doctor. My doctor, it seems. A slight, balding man. Pale, in the way that only someone who spends his time indoors under artificial light can be. A benevolent face. We apparently know each other well.
He speaks about former students. He uses the word our . Our students. He says I should be proud. That I have left the university and the hospital an invaluable legacy. I shake my head. I am too tired to pretend, having had a bad night. A pacing night. Back and forth, back and forth, from bathroom to bedroom to bathroom and back again. Counting footsteps, beating a steady rhythm against the tile, the hardwood flooring. Pacing until the soles of my feet ached.
But this office tickles my memory. Although I donât know this doctor, somehow I am intimate with his possessions. A model of a human skull on his desk. Someone has painted lipstick on its bony maxilla to approximate lips, and a crude label underneath it reads simply, mad carlotta. I know that skull. I know that handwriting. He sees me looking. Your jokes were always a little obscure, he says.
On the wall above the desk, a vintage skiing poster proclaims Chamonix in bright red letters . Des conditions de neige excellentes, des terrasses ensoleillées, des hors-pistes mythiques. A man and a woman, dressed in the voluminous clothing of the early 1900s, poised on skis in midair above a steep white hill dotted with pine trees. A fanciful drawing, not a photograph, although there are photographs, too, hanging to the right and left of the poster. Black-and-white. To the right, one of a young girl, not clean, squatting in front of a dilapidated shack. To the left, one of a barren field with the sun just visible above the flat horizon and a woman, naked, lying on her belly with her hands propping up her chin. She looks directly into the camera. I feel distaste and turn away.
The doctor laughs and pats me on the arm. You never did approve of my artistic vision, he says. You called it precious. Ansel Adams meets the Discovery Channel. I shrug. I let his hand linger on my arm as he guides me to a chair.
I am going to ask you some questions, he says. Just answer to the best of your ability.
I donât even bother to respond.
What day is it?
Going-to-the-doctor day.
Clever reply. What month is it?
Winter.
Can you be more specific?
March?
Close. Late February.
What is this?
A pencil.
What is this?
A watch.
What is your name?
Donât insult me.
What are your childrenâs names?
Fiona and Mark.
What was your husbandâs name?
James.
Where is your husband?
He is dead. Heart attack.
What do you remember about that?
He was driving and lost control of his car.
Did he die of the heart attack or the car accident?
Clinically it was impossible to tell. He may have died of cardiomyopathy caused by a leaky mitral valve or from head trauma. It was a close call. The coroner went with cardiac arrest. I would have gone the other way, myself.
You must have been devastated.
No, my thought was, thatâs James: a perpetual battle between his head and his heart to the end.
Youâre making light of it. But I remember that time. What you went through.
Donât patronize me. I had to laugh. His heart succumbed first. His heart! I did laugh, actually. I laughed as I identified the remains. Such a cold, bright place. The morgue. I hadnât been in one since medical school, I always hated them. The harsh light. The bitter cold. The light and the cold and also the soundsârubber-soled shoes squeaking like hungry rats against tile floors. Thatâs what I remember: James bathed in unforgiving light while vermin scuttled.
Now youâre the one patronizing me. As if I couldnât see past that.
The doctor writes something in a chart. He allows himself to smile at me.
You scored a nineteen, he says. Youâre doing well today. I donât see any agitation and Magdalena says the aggression has subsided. Weâll continue the same drug
He speaks about former students. He uses the word our . Our students. He says I should be proud. That I have left the university and the hospital an invaluable legacy. I shake my head. I am too tired to pretend, having had a bad night. A pacing night. Back and forth, back and forth, from bathroom to bedroom to bathroom and back again. Counting footsteps, beating a steady rhythm against the tile, the hardwood flooring. Pacing until the soles of my feet ached.
But this office tickles my memory. Although I donât know this doctor, somehow I am intimate with his possessions. A model of a human skull on his desk. Someone has painted lipstick on its bony maxilla to approximate lips, and a crude label underneath it reads simply, mad carlotta. I know that skull. I know that handwriting. He sees me looking. Your jokes were always a little obscure, he says.
On the wall above the desk, a vintage skiing poster proclaims Chamonix in bright red letters . Des conditions de neige excellentes, des terrasses ensoleillées, des hors-pistes mythiques. A man and a woman, dressed in the voluminous clothing of the early 1900s, poised on skis in midair above a steep white hill dotted with pine trees. A fanciful drawing, not a photograph, although there are photographs, too, hanging to the right and left of the poster. Black-and-white. To the right, one of a young girl, not clean, squatting in front of a dilapidated shack. To the left, one of a barren field with the sun just visible above the flat horizon and a woman, naked, lying on her belly with her hands propping up her chin. She looks directly into the camera. I feel distaste and turn away.
The doctor laughs and pats me on the arm. You never did approve of my artistic vision, he says. You called it precious. Ansel Adams meets the Discovery Channel. I shrug. I let his hand linger on my arm as he guides me to a chair.
I am going to ask you some questions, he says. Just answer to the best of your ability.
I donât even bother to respond.
What day is it?
Going-to-the-doctor day.
Clever reply. What month is it?
Winter.
Can you be more specific?
March?
Close. Late February.
What is this?
A pencil.
What is this?
A watch.
What is your name?
Donât insult me.
What are your childrenâs names?
Fiona and Mark.
What was your husbandâs name?
James.
Where is your husband?
He is dead. Heart attack.
What do you remember about that?
He was driving and lost control of his car.
Did he die of the heart attack or the car accident?
Clinically it was impossible to tell. He may have died of cardiomyopathy caused by a leaky mitral valve or from head trauma. It was a close call. The coroner went with cardiac arrest. I would have gone the other way, myself.
You must have been devastated.
No, my thought was, thatâs James: a perpetual battle between his head and his heart to the end.
Youâre making light of it. But I remember that time. What you went through.
Donât patronize me. I had to laugh. His heart succumbed first. His heart! I did laugh, actually. I laughed as I identified the remains. Such a cold, bright place. The morgue. I hadnât been in one since medical school, I always hated them. The harsh light. The bitter cold. The light and the cold and also the soundsârubber-soled shoes squeaking like hungry rats against tile floors. Thatâs what I remember: James bathed in unforgiving light while vermin scuttled.
Now youâre the one patronizing me. As if I couldnât see past that.
The doctor writes something in a chart. He allows himself to smile at me.
You scored a nineteen, he says. Youâre doing well today. I donât see any agitation and Magdalena says the aggression has subsided. Weâll continue the same drug
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