Residuum

by ID Johnson

  His eyebrows raised. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite.”

  He tipped his head to the side, as if he would consider it, and she began to walk again. They were almost at the room, and he said nothing else in response until after he’d unlocked the door, and the ladies were inside. “Do you require anything before I depart?”

  With a broad smile, Meg replied. “Only that you have a nice time.”

  He blushed and said nothing more before shutting the door. Meg broke into a fit of giggles, and Carrie wrapped her arms around the blonde’s shoulders, laughing right along. “It’s just so nice to see him…”

  “Flustered?” Carrie asked.

  “I was going to say happy, but I suppose that’s true as well.”

  Letting go, Carrie replied, “I agree. It is nice. Now, perhaps you could play matchmaker for me.”

  “Matchmaker?” Meg repeated, her eyebrows raised. “I’d hardly call myself that.”

  “I need all the help I can get,” Carrie replied, attempting to drop onto the settee but struggling against the confines of Meg’s gown. “It was nice to wear this lovely frock tonight and imagine, though. Perhaps I could meet a nice gentleman if I pretend to be important enough.”

  “You are important,” Meg reminded her. “Besides, you don’t have to wear a nice gown to meet a proper gentleman. I met Charlie wearing clothing I’d borrowed from my lady, you know?”

  Carrie nodded. “I should only hope to be half as lucky as you’ve been when it comes to love.”

  Meg sat down across from her. “I have been lucky in that one area of my life, that’s very true,” she agreed. The shortcomings everywhere else seemed quite trivial when compared to meeting Charlie.

  “The brain is still quite a mystery,” Dr. Morgan was saying as he sat across from Charlie in a plush velvet chair, Dr. Shaw seated nearby. Circles of smoke lingered around them from the cigars of several dozen gentlemen seated in similar groupings, discussing business and other inconsequentialities. Jonathan and Edward were sitting across the room, and Charlie glanced in his friend’s direction every once in a while, noting that he seemed unusually amused about something.

  “I’ve been reading Freud’s theories of psychoanalysis,” Charlie said with a nod. “Do you think there’s any truth to his findings? Particularly regarding the unconscious mind?”

  Dr. Morgan nodded. “I can’t say that I completely agree with all that Freud has to say, but I do with his theory that the unconscious mind plays a larger role in our actions than we previously understood.”

  “Do you believe memories can be trapped there and cause us to act in a particular fashion?” Charlie asked as a waiter brought him another drink.

  “I certainly believe that is possible,” Dr. Morgan said as he waved the servant away with a polite smile. “Tell me, Mr. Ashton, what do you remember from Titanic?”

  Charlie cleared his throat. “Why, that’s just it, doctor. I don’t remember much of anything once Meg was safe on the lifeboat. There are flashes from time to time, and once in a while I feel as if I’m about to remember something, but then… it all fades away. I remember helping some of the Third Class passengers try to get up to the lifeboats, but there was so much confusion. I can see their faces in flickers before me, but they don’t last. Sort of like the explosion from a flashbulb, if you will.”

  “Interesting,” Dr. Shaw said, taking a puff from his cigar. “And you don’t recall boarding Carpathia then?”

  “No,” Charlie shook his head. “In fact, I don’t even remember disembarking Carpathia. But then, I may have been unconscious. Meg says they were giving me some pretty heavy sedatives. There were times I couldn’t even place her.” Turning back to Dr. Morgan, he said, “Do you think that’s… normal, doctor?”

  “I do,” Dr. Morgan assured him. “If what the papers are saying is true, you expired for a bit aboard Carpathia. Do you think that’s accurate?”

  “Meg says I died,” Charlie agreed. “I remember feeling as if I were floating away, then opening my eyes to see her there, and I remember fragments of the conversation we had after that, but then it all goes hazy again.”

  “I don’t think this sort of reaction to such a traumatic experience is out of the ordinary,” Dr. Morgan said, adjusting in his chair. “In fact, coupled with the medical issues you’ve also faced, I’m a bit surprised you recall anything at all.”

  “Is that so?” Charlie asked, feeling a bit relieved. “You think it’s typical, then?”

  “I do.”

  “What other sorts of reactions might be considered normal?” Charlie asked, not wanting to bring up the voices that were imploring him to help them, even as he sat in the safety of the ship.

  Dr. Morgan shrugged. “If you’ve read my most recent theory, you’ll understand that it could be unique to each individual’s experience.”

  “I have read it,” Charlie replied. “The theory of individual capability.”

  “Precisely,” Dr. Morgan said with a small smile. “Your experience could be exactly the same as someone else’s, and you could still walk away with a completely different memory, a completely different recount, of everything that happened. Even the other gentlemen who were in the water with you that night could have a wholly different recollection from you.”

  Once again, Charlie found himself nodding along. He had read Dr. Morgan’s recently published work, and he had already come to that conclusion on his own. “And what of the memories I have that I cannot bring to the surface? I find it a bit ironic that Freud likened memory to an iceberg of all things.”

  Dr. Shaw snickered. “If he’d been aboard Titanic, he might have changed his theory.”

  “Indeed,” Charlie said, trying not to roll his eyes. “Do you feel it’s possible or even beneficial to try to recall them?”

  “I believe so,” Dr. Morgan said. “It’s my opinion that remembering as much as possible about a traumatic event will allow you to deal with that experience and move on from it.”

  “Would accessing those memories be difficult?”

  “It all depends on the patient,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Some might be able to draw those memories out quickly, face their fears, and move on. For others, it might take months, years even.”

  “Charlie, perhaps Dr. Morgan could help you with some of the anxiety you are having as a result of the sinking. Are you seeing new patients, Dr. Morgan?” Dr. Shaw clearly had his patient’s best interests in mind, but Charlie was hesitant to ask for help. He still wasn’t convinced Meg would approve.

  “I’m not taking new patients as a rule right now,” Dr. Morgan said. “However, I’d be more than happy to make an exception for you, Charlie. I believe someone of your stature, who has been through the horrific events you’ve experienced, would be an interesting patient to assist, and I’d be honored to have the opportunity to work with you.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond. The chance to receive professional assistance from someone as skilled as Dr. Morgan did seem tempting, especially since he was beginning to think the doctor could actually help him. “Thank you, Dr. Morgan,” he began. “I would need to speak to Meg first.”

  “I find it… charming how you consistently take into account Miss Westmoreland’s wishes,” Dr. Shaw said, with a chuckle. “Will that be the way of it with you youngsters? Letting women have an equal say in all household operations?”

  Though he wasn’t offended, he didn’t find it amusing, either, and Charlie said, “I can only speak for myself, but I plan to consult my wife whenever possible. For one thing, I value her opinion; she’s much more intelligent than I am. Secondly, I should like to stay in her good graces. I’ve worked for years to get here, and I should hate to have to start all over again.”

  The other gentlemen laughed, and Charlie chuckled along with them out of politeness, but he’d meant every word he said.

  “I hardly think Miss Westmoreland could be more intelligent than you, sir,” Dr. Shaw said. />
  “You should try playing any sort of game with her then, particularly if trivia is involved. She’s sharp as a tack, I assure you.”

  Dr. Shaw only guffawed, as if he thought it impossible that a woman could be smarter than any man, particularly one who had graduated from Cambridge.

  “Once we reach New York, please telephone my office or come by,” Dr. Morgan encouraged. “We’ll be happy to see you, discreetly of course, Charlie. I do believe I can help you begin to feel like your former self.”

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Charlie said, “Wonderful, Dr. Morgan. I do look forward to putting all of this behind me. Of course, this doesn’t mean you’ll be giving me any type of medication or sending me off to live in an asylum of any sort does it?”

  Dr. Morgan laughed quietly. “No, of course not. I don’t believe in medication, and the only way I’d send you away is if I thought you were a danger to yourself or others.”

  “Very good,” Charlie replied with a nod.

  “What of Miss Westmoreland?” Dr. Shaw asked, pausing to take a sip of his brandy. “How is she handling all of this?”

  “Meg? She’s fine,” Charlie said with a shrug. “She’s been through so much, and yet it doesn’t seem to trouble her one bit. She tried to explain to me once the system she has, mentally, of dealing with all that she’s had to go through in her life, but I’m not sure I quite understand.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Dr. Morgan said. “Of course, should the need arise, I’m happy to see her as well.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said with a smile, though he knew there was likely no chance he’d ever get Meg to see a psychiatrist after the conversation they’d had regarding him seeing one himself. She’d just keep shoving her memories down inside those boxes in her mind until they were so deep, she’d forget the boxes even existed. Either that, or she and her boxes would simply come unhinged. He hoped for the former.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Meg sat on a plush sofa in Maurice’s shop near Columbus Circle. From here, she could see the people outside bustling by on a warm June day, and she wondered where they were going and if any of them would mind if she went along. She’d rather be just about anywhere else.

  “I like the taffeta,” Grace was saying, “though with that tulle underneath, it seems a bit too… poofy, don’t you think?”

  It wasn’t Meg she was speaking to, so she remained silent, watching a plump, older woman proceed down the sidewalk with a little boy who she believed might be the woman’s grandson. He seemed reluctant to walk, and Meg imagined they must have had a disagreement. Perhaps he wanted a snack from one of the many street vendors, and Grandmother had said no….

  “Meg? Are you listening?”

  She turned her head to see Pamela addressing her. “I’m sorry—were you speaking to me?”

  Pamela let out a soft giggle as if she wanted to be angry at Meg for being distracted but couldn’t because the girl was just too pathetic. “Yes, darling. I was saying this chiffon would look lovely with your complexion, don’t you think?”

  Meg looked from the fabric Pamela was holding out toward her to the bolt Grace was holding. While Meg had worn her fair share of just about every popular fabric in creation, she’d never really bothered with learning the differences. They were both ivory, she knew that much. They looked quite similar. “I like it,” Meg said, forcing a smile. “I defer to your expertise.”

  Pamela’s smile broadened. “Darling, don’t you want to pick your dress? I know we’ve done most of the choosing for you, but surely you have something in mind for your wedding gown?”

  Meg thought about a portrait that used to sit in her mother’s parlor, one that had been gone for quite some time. It had been of her parents on their wedding day. Her mother had looked stunning in a fitted white gown with a high neckline, a lacy veil over the back of her head. Despite desperately wanting to marry Charlie, she hadn’t put much thought into the wedding itself, thinking it would be a bit of an olive branch to allow his sister her say as much as possible, under Pamela’s guidance. Now, since they were asking, she found she did have an opinion after all.

  “I think I should like a full skirt, one that does have a bit of—what did you say, Grace? Poof? Yes, I think I should like that. And I would like the neckline to be lower—not scandalously low, but not choking either. As to the fabric, anything but lace.”

  Pamela and Grace exchanged looks. “Very well, then. I think we can accomplish that,” Pamela said, still smiling. They went on about their conversation, Pamela occasionally asking Meg if she agreed and Grace periodically shooting daggers across the room. Eventually, they settled on the chiffon with a tulle under-layer, and Pamela went out to find Maurice to let him know of the decision.

  Grace set the bolt of fabric they had chosen against the sofa where Meg had been sitting for nearly an hour now and stretched her back. “It’s a pity your friend couldn’t come. What’s her name? Kitty?”

  “Kelly,” Meg replied, knowing Grace was likely aware of her friend’s name. If Kelly had been there, it may have been a more hostile situation. Meg had wanted to ask her but decided against it. This was a day to be endured, and she would gladly do so if it took her one step closer to being Charlie’s wife.

  Sitting down several feet away from her, Grace said, “I imagine you’re quite pleased you won’t have to wait until the fall to make sure Charlie can’t change his mind.”

  Meg’s eyebrows shot up. “I wasn’t aware that was a possibility,” she said with a shrug. “I’m fairly certain I could wait a few hundred years and he wouldn’t change his mind—though I’ll be the first to admit it is surprising.”

  Grace looked at her curiously. “You believe so?”

  “Yes, of course.” Meg straightened her back. “I’m fully aware that I don’t deserve your brother.”

  One perfectly formed eyebrow arched above a brown eye. “You are?”

  “How could I not be? He’s nearly perfect, you know. I don’t suppose any woman truly deserves him. I certainly don’t. I’m aware of all the mistakes I’ve made over the years, Grace. We’ve discussed them, I’ve apologized and explained, and he has forgiven me. Perhaps you might consider doing so yourself one day.”

  Grace continued to stare at her as if she didn’t understand the language Meg was speaking. After a few moments, she settled back into the sofa and turned her attention toward the large window in front of them. “It isn’t that I don’t forgive you, Mary Margaret. It’s only… I was afraid you might want him for other reasons. That you might be more concerned with becoming an Ashton than becoming Charlie’s wife.”

  “I can understand that,” Meg nodded. “But that isn’t the case. I tried very hard not to become an Ashton, but it wouldn’t take.”

  She turned her head to look at Meg and a bit of a smile began to creep into the corners of her mouth. Grace shut it down. “Do you have something against the family name?”

  “Not at all,” Meg replied, smiling. “I’ve only heard pleasant things about your family. Your parents’ generosity is well known. They were certainly loyal friends to my father.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you want to marry into the family?”

  Meg took a deep breath and scooted a bit toward Grace, who didn’t move away. “I wanted to choose, Grace. I wanted the capability of standing in front of a man and saying, ‘Yes, you’re the one.’ I wanted that for Charlie as well. While I knew in my heart my father would always have my best interests in mind, I also knew my mother didn’t, and I wasn’t quite sure whose request I would be fulfilling if I went along with this. But then I realized my da had chosen Charlie purposefully, and I couldn’t have made a better selection if I’d been given all the men in the world to go through.”

  “But Charlie deserves a choice, too,” Grace interjected, spinning around to face her. “That has always been my contention. Peter might not be perfect, but I chose him. Charlie didn’t get that opportunity.”

  “Oh, but he did,” Meg
assured her with a nod. “He chose me more than once when I didn’t think he would. I gave him every opportunity to leave me and go on about his life, but he wouldn’t do it, so here we are.”

  “No, Charlie would never go against father’s wishes and let you go when he knew how much the arrangement with Mr. Westmoreland meant.”

  “He easily could’ve if Mary Margaret Westmoreland was missing in England or had died aboard Titanic. Both of those things could’ve happened.” Meg dropped her eyes to the floor and added quietly, “Both of those things did happen.” She raised her eyes to Grace. “For whatever reason, I cannot say, but believe me when I say your brother has chosen me. And if I am lucky, he will continue to choose me every day for the rest of my life. Don’t be cross at me because you believe I am unaware that I am unworthy. I’m quite aware of that fact, and that’s just one of the reasons why I thank God every day for knowing what was best for me when I had absolutely no idea.”

  With a sigh, Grace blinked back tears and slowly wrapped her arms around Meg. Neither of them said anything, and when Pamela came into the room, Maurice on her heels, Meg heard her let out a slow gasp. Meg couldn’t help but think Mr. and Mrs. Ashton had chosen the correct name for their daughter after all.

  Dr. Morgan’s office was on the third floor of a five story building, nestled between two similar looking offices, and Charlie attempted to be discreet as he slipped inside for the first time. He knew that the field of psychiatry was growing in acceptance, yet he didn’t necessarily want to make an announcement to the world that he needed help. However, the accompanying chorus of voices that stepped off of the elevator with him was a reminder that he hadn’t been capable of getting better on his own.

  The receptionist was an older woman with a nice smile. She asked Charlie to wait one moment while she informed Dr. Morgan that he was there, and though there were a few leather bound chairs to choose from, Charlie chose to stand instead. He peeked beneath the curtains at the few autos and pedestrians traveling about below and wondered if any of those people belonged in here as much as he did.