by M. J. Cates
“Perhaps if you talked to her, sir.”
Lila Quinn pounced. “You’re a resident, not a first-year medical student. Impress upon these people your medical authority.”
Imogen reddened. “I’ve tried, but they won’t listen to me. Perhaps they’ll listen to Dr. Ganz.”
Ganz demurred. “Unfortunately, I leave tomorrow for Los Angeles and will be away for the next four weeks. Talk to them both one more time. Give it your best. And if they insist on her release, arrange for her to see you in the dispensary once a week for the first month at least. Her improvement is considerable—even the night nurse has remarked on it. Let’s hope your fears are exaggerated.”
Millie was released two days later, bright and chipper, into the welcoming arms of her husband. She told Imogen she would definitely come back for her first follow-up in a week’s time, she would even look forward to it. She and her husband filled out the forms and signed the papers and left the building in a glow of love for each other and gratitude to the Phipps—in particular to Dr. Lang.
When Millie did not arrive for her appointment the following week, Imogen sent a bicycle messenger to her address, but he returned empty-handed. She woke that night and could not fall back to sleep. She stood by the window and watched the elms sway against the first damp gusts of a storm that soon broke, hurling fat drops of rain against the glass. She watched for almost an hour before returning to bed and a fitful sleep.
A letter arrived the next morning—not from Millie but her husband. It had been written the night before.
Dear Dr. Lang,
I am sorry to tell you that my loving Millie has this day taken her own life, as she has long wanted to do. She was always a cheerful girl until this sickness came along and took all her happiness away—and put in its stead a misery unbearable to see. But she will no longer have to suffer so, for this morning she wrote a note before taking the trolley to Twenty-Ninth Street and stepping in front of a train. In her note she blames no one but herself, as was ever her way, and says that she was only counterfitting happiness in order that she might come home and spend a short while with me before ending her time here on earth. She charged me to be sure and thank you for all your kind efforts and so I do. There was nothing you could have done better, Doctor, as the disease was implackable if that is how you spell it.
Yours sincerely,
Eustace Nielsen
7
It did not help that Lila Quinn was now not only her direct boss, but actively in charge of all the wards in Ganz’s absence. Upon receipt of Eustace Nielsen’s note, still in the fog of shock, Imogen sought out Dr. Quinn and asked to speak to her in private. They went into one of the special rooms off the main corridor.
“Well?” Quinn said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. For some reason she wore a nurse’s cap even though she was not and never had been a nurse. “What is it?”
“Millie Nielsen has—has killed herself.” Imogen handed her the note.
Quinn glanced at it, then said, “This goes in the file.” She squinted at Imogen. “Are you crying? Don’t you dare cry. In the first place it is not how a physician responds to news of a patient’s death and in this particular case you’ve lost any right you may have had for tears.”
“But it’s such terrible news.”
“Indeed it is. But hardly unexpected. Did I not tell you to impress upon the Neilsens your authority as a doctor and as a psychiatrist? Did I not tell you to be firm?”
“I was firm, and—”
“Not firm enough, clearly. The woman is dead.”
“And that was not Dr. Ganz’s advice. He said—”
“ ‘We are not police.’ I know what he said. Don’t tell me what he said. Obviously we could not imprison her. But if you had followed my advice, the poor woman might well be alive today and this poor man”—Quinn waved the note—“might still have a wife.”
Imogen sank to a chair and covered her face with her hands.
“No.” Lila Quinn grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away. “No, you don’t get to hide and you don’t get to cry. You continue to perform your ward duties like a professional—unless that too is beyond your capabilities.”
Imogen did go back to the ward, but all that day she moved in a state of numb distraction. Others had to repeat things to her before she took them in. She forgot what she was intending to do from one moment to the next, forgot what she had intended for her patients, wanted only to hide in her room so she could tend to her self-blame in whatever way might be available. In the evening she curled up on her bed but could not sleep or read or do anything that might erase the images of Millie Nielsen, so happy to be leaving the Phipps, stepping in front of a train.
* * *
—
That same week Imogen was invited—well, actually ordered—to assist Taunton in the psychology lab. His graduate student had quit or transferred, and he needed someone to help test some new equipment.
He had acquired a contraption for measuring the grip strength and endurance of infants. It consisted of a miniature trapeze bar suspended over a table. The bar was hooked to a spring, which was in turn connected to a timer and a scale. Imogen spent two whole mornings helping him rig it just so, no baby involved.
“Just in time,” Taunton said, when she came into the lab on the third day, “I’ve snared us an infant from the Lane Home next door.”
Imogen went to the pram that was parked beside the centre table and peered in. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, and touched a warm cheek. “Aren’t you a pretty one. What are we going to do with her?”
“Him. I don’t know. Bake him in a pie?”
“Excellent idea,” Imogen said. “I’ll find us some knives and forks.”
Taunton stopped fiddling with the spring mechanism and turned to her. “That’s pretty funny, for a woman. I might have said that myself. Women are rarely funny, have you noticed?”
“That’s only when men are around. We’re hilarious on our own.”
“I’m skeptical.”
“Well, you’ve had no chance to observe, have you.”
“Okay, wiseacre, hand me the kid.”
“What’s his name?”
“Max. But we’ll call him Baby Edward in our paper.”
Imogen lifted Max from the pram and placed him on the table beneath the grip bar. “I’d better keep my hands just underneath him, don’t you think? For when he lets go?”
“He’s fine. He’ll just land on the pillow.”
“And if the pillow slides off the table?”
“He’ll probably sustain minor injuries, perhaps a little brain damage.”
“Nothing to worry about, then.”
“Just don’t touch him until he lets go of the bar. The readings will be worthless otherwise.”
“Yes, I think I’ve figured that out.”
Taunton unhooked a three-pound weight from the bar and set it on a shelf. “Look, this isn’t a meeting of the Suffragette Society I’m running. If you want the vote, swell—I’m all for it—but leave your attitude at home, all right?”
“Yes, master.”
“God. Where did Ganz dig you up?”
“Out of the vast pile of Phi Beta Kappa applicants with degrees in science and doctorates in medicine.”
Taunton looked at her. “Well, we know what your cardinal sin is, don’t we. Where’d you do your science?”
“Chicago.”
“Really—did you know Kimbel?” Taunton’s face had changed, arrogance replaced by genuine interest, and Imogen felt the sweet stirrings of pride.
“I took psychology with him. He was positively loony about William James.”
“That’s Kimbel. Good God, what is that horrible smell?”
“Oh, dear.”
Imogen pulled a clean diaper from the pram. “I’ll take him to the ladies’ room.”
“There’s a fire hose in the hall. Use that.”
The ladies’ room offered nothing that might serve t
o make cleaning up a beshitten infant any easier. Imogen delicately washed him off under a tap, which provoked from his twisty little mouth an aria of outrage. She wiped him dry using the clean portion of the dirty diaper. Taunton, a father of two, would know at least as much about changing diapers as Imogen, but it hadn’t occurred to her to suggest he deal with it; women were women, after all, and men were men.
She swaddled the baby in the fresh diaper and tickled his nose a couple of times. The watery blue eyes rounded with surprise. He gurgled and reached up with tiny doughy fists. Imogen tilted her head and allowed him to grasp her hair and pull her face toward him. He cooed and she cooed back, a response that surprised her since she had not suspected herself of having any affection for babies and had always assumed she could get through life quite happily without them. Realistically, this was impossible; everyone had babies. Women who didn’t were pitiable figures, prone to neurasthenia and secret addictions. Her heart was suddenly suffused with an ache—the realization that she very much wanted children and very much wanted a husband, provided he was nothing like Taunton. She looked into Max’s pale eyes and said, “Would I be a terrible mumma, Max? Would you give me a B? B-minus?”
Max belched a bit of milky foam and said, “Hih.”
“You’re quite a disgusting little thing, aren’t you? Say ‘Yes, Doctor. Very disgusting. Horribly disgusting.’ ”
She pried his chubby fingers from her hair and carried him back to the lab.
“You took your time,” Taunton said. “I hope you beat him.”
“Soundly.”
Taunton had her hold the baby under the trapeze bar, and when he grasped it she let him dangle using his own strength, keeping her hands just underneath to catch him. She thought he would hang on for only a second, but he surprised her.
“Twenty seconds,” Taunton said when he let go.
“Clearly a circus baby, then.” She gave Max a playful squeeze and said, “Aren’t you the little Hercules.”
“No, no,” Taunton said. “You mustn’t reward him.”
“I wasn’t rewarding him, I was just—”
“Just listen, will you? Remain neutral.” He steadied the trapeze bar. “All right. Again.”
They repeated the experiment five more times. Imogen, stung by Taunton’s words, glared at him when he wasn’t looking and rehearsed the bitter retort she would have liked to make. Had Taunton been ugly and a dullard, perhaps it would not have hurt.
“All right,” Taunton said, when Max balked at any more grasping, “he’s had enough. You can put him back in the pram.”
Imogen did so. Max was asleep before she could tuck the coverlet under his chin.
“You’re very quiet,” Taunton observed.
“I’m being neutral.”
“Ah, I see. Got your back up, have you?”
“I’m being neutral.”
“Stew, if you must, but you still have to write up the results. That binder over there. Use my previous write-ups as a model. I’ll check it when you’re done.”
Several possible responses vied in Imogen’s mind. She was not a psychology student, she was a resident psychiatrist; Taunton had no authority over her. As far as she could determine, Lila Quinn was doing him a favour by handing him one of her staff to fill in for his assistant. That being the case, she should be spoken to with the respect generally accorded to a doctor and fellow professional.
She went over to the table and opened the binder. She could just walk out. That would surely earn a reprimand from Dr. Quinn. Then, too, Taunton could let it be known that she was a know-all who couldn’t take instruction—a good argument made flesh for keeping women out of the medical-scientific community.
She glanced at Taunton’s write-ups. They were clear, brief, and in a surprisingly feminine hand. This wouldn’t take more than half an hour.
“I’ll need your notes,” she said.
“Yes, of course. I may have to interpret my scrawl for you.”
He came over to the table and set his notebook open beside her. “Starts here.” He pressed his index finger on the place. His hand was beautifully articulated, strong and elegant-looking. His skin glowed tawny next to the white of his shirt cuff. Despite her temper, Imogen wished she was wearing something more attractive than her clinic whites. If she were more attractive, her pique might upset him more. Don’t be such a child, she told herself. Just get the thing done and get out.
“I’m sorry,” Taunton said.
“Pardon me?” Imogen stopped writing.
“I’m sorry. For jumping on you earlier.” His hand came to rest on her shoulder.
“I see. Well.”
“I’m drawn to you, that’s all. I see in you similarities to myself—spirit of inquiry, resistance to authority—and physically you are very distracting indeed.” His other hand came to rest on her other shoulder, his warm fingers gently kneading her muscles. Imogen had received unwanted attention from men in the past, but never from anyone so physically attractive, and never from a teacher or employer. The only instruction she had received in such matters came from books in which the advice amounted to avoiding any situation in which you would be alone with a male. A stranger on a bus would have received a smart slap, but she was at a loss how to respond. She stared straight ahead. The faucets and counters of the lab seemed to glow in a heightened and useless way. Taunton’s hands, his beautiful hands, felt good, his touch awakening longings she had almost forgotten, but they also felt wrong.
She wriggled her shoulders and tried to slip from his grasp without actually getting up and confronting him.
“Just hold still,” he said. His voice was soft, now, all the sarcastic bite gone.
And now I’ve revealed myself, she thought. I didn’t jump up right away, I didn’t say “Stop” right away, and now it’s too late. “Please don’t do that,” she said, but her tone, in contrast to her words, conveyed little that could be called negative.
His right hand shifted a little, a finger grazing the skin of her neck above her collar. The power of this feathery touch amazed her, nerves transmitting a shiver upward to the roots of her hair, a scalding flush to her cheeks, and a silky yearning between her legs. An ache seemed to open in her chest and she realized she had stopped breathing. “Don’t.” She stood, pushing her chair back and forcing him away.
“Why such hostility, Imogen?”
“Dr. Lang, if you please.”
“Fine. Have it your way. You want to be alone, I’ll leave you alone.” He snatched up his briefcase and headed for the door. “But don’t be surprised if you end up alone for a very long time.”
* * *
—
After dinner she related this outrage to Donna.
“Well, there you are, sashaying around him, a nubile young woman, essentially begging him to ravish you—what do you expect, Imogen?”
“I call that a very rude thing to say.”
“It was a joke, you fool.” Donna got up from her Morris chair and put her arms around her friend. “You really are too innocent. Especially for a psychiatrist.” She pulled back a little, round blue eyes scanning her face. “Is that why they named you Imogen? Because it sounds like ‘innocent’?”
“It doesn’t sound a bit like ‘innocent.’ And I was dressed in my whites, for God’s sake. You can’t get less provocative than that.”
“You must have said something intelligent then. Some men find intelligent remarks erotic in the extreme.”
“I did nothing of the kind. You know perfectly well I’m not capable.”
Donna pointed at her with a prosecutorial finger. “You said something funny then.”
“No. Well, maybe a little. And then he said, ‘Women are so rarely funny, don’t you find?’ ”
“Clearly we should blow up his laboratory.”
“You’re taking this very lightly.”
“It’s hardly a catastrophe.”
“Do you want to be manhandled by your colleagues?”
&nb
sp; “Sometimes.”
“Well, you’re just a trollop, aren’t you.”
“I don’t really, of course. What did he do exactly?”
“He put his hands on my shoulders, and touched my neck. I could feel his breath on me.”
“Did you find it arousing?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Did you?”
“All right, suppose I did—somewhat. A little. But one doesn’t want to be aroused by a married colleague in the middle of a workday.”
“Perhaps at night, then.”
“Never.”
“Come now. Admit Taunton’s probably the best-looking man you’ve ever seen. You were aroused by his touch, but you’d—”
“A married man, Donna. It’s not funny. I truly would never carry on with someone else’s husband. It’s a betrayal of our entire sex. A wife at home looking after his children? What kind of life can she have if she knows her husband is pawing the women he works with? If he tries to make love to every female who comes his way?”
Her voice had risen, and Donna frowned, assessing her friend. “This is about something else.”
“Oh, don’t psychoanalyze me just now, Donna. I couldn’t bear it.” Imogen had not told Donna much about her father other than that he was “not a good husband.”
“You haven’t had such experiences, have you? I mean, you were never jealous of Quentin, were you?”
“Quentin was the most trustworthy man I ever met. A truly loyal friend. You would adore him.”
“So who made you so jealous that you react to a garden-variety male transgression with outrage not on your own behalf so much as on behalf of a woman you’ve never even met?”
Imogen reached behind her head and unclipped her hair so that it fell past her shoulders. She sat at Donna’s desk chair and swivelled a little. “I’ve seen the effects of jealousy, that’s all. The heartbreak and distrust. It’s terrible, in case you didn’t know.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever been jealous,” Donna admitted. “I’m somewhat familiar with betrayal—I suppose that’s why I never want to get married.”