Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

by Fannie Flagg

  “What?”

  “You didn’t have that Annette girl’s name written on you or I would have divorced you the first day.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  Aunt Elner asked, “Who’s Annette?”

  “Nobody,” Macky said.

  “Don’t let him fool you, Aunt Elner.”

  “I had one date with this girl and she’s turned into some big romance.”

  Norma got up and started clearing plates. “I happen to know you had two dates.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know, that’s all; never mind how I know.” Norma headed for the kitchen to get the rice pudding out of the refrigerator.

  Macky winked at Aunt Elner. “I tell you what … tomorrow I’ll go down and get your name tattooed right across my chest, OK?”

  Norma was squirting Reddi Wip on the pudding and called out, “Don’t you dare. That’s all I need is for you to get yourself tattooed all up. Next thing you’d run off and join some motorcycle gang and be robbing banks. That’s all I need is to be married to some criminal.”

  Macky looked at Aunt Elner, who already had her spoon in her hand waiting for dessert. “The woman is insane.”

  “Yes, but she sure makes a good rice pudding.”

  Shrinking

  New York City

  December 15, 1974

  For months Dena had dragged herself to Dr. O’Malley’s office two times a week, and two times a week she sat there bored to tears. He too just sat and waited for her to say something interesting or something he could analyze. When she did talk it was about the weather, current events, or her job. Today, fatigued with her own conversation and staring at the ceiling as usual, she decided to use her skills.

  “So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. You seem a little young to be a doctor. Where are you from? Are you married? Children?”

  He looked up from his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I’m the doctor and you’re the patient. I’m here to talk about you.”

  “What do you want me to say? Tell me what you want me to say.”

  “Anything you want, Miss Nordstrom, this is your time.”

  “I find this very uncomfortable.” He was jotting down something on the pad. Uncomfortable. “You just sit there, and … I mean … I’m paying you. Shouldn’t you be the one who’s talking to me, asking questions? I came here for you to help me get rid of stress, not to get it.”

  He smiled but continued writing. After a moment she decided to try another tack. “You know, Dr. O’Malley, you are a very handsome man, did you know that? Are you married?”

  Dena thought she saw a faint blush but he put his pen down and said matter-of-factly, “Miss Nordstrom, you have tried everything that patients usually try but we will eventually talk about you. We can either start today or next week or the week after. It’s up to you.”

  “I have been talking. Every time I come here I talk,” Dena said, full of frustration.

  “Miss Nordstrom, you only talk about what you do. I am interested in how you feel.”

  “How do I feel about what I do? I like my work. It’s what I have wanted since I can remember.”

  “No, how do you feel about you—outside your work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not getting a clear picture of you, unrelated to your work. I need to know how you relate to people, how you feel people relate to you.”

  “But they relate to me … about my work.”

  “I think you are mistaking a profession for a personal identity. Who are you other than what you do, that’s what I’m trying to get at.”

  “I think you are trying to fit me into some box. What I do is not that simple. It’s who I am. I am not a plumber or a construction worker who quits at five o’clock. What I do is a twenty-four-hour career. I think it’s hard for people to understand. Wherever I go, I’m on television; that’s how people ‘relate’ to me.”

  “I’m not saying that other people may not be able to separate you from what you do, I’m wondering if you can.”

  Dena looked out the window. Snow was falling, luminous against the yellow glow of the streetlights. It reminded her of another late snowy afternoon when she and her mother had walked in the streets of New York, all the way from midtown to her mother’s apartment building, but she quickly pushed it out of her mind. She did not like to think about her mother. And it was certainly not something she wanted to discuss with O’Malley. It was none of his business.

  At the end of the session, he closed his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I am afraid we have a problem.” He corrected himself. “Well, no, I’m afraid I have a problem, a scheduling problem. A former patient of mine is in a serious crisis and I am going to be forced to give up your time.”

  Hooray, thought Dena.

  “But,” he continued, “I’ve spoken to Dr. Halling and—I am sorry—I am going to have to transfer you to another doctor, one I think can help you a lot more with your immediate problems. You know, sleeplessness, nervousness; she specializes in hypnotherapy and—”

  “Hypnotherapy? I don’t want to be hypnotized, for God’s sake.”

  Dr. O’Malley said, “Before you balk, I think you should consider giving it a try. We are finding that hypnotherapy can be very helpful with deep-seated … ah … relaxation problems can be treated quite successfully with hypnotherapy.”

  Dena made a face. “I’m not crazy about the idea of going to a woman, either. Don’t you have a man you can recommend?”

  “No, Dr. Diggers is the one person I can recommend with complete confidence.” At last O’Malley seemed to loosen up a bit. He confided: “As a matter of fact, she was my therapist.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Why would you need a psychiatrist?”

  He smiled at her sudden concern. “It’s required. All doctors have to go through analysis before we get our degree. Most of us need it, anyhow.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve already spoken to her and she will see you on Friday at our time. Her name is Elizabeth Diggers and I think you’re going to be quite pleased with her.” He handed her Dr. Diggers’s card.

  “Oh, well … all right. Whatever.”

  He stood up and shook her hand. “Well, good-bye, Miss Nordstrom—and good luck.”

  Walking home in the snow, Dena felt as if she had been let out of school, yet at the same time strangely sad and a bit rejected. It couldn’t be the thought of not seeing Dr. O’Malley again; she was happy about that. Maybe it was just that Christmas was coming up. She hated Christmas. It was always the same, so many people pulling at her. Being single at Christmastime was a pain. She had to make up so many excuses, so many lies. J.C. was already badgering her to go home to Minnesota with him, but she had no intention of spending Christmas in the bosom of somebody else’s family. She usually slept through Christmas, and then had to lie about what a great time she had over the holidays. It was getting harder and harder.

  By the time she had reached Forty-fifth Street the snowfall had turned into a blizzard and she could barely see three feet in front of her. Two blocks later she looked up just in time to see a large brown mass looming before her that nearly scared her to death. Startled, she stopped and suddenly realized that she had almost walked into a camel. A huge, live camel was being led from a truck into a side door at Radio City Music Hall.

  As she stood there and waited for it to pass, she caught a quick glimpse of the darkened backstage. It reminded her of something she did not want to remember so she crossed the street quickly.

  Later, at Fifty-sixth, she started to laugh to herself. Ira’s early lead would have been “TV personality trampled to death by camel. Details at ten.”

  And Ira would have loved it.

  Passing the Torch

  New York City

  December 15, 1974

  After Dena had left his office for good, Gerry O’Malley sat back down, feeling ill. Sending her to someone else was the last thing in the wo
rld he wanted. But ethically and professionally he had to do it. He had fallen hopelessly head over heels in love with Dena Nordstrom, and could not be objective if he tried. That first day when she had come into his office, her beauty had almost taken his breath away. But he had treated beautiful women before and it was not beauty alone that made him constantly want to get up and hold her. It was the Dena he saw under that gorgeous Nordstrom exterior, that vulnerable, terrified girl, the girl inside the woman he wanted to put his arms around.

  Letting her walk out that door was the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life. He looked at his watch, and dialed.

  “Liz, it’s Gerry.”

  “Oh, hi, doll, what’s up?”

  “I just wanted to let you know she’ll be there on Friday. So I’ll send my notes on over, all right?”

  “Good. How are you doing?”

  “Other than feeling like a complete idiot, wanting to leave the profession and throw myself at her feet, I’m doing just great.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Yeah, I finally found someone as sexy and beautiful as you and she turns out to be a patient. I fell in love with my therapist; why didn’t she?”

  Elizabeth Diggers’s laugh was low and hearty.

  “Seriously, I appreciate you seeing her on such short notice. Liz, you are the only person I would trust with her.”

  “Happy to do it. And Gerry—want some highly technical professional advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go out and have a few drinks.”

  “You tell an Irishman that?”

  “On second thought, don’t. I’ll have the drink. And Gerry?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re one of the good guys.”

  “Thanks, Elizabeth.”

  Dena had made an appointment with Dr. Diggers. She sounded nice, as if she might have a little more personality than O’Malley. Her office was on Eighty-ninth and Madison Avenue. The doorman who sent her up recognized Dena. Oh, great, she thought, now everyone in New York is going to know I’m seeing a shrink. And a hypno-shrink, at that. If her next test with Dr. Halling was better, she would stop going.

  Dena rang the bell of the apartment and after a few minutes the door opened. A small Hispanic woman said, “Come right this way,” and led her down the center hall to Dr. Diggers’s office. The woman knocked lightly. “Dr. Diggers, your five o’clock is here.”

  “Come in.”

  Dena was surprised. Dr. Elizabeth Diggers was a large black woman in a wheelchair.

  “Hello, Miss Nordstrom. I’m Dr. Diggers.” She smiled. “Didn’t Gerry tell you I was a big black woman in a wheelchair?”

  “No.”

  “I see. He tends to be short on small talk.” She pushed a plate of candy toward her.

  “Yes, I know,” Dena said. “No, thank you.”

  “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How do you feel about my being black?”

  Dena, who could lie like a dog, was caught off guard. “I’m surprised, that’s all. You didn’t sound black on the phone.” Dena realized that was the wrong thing to say but it was too late. “How do I feel about it? I couldn’t care less. I’m the one who should be worried. I’m the patient … does it bother you that I’m white? If so, tell me and I’ll be happy to leave.”

  Dr. Diggers was opening the ever-present notepad and did not answer.

  “Look,” Dena said, “if this is some sort of test, I don’t care what color you are but you might as well know I don’t want to be here. But I promised my doctor I would—so here I am.”

  “I see.”

  “I just want to start off being honest.”

  “It’s a good start,” Diggers said. “And by the way, it was not a test but you passed.”

  “If it did bother people that you were black, would they tell you?”

  “No, not really, but I can get a pretty good idea if it is a problem by the way they answer.”

  “So it is a test!”

  Dr. Diggers laughed. “Yes, I guess you’re right; it is a test of sorts. Have a seat.”

  “Is the candy a test, too?”

  “Ah, now you’ve caught me again.”

  Dena finally sat down.

  “I have a few notes from Gerry but if you don’t mind, I’d like to find out some basic information. And by the way, I have seen you on television and I think you do a wonderful job.”

  Dena liked that. “Oh, thank you.”

  “Now, Gerry mentioned you seem to be having some biological effects from stress.”

  “What?”

  “Stomach problems.”

  “Oh, yes. But I tried to tell him it’s from my job. But I don’t think he gets it. He doesn’t know what television is.”

  “I see. And Dr. Halling is your physician?”

  Dena nodded and looked across the room. It was a nice room with light beige carpeting and windows that went all the way across the front. She was glad to see a wall filled with diploma after diploma.

  “How long have you had physical problems?”

  “With my stomach?”

  “Yes, or any other.”

  “Oh, a long time. Since I was about maybe fifteen or sixteen. You’re not going to hypnotize me, are you?”

  “Not today.”

  “Oh, well, I’m a little nervous about it, that’s all.”

  “Now, Miss Nordstrom, tell me a little bit about your history.”

  “Well, I started in local television in Dallas when—”

  Dr. Diggers stopped her. “No, I mean your family history.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “My father was killed in the war … and my mother’s dead.”

  “How old were you when your mother died?”

  “Ah, fourteen or fifteen, I think; it’s hard to remember.”

  “Hard to remember her death or how old you were?”

  “Both. She was sick for a long time and I was in boarding school.”

  “I see … and what was it?”

  “Sacred Heart Academy; it was a Catholic boarding school.”

  “No, what was her illness?”

  “Oh. Tuberculosis.”

  “I see.” Suddenly Dr. Diggers remembered something from Gerry’s notes. “Wasn’t somebody in your family hit by a car?”

  “Yes, she was, on her way to the hospital for treatment. She got hit by a car. Actually, a car hit her bus. Anyhow, the reason I’m here is I am having terrible trouble sleeping. I wondered if maybe—”

  “Do you have living relatives?”

  “One or two distant relatives. On my father’s side. A distant cousin and an aunt, I think—but I don’t see them much.”

  “On your mother’s side?”

  Dena leaned over to look at her pad. “Are you writing this down so if I go completely insane you can call them?”

  Dr. Diggers laughed. “No, just making a few notes for myself. And on your mother’s side?”

  “No.”

  She looked up. “No?”

  “No. All dead.”

  “I see.” The doctor made a note: patient agitated, kicking foot.

  Later that evening, when Elizabeth Diggers had finished her dinner and had put the dishes in the sink for the housekeeper in the morning, the phone rang. She wheeled over to the wall phone. “I wondered how long it would be before you called.”

  “Well, did you see my girl today?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well?”

  There was a pause. “Mercy, son, you are either the bravest man I ever knew or the dumbest.”

  He chuckled.

  “Are you sure you want to take all that on?”

  “No, but I don’t have much of a choice. I am absolutely so crazy about that woman that I can’t see straight.”

  “I’ll do my best to help her, Gerry, you know that, but at this point I’m not even sure if she will c
ome back.”

  “Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”

  “Yes, she is a good-looking woman but—”

  “And smart.”

  “Oh, yes, and smart. Next thing you’ll be asking is what she wore.”

  “What did she have on?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, you do, too. You just enjoy torturing me. But, really, isn’t she just a classic natural beauty?”

  “Yes, Gerry, she puts the moon and the stars to shame. Does this girl have any idea how you feel?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. And now is certainly not the time to tell her. She has enough problems, don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely. You’ve got it bad and that ain’t good. I think you need to put some distance between you two and see how you feel down the line.”

  “I can tell you right now, Elizabeth, I’m not going to change. It’s just a matter of giving her some time. So, I’ll only ask one more thing and then I promise—from now on I’m out of the picture, OK? What do you think—was I off on my evaluation?”

  “Not much; I think you pretty much pegged it. Shut down. Definitely symptoms of some sort of severe rejection trauma.”

  “Yeah. It could be around her mother’s death; she wouldn’t let me get near that. But it’s in your hands now.”

  “Well, OK, buddy. Now that you’ve passed the torch on to me, and I do mean that in the real sense, I’ll do my best.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But in the meantime—it could be a long meantime—I suggest you see other people.”

  “Oh, really? So, what are you doing this Saturday night?”

  “What I always do, boogie till I drop.”

  He laughed.

  “Good night, Romeo.”

  She had tried to keep it professional but after she hung up, she let her heart go out to him. She knew that being in love all by yourself was the loneliest, most painful experience known to man—or woman—and there was nothing she could do to help him.

  Who Are You?

  New York City