get around to sorting through. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Why hadn’t this detective brought this up sooner? Why would Oliver dress in women’s underwear? I’d never seen him do such a thing before. I tried to remember when I’d last witnessed Oliver change, and came to the discomforting conclusion that it had been several weeks before his death. On weekdays in the morning I was already downstairs before he got up and in the evening I was usually asleep when he came to bed.

  The phone on my desk rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. The number showed that it was our new assistant calling me on the internal line.

  “Simone,” I said.

  “Yes. Right. This is Simone,” she responded nervously. “Are you keeping an eye on the time? Mrs van Brock has already come to my desk three times asking when it’s her turn.”

  I glanced at my watch and saw to my horror that I was running late again.

  “I’ll be right there.” I hung up without waiting for a reply.

  I wasn’t even half way through the morning yet and I already felt utterly exhausted. Last night had been the third night in a row that I’d watched the hours go by on the alarm clock. Perhaps I should prescribe myself some medication to get more sleep. I couldn’t keep this up much longer.

  I swilled down the rest of my coffee and called Mrs van Brock from the waiting room. She dallied after me at a snail’s pace.

  After she’d taken off her coat with a lot of moans and groans, she flopped onto the chair in front of me.

  “My oh my,” she panted. “Would you believe that? Oh dear. I’m completely worn out. Isn’t that something, eh? Exhausted by walking the short distance from the waiting room to here.”

  I folded my arms and smiled amiably. “Mrs van Brock, what can I do for you today?”

  “I need a minute to recover.” She took a paper tissue from her black lacquer handbag and wiped her damp forehead. Her full bosom rose and fell with her rapid respiration. She sighed once more and then commenced talking. “I’m alright now, thanks,” she stated, although I’d refrained from asking. “You know what. Ever since my husband died, my condition has deteriorated so terribly. Isn’t that odd? I used to be able to walk long distances. I’d stride to the grocery store and back without any problems.” She looked at me with a face that was probably meant to impress me. “That’s quite a distance, you know. I wonder how far that would be?” The old lady looked at the ceiling as if she’d find the answer up there. “It’s two right turns, a long stretch straight ahead and a left turn and then you’re nearly there. Must be more than a kilometre in total. Yes. That’s probably it, one kilometre. I’m sure now, because it’s almost a fifteen-minute walk, so that has to be about right. And then back home again, so all in all that’s half an hour.” She put on an expression as if she’d just solved a complicated algorithm.

  I wiggled impatiently in my chair and cast a meaningful glance at my watch: I didn’t have time for this jibber-jabber. But she completely missed the hint and reeled off a hundred woes.

  “These days, a short stroll has gotten too much. I can no longer manage to go shopping by myself. It feels terrible you know.” She looked at me again to make sure I was staying focused. “The realisation that you are unable to take care of yourself. Argh. How I dislike the feeling of dependence. I have a new cleaning lady who also does my shopping for me. But I don’t trust her one bit.” She leaned forward as if she were sharing a confidential piece of information. “I have a sneaking suspicion that she once pinched a tenner.” She leaned back, raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “No way that lady is gonna lay her hands on my purse anymore. I’ll just give her the cash she needs to pay for the groceries so that I’m sure she won’t be snatching anything. Those foreigners, can’t trust ‘em.”

  I cringed. I knew it was an important part of my profession to offer a sympathetic ear to people, but I couldn’t handle this nonsense. There were far worse things in the world. My gaze wandered outside, where dark clouds had gathered. Rain had been forecast for this afternoon and I was afraid I’d get soaked on my way home.

  I looked at my patient again and cut to the chase. “Mrs van Brock. Please tell me why you came to see me. What’s the matter?”

  She looked at me, obviously offended. “In a hurry, are we? Calm down, doctor. I was just about to get to it.” She shifted her weight. “So I was saying that ever since my husband died, walking has become increasingly difficult. It seems like …”

  My thoughts wandered to the red lace knickers. I was sure they weren’t mine, I didn’t even like brightly coloured underwear. I had a hard time recollecting all the details Detective Armstrong had shared with me over the phone, as it all had gone so fast. I remembered him stating that nothing unusual had been encountered and no forensic traces were identified. Did this imply that they hadn’t found any foreign fingerprints or objects there?

  “… the left seems normal. But the right leg is leading a life of its …”

  I had no alternative but to accept it. It was as if my world had come to a grinding halt while I’d been waiting for the results of the investigation into Oliver’s death, as if none of this was real, and
Oliver would one day walk back through our front door. But the detective had left no ambivalence in his statement – the case had been closed. Oliver would never return to this earth. And so I needed to focus all of my efforts on the future. I had little choice but to go on with my life.

  “Hello, doctor. I asked you a question. Are you even listening?”

  Mrs van Brock was staring at me with an expression of disparagement on her face.

  I shook my head. “My apologies. Could you repeat the question?”

  She sighed. “I asked: do you think my leg can get better? There shouldn’t be such a difference between left and right, should there?”

  Mrs van Brock was a classic case – after the death of a spouse you would see patients slowly go downhill. I saw them in my practice almost daily. “It’s imperative that you carry on exercising every day, Mrs van Brock, to strengthen your muscles. You should get out for a stroll as much as possible. Try to go and do your groceries yourself again.”

  “That’s the problem, you see. I really can’t do it anymore. It’s just too far,” she countered.

  “First start with a small stretch, then continue to work on increasing the distance you walk. Just a little further each day, until you make it all the way to and from the store.”

  “But it’s only the right leg that’s not working prop …”

  My telephone rang and interrupted Mrs van Brock.

  “Hi, it’s Tom,” I heard. “Can I consult with you for a moment?” he asked in his New Zealand accent.

  I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes. “Go ahead.”

  “I have a patient with me who I believe is suffering from an appendicitis. He’s showing all the classic symptoms. Can you come by to confirm my diagnosis?”

  “Have you already performed the abdominal test?”

  “What do you mean?”