In Two Minds

by Gordon Parker

  ‘I have the suspicion that you’ll be the takeaway king for the next week.’ She hugged him again. ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you back in the world, Sunny.’

  After dinner, they sat on the sofa watching television for a couple of hours, holding hands, Sarah occasionally patting his arm. He suggested he would like to return to their bedroom as he was now able to sleep, and Sarah hugged him again.

  As he brushed his teeth, Martin debated what dose of tricyclic to choose and chose to increase the dose, taking both a 75-milligram and a 25-milligram capsule. Afterwards, he and Sarah lay in bed chatting gently for a while and then curled together, Sarah holding him, noting his breathing changing as sleep overtook his talk, settling her further.

  ‘Thank God,’ she murmured and then climbed out of bed, knelt beside it and prayed for the first time since they had engaged in the IVF program. She prayed to God, not her god as she had none, but simply to God, a raw prayer of gratitude.

  HI HO, HIGH HO, AND OFF TO WORK…

  Martin woke early on the Thursday morning but without the dread. He felt hung over from the medication but with a sense of pep, no longer deadened by the lack of energy. Before leaving the house he kissed Sarah, but was glad he did not wake her. He drove to the practice somewhat faster than usual, his hands only lightly holding the wheel, feeling one with his car and like it was skiing. Everything looked brighter, clearer and more vivid. Waiting at traffic lights he was struck by the patterns of people crossing. It was not simply Brownian movement. He suspected that it must be in accord with some other law of physics. When he parked the car to get his morning coffee he was struck by the sight of a distinct scratch on the right-hand door. It looked old but he could not remember seeing it previously. Returning to the car he took a long sip of the coffee. It felt fuller in taste. He then smelt dog shit. He looked on his shoes and around his feet, eventually seeing some on the grass ten metres away. Great, he thought, I’m definitely out of the depression, senses really acute. As he drove off to the practice he could still smell the dog shit for the next ten minutes. He was intrigued.

  He was the first to arrive and he strode to his office. More than a week of accrued correspondence with dozens of sticky notes were piled on his desk.

  Operate to the rule of one-thirds, he encouraged himself. One third toss, one third action and one third…Well there is always a problem with the third one-third. Third one-third. Like it. Could freeze the one-third and, if need be, later thaw it out. Thawed one-third.

  Martin speed-read the correspondence, murmuring, ‘Better read than dead.’ He skimmed pathology reports, circled the patient’s name for filing or marked it with a large cross if the patient needed contacting. He speed-read letters from consultants. Counter to habit, Martin dictated responses and instructions to the secretaries rather than write in his day book. Dictation was more efficient and faster. How easy it all was! I’m the great dictator, he mused.

  When he heard the secretaries arrive he bounded out of his surgery, greeting them with a big smile, and was delighted to observe their warm morning greetings. Employees indeed. Colleagues in a sense. And certainly friends. He and Sarah should organise a staff dinner.

  ‘Let the crowds in!’ he instructed.

  There were two elderly patients waiting quietly, a young sleep-deprived mother with her baby crying in her arms and a young man, pacing impatiently while talking on his mobile and drinking coffee. They entered, the mother having difficulty with the pram and the young man asserting himself by passing her to get to the reception desk first. Martin returned to his office and waited for his first patient. He knew who it would be.

  The Thursday went fast for Martin. He was ahead of schedule for most of his patients, having told the secretaries to allocate his patients ten-minute slots. In taking a history he was aware that he was more prescient in judging the patient’s likely responses, and that his diagnostic acumen had sharpened. He became fascinated by the redness of the bulging eardrum in a young boy with otitis media. He detected a soft systolic murmur – almost certainly benign – for the first time in a woman he had examined with his stethoscope many times previously. And when he diagnosed acute appendicitis in a young man he also felt confident to state aloud, ‘Bet the surgeon that the hot tip will be facing nine o’clock.’

  At morning tea he was cheerful and chatty. Several expressed their relief to each other after the break. When Dave Bradbury came in Martin gave him a wink. Dave looked mildly bewildered and then, observing one of Martin’s most generous smiles, smiled warmly in response, but chose not to say what he wanted to say – Great to see you back in the land of the living mate.

  Martin rang Sarah twice that Thursday. ‘Sar. I’m feeling great. Just ringing to say there’s absolutely no reason for you to cancel your trip. Got to go. Love you.’ The second call was less than ten minutes later. ‘Sar. Tonight. Let’s go to that French restaurant where we celebrated our last anniversary. Yep, that’s the one. You’ll book? I’m flat chat. Love you.’

  At dinner, Martin was ebullient. After a quick look at the menu he ordered the duck confit with creamy butterbean puree for Sarah, the beef bourguignon for himself and, for afters, the apple frangipane tart with salted caramel sauce. He added to the waiter, ‘And a bottle of your 2005 Hermitage La Petite Chapelle Jaboulet.’

  Sarah decided not to point out she usually chose her own mains, being delighted by Martin’s spumante mood. Her eyes twinkled. ‘Why did you choose that particular wine?’

  Martin laughed, ‘Just wanted to practise my French,’ and rolled his eyes. In a sense true, but it was the wine name that had most struck him as it allowed him to roll potentially discordant consonants into a cohesive whole.

  Martin talked most of the time, describing his day, thanking Sarah for her support over the previous weeks and twice stating, ‘I love you so much.’ Martin felt joy. And joy at feeling joy. And joy in tasting the food and sipping the wine. Again aware that his taste was more acute and that it extended. A violinist was playing in the corner of the restaurant and Martin felt he could actually taste the music as well, but he didn’t pass this observation to Sarah. The rebound from the depression was illuminating. He now knew why melancholic depression existed. So that those in remission would view life and all its riches with greater appreciation.

  After they left the restaurant Martin went up to an old man sitting on a bus seat and handed him a 100-dollar note. Sarah chose not to comment.

  On arriving home they both went to the bedroom, Sarah to pack her suitcase. Martin noticed Captain acting frisky, circling around Martin as if he wanted to be taken for a walk. He, Martin, also felt frisky.

  He put his arm around Sarah. She ceased packing and stood up, looking at him directly and warmly.

  Martin spoke eagerly. ‘Sar, now that my brain juices are running again…How about a celebratory naughty?’

  Sarah nodded her head and laughed gently. ‘But just let me finish packing first.’

  As she packed more briskly, Martin wondered whether he should take 100 milligrams of the tricyclic or perhaps 150 milligrams. Impatience shaped his choice. As Sarah checked the bags and her documents Martin hovered eagerly, at times putting his arms around her, and once pretended to hump her. In bed, he expressed his love again and Sarah prepared for a period of fondling, with each looking into the other’s eyes.

  ‘It’s so good to have you back, Sunny,’ whispered Sarah. ‘It’s been a long time. It must have been so horrible.’

  Martin smiled, then grimaced as he entered her and started energetically thrusting. Quite forceful, aware and sensitive to her needs at times but also unaware as he sought for everything to proceed as fast as possible. As he spasmed he whinnied before intensely hugging Sarah.

  He was suddenly aware he could smell his own sperm and a body odour emanating from Sarah. Neither were offensive but striking in their intensity and persistence, while the dust smell in the room was distinctly unpleasant.

  An hour later Sarah woke. Mar
tin was entering her again. She smiled to herself. A second naughty in one night was rare, possibly not having happened for over a decade. She knew it was to meet his need, not hers, and which must have been damned by the enervating impact of the depression. She pretended she was asleep, just rolling gently and uttering sonances indicating some level of voluntary acceptance, but she was relieved when she felt him project in a grunting debouch, and fall away from her. At four a.m. she again woke. Martin was fondling her, one hand on her breast, slowly stroking till its rhythm became faster and more agitated. When she felt his hand reach for her groin, she pulled away to face him, and while he could not see her concern in the dark he could hear her lightly troubled voice.

  ‘Martin. We’ve got to be up in a few hours. I’ve got a flight to catch and I won’t get much sleep on the plane.’

  ‘Sorry, darling. I know I’m being quite selfish. It’s just such a relief to be out of the black mood. My libido rebounded. Kaboom! You go to sleep and I’ll put Percy’s fire out by reciting the National Anthem.’

  Martin fell back, to stare at the ceiling. He had had enough sleep. He needed to do something. A run seemed perfect.

  And as he ran through the streets that Friday morning with Captain loping alongside he had never run the street blocks so fast, had such a long stride or experienced such a precise rhythm. A thought of winged feet came to mind and he imagined himself as Hermes or Alipes. After three kilometres his energy was dissipated and he trotted home, suddenly realising he might be late getting Sarah to the airport.

  Her bags were at the door and she was putting on her makeup.

  ‘Martin! Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I just went for a run. For fun. A fun run.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me. And we haven’t a lot of time to get to the airport.’

  ‘Sar. I offer you my breathless and countless apologies. Give me thirty seconds for a shower, a minute to be dressed and in three minutes we’ll be in the car and lucky Mascot bound.’

  Martin drove rapidly to the airport.

  ‘Martin, you just went through a yellow…You’re driving too fast.’

  Martin flashed a smile. ‘I don’t want you to be late for the plane.’

  ‘We’re well on time. You seem to be in such a rush the last few days. Really impatient…’

  ‘The depression has gone and my energy is back.’

  ‘But does that account for last night? I have to say that I felt somewhat used.’

  Martin grimaced. ‘Sorry about that. I had such a need at the time.’

  Sarah went quiet for a minute. ‘But are you going to be able to cope while I’m away?’

  ‘I’m fine now. You’ll be back next Sunday. That’s not long at all. And I’ve got plans for next week. I’m going through all our files. Clear out the detritus. Get them in order. I’ll have a crack at the garden too and I might even do some painting around the house. Plenty of things to keep me going.’

  ‘You’re not doing the house up for possible sale?’

  ‘No. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you want to move?’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s not something to be resolved on a drive to the airport. Oh Sunny, I do wish you were coming with me.’

  ‘So do I, Sar, but you’ll be at the convention all week and you’ll need to stick with your team. As we discussed, we wouldn’t have had much time for ourselves. And it’s such a brief trip. We’ll do it properly next year. Six weeks in Europe.’ He smiled at her and she wondered why he wiggled his tongue. Which he did several times as he escorted her to the airport gate, where they hugged each other and breathed messages of affection to the other until it was time to part.

  MARTIN TAKES OFF

  Martin went straight from the airport to the practice. The previous day he had volunteered to work a long Friday shift, aware he would be missing Sarah and also wanting to repay some of his colleagues who had quietly filled in for him at times over the last month.

  As the day progressed he again felt he was on song and flying, able to detect subtle cues as he interviewed patients. From their body language (That’s Parkinson’s till proved otherwise) and from other non-verbal gestures, including micro-facial expressions. He needed half a dozen questions at most to be confident of the patient’s diagnosis. Not only could he predict what many patients were going to offer as their primary complaint, he could anticipate problems.

  As he completed an assessment of a young woman with epilepsy, he was convinced she was going to have a focal seizure before she left the surgery. As she left his room Martin waited rather than calling the next patient through. Thirty seconds later the duress alarm went off. Martin strode out to see her lying in front of the reception desk having a seizure. He called out to the receptionist while he rolled the woman on her side and ensured her airway remained open.

  ‘Emma. Ring for an ambulance immediately and then clear the waiting room.’

  Returning to his room he could actually hear his own train of thought while he was writing the briefing note to the hospital. It was distracting to a degree, and he had also begun to be distracted by sounds (Must soundproof this room better) and by smells. The smell of the soap he had used when washing his hands, as well as the perfumes of many female patients. And body odour. The smell of one man whom he had assessed in the morning lasted till early in the afternoon. Everything was sharper. The rebound reward experienced by those with depression, he reasoned. Again he was more empathic with his patients. He felt connected to them. Every doctor should develop an illness every now and again, to experience how their patients might be feeling.

  He worked till ten at night, collected a pizza on the way home and wolfed it down while trawling through the television channel options, and contemplating how he would spend the next day.

  The surgery till early afternoon, but then what? Sarah had raised the possibility of moving. Perhaps he could scout the land while she was away.

  Later, in bed, Martin found there was no way he could get to sleep. At midnight he decided to go for a run.

  As he ran across a park he noted a van stop on the far side. Just next to where he would exit. His mood of euphoria changed in an instant to an awareness of danger. There was something about the van or its position. He dropped to the ground, inching his way under a bench and waited. Two minutes later, three men passed by, all carrying baseball bats. Angry and swearing.

  ‘Where did that cunt go, Mick?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. He was definitely on this track.’

  While they paced around Martin felt serene. In danger, but unconcerned. He was the it in a game of hide and seek. He was tempted to run out yelling, Catch me if you can, but he had already run ten kilometres. He stayed grounded – yes, I feel grounded – until he heard their van drive off.

  He trotted home, showered and debated, what dose? A hundred and fifty milligrams, he decided. The standard endpoint dose.

  As he lay on the bed he was aware of gentle, incessant rain running down the window. It was white noise. But, out of that white noise, he was able to detect cadences which progressed to a song. It was a day when he had been on song.

  MEETING LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

  Martin slept for perhaps three hours – occasionally logging on to the computer during the night – but woke full of energy and happiness on the Saturday. In fact, he felt mugged with happiness. He set about his chores and was struck that he felt no imperative to colour code the laundry as he hung it out. He stepped back to admire the lack of order but the randomness itself indicated a pattern.

  As he drove to the surgery he became preoccupied by a piece of music playing on Radio National. He could actually breathe it in. He must buy the CD. In fact, to fill in the afternoon he would buy a dozen CDs. Ones that would delight Sarah. And some books. There was nothing like the smell of a new book. And perhaps a skateboard. Top of the line one. And all the kit. To alternate with his running.

  After giving chocolates and flowers to the two appreciative secretar
ies Martin tackled the Saturday morning surgery, full of enthusiasm, which was welcomed by his patients. He radiated interest in them and, if at times he cut them off, they viewed it as his eagerness to help them. After finishing he went to the shops to buy lunch and visit the music store before his Saturday afternoon visits to the nursing homes.

  On his way to the store he remembered Sarah was keen to sell their house. He crossed the road and entered the nearest real estate agency.

  And there he saw Bella standing behind the receptionist. As Bella looked up, her eyes widened, appearing like a skittish thoroughbred filly in a mounting yard rattled by an onlooker.

  Martin was struck by her piercing black eyes made blacker by smoky eyeshadow. He was acutely aware of her high cheekbones. How could such an alignment alone be so entrancing? He also marvelled at her perfect olive skin. Her long inky black hair was tucked behind her right ear but covered the left. She wore a stylishly cut business pant suit. Purple. Not the industry’s stereotypic black.

  Later Martin speculated that she had released a pheromone, just like the female silk moth that releases a trail of the chemical bombykol, known to be infallible in drawing males. For it was not the perfume she was wearing – he could identify it and it had never had that effect on him before. He was bewitched.

  Bella looked straight at Martin as if she was amazed to see a long lost friend – that silent moment of pleasure before an exclamation of joy.

  But she offered no such exclamation. Instead she spoke warmly. ‘Hi. I’m Bella Donna…’

  Martin laughed. ‘Belladonna? What an extraordinary name.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m being rude.’

  Bella waved one hand, indicating there was no need for embarrassment. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m Dr Homer. Martin Homer. I’d like to discuss buying a property.’