“I like this couch, it’s perfectly comfortable.” The determination was as firm in her voice as the look on her face.
“It doesn’t give enough support for your back to sleep on all night, Emily, especially with the weight of that cast. You’ll wake up with a back ache. I’ve got the guest room all fixed up for you.”
Her answer could only be described as petulant, “I don’t want to stay in the guest room.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll stay in the guest room and you can have my room.” There was a slight element of exasperation in his voice.
Her capitulation was sudden and complete. “I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous. I’ll stay in the guest room. I guess I’d better get right to bed.” She made her way to the bedroom door.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I can manage if I take my time.”
“You mad at me?” The exasperation was still not completely gone from his voice.
She turned and looked at him briefly as she stood in the doorway. “Of course not. Good night.”
Brian suffered the frustration that comes with a conversation where the most important things are the ones that aren’t said. He wondered what dynamic was really at work. Why didn’t she want to sleep in the guest room? Why did she give in so quickly if she felt so strongly about it a moment before? Determined not to leave things as they were, he gave her time to get settled, and then went and tapped gently on the door.
“Come in,” she called out.
She was in the bed and covered by blankets to the chin. She looked about twelve years old to Brian.
“I think we need to talk. Is there something about this room you don’t like?”
“No. It’s fine. I’m just feeling sort of nervous. It’s so quiet in here, so lonesome.” She sounded about twelve too.
“Do you want me to stay with you until you’re asleep?” His voice was gentle, and did not in any way imply that such would be an unusual request for a woman her age to make.
“I’m being silly. It’s just nerves. I’ll be fine.”
He then left the room with a final assurance. “If you need anything, you call, okay?”
She nodded and tried to look confident and re-assured.
When the sound of rain woke Brian the next morning, he was tempted to stay in bed. He heard no sounds of stirring and assumed Emily was still sleeping. At second consideration, however, he decided to get up and make something hot for breakfast with which to tempt her. After a quick shower, he made his way out into the great room to find Emily asleep on the couch. Covering her with a blanket, he sat and waited for her to wake up, wondering how annoyed he ought to be. When finally she opened her eyes, the first sight that greeted her was his face.
“Hi,” she said weakly. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing in here.”
“From the looks of it, I’d guess catching pneumonia. You had no blanket and were shivering when I came in.” He spoke rather crisply.
“I think I’m losing my grip. I kept hearing noises last night. I knew there was no one there, but I kept hearing things, so I came in here.” She looked as if there was more that she wanted to say, but wasn’t sure how to say it.
“I guess it’s understandable considering everything that you should be a little nervous.” He was trying to sound as if he were indeed understanding the whole situation.
“Brian, there’s more to it than that. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me. It wasn’t just noises, it was this feeling of menace. I feel afraid every time you leave the room. And you and I both know that I haven’t been myself. I haven’t been able to get near you without being terribly uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ve ever gone so long without kissing you.” At this point, her voice cracked and she had to stop and clear her throat, “I know they wanted to keep me in the hospital because I acted so strangely. Maybe they were right, maybe there really is something wrong with my mind. I thought it would be better when I left there but it’s just the same. I want to ask Paul tomorrow what he thinks.”
“I’ve sensed your fear whenever I’ve gotten close, but I know it’s because of what happened and not because of anything about me. I do know that, don’t I?”
“Yes. Definitely,” she responded.
“I think it would be a good idea for you to talk to Paul, although I imagine what he will do is recommend a psychiatrist.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea, as long as it’s not someone like Dr. Harper. Would that be all right with you?” She asked the question timidly, as if she was surprising herself by even thinking about it.
“You won’t like my answer, but the truth is that you have to make that decision for yourself.”
“But if I go to a psychiatrist, the subject of you is going to come up and then I’d be talking about you behind your back. Would that bother you?” She asked the question earnestly.
“No, that wouldn’t bother me, especially not if it helped you feel better. By all means, talk to Paul. He can give you better guidance on this than I can.” A series of questions that made him very uncomfortable popped immediately into his mind. Why would the subject of me automatically come up if she went to a psychiatrist? Is our relationship in some sort of trouble? Is she too kind to tell me that it’s really being with me that makes her unhappy? Setting his jumbled thoughts aside, he asked, “How do you feel at the moment? Are you up to being doctored a little?”
At her nod, they went into her bedroom. He took her temperature, her pulse, and her blood pressure. He looked into her eyes and listened to her heart and lungs. He examined the fingers at the end of the broken arm to be sure the circulation was not being cut off. It was obvious to him that she was very tense whenever he touched her, and he kept contact to a minimum, although it pained him to do so.
They spent the rest of the rainy morning attending to various mundane chores. Emily undertook the complicated task of showering without getting her cast wet. She was coming to have an active dislike for the plaster companion that she was destined to live with for the coming weeks.
Brian was busy with laundry, floor scrubbing, and other jobs around the kitchen. When they finally converged on the great room, it was after ten o’clock. He noticed that she was watching the clock without wanting to. This would have been their wedding day, and the hour appointed for the ceremony was eleven o’clock, “while morning birds are still singing,” Emily had said. The only sound outside the windows on that day was a gentle rain. Shortly before the hour, the doorbell rang. It was a florist making a delivery. Brian accepted the flowers and tipped the young man.
“These are for you,” was his only comment as he set down the arrangement on the table in front of the couch where she lay.
“Isn’t that nice, who are they...?” she began to ask and then took a closer look. It was not a standard arrangement of carnations or roses or any other hot house flower. This was something unusual, a very special sort of bouquet. He never knew if she recognized the delicate white blossoms from their unique cylindrical shape, or whether it was their sweet fragrance that caused her eyes to fill with tears. “These are stephanotis,” she said increduously.
“I know,” he said smiling. “I found a cooperative florist in Raleigh.”
Brushing away a tear, she collected herself with a big breath. She looked at him for a long moment before she said, “You really are the kindest, most romantic person I’ve ever known.”
The rest of the day was spent in companionable activities, a crossword puzzle, a discussion of impressionism as Emily looked through some of Brian’s books on the subject, a long nap for Emily, a simple hot meal. When darkness finally fell, it found them listening to music, a piece by Handel being played by a popular trumpeter.
Emily was sitting in the kitchen watching Brian cook for the Sunday feast when she observed that it hardly seems like Sunday when you don’t go to church and you haven’t done any labor to rest from in over a week.
“How did you rest last night?” Bri
an asked, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t found her on the couch this morning, so he assumed that she had stayed in the guest room all night, but she looked very tired.
“I suppose you’d know if I lied, so the truth is that I didn’t sleep at all that I know of.”
Brian was peeling potatoes and looking at her directly now. “I’m sorry you didn’t sleep, but I’m glad you told me the truth about it. So, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I hate this feeling of being scared every time I’m not in the same room with you. It makes me feel like a helpless fool, not to mention a nuisance.”
Brian put down the job he was working on to cross the room. In earlier days, he would have taken her in his arms, but for now he simply stood in front of her. “You’re not a fool and you’re certainly not a nuisance. We will, however, have a problem eventually when I have to go back to work. Let’s see what Paul has to say.”
The first thing the psychiatrist had to say when he arrived was addressed to Emily. “I hope you’re feeling as well as you look.”
Turning to Brian she said, “Now I know why we keep him around. He’s great for my sagging morale.” Emily noted gratefully that Paul had made no effort to kiss her as he usually did.
Paul asked, “Is your morale sagging?”
Brian interjected, “Later. Dinner’s almost ready, and it’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated, the dinner or Emily’s morale?” Paul asked.
Brian ignored the question and instead put the questioner to work carrying dishes. They enjoyed their meal, although Brian noticed that Emily wasn’t eating very much. He figured she hadn’t taken in a thousand calories a day since being home, and it worried him.
After the meal was finished, he suggested that he would clear the table so that Emily could talk to Paul. By the time he arrived, they had already reached the question and answer portion of the conversation that was inevitable when Paul was involved.
“What is it that you’re afraid of when you’re left alone?”
Emily pondered the question. “I’m not sure. I have this picture of someone outside looking in, waiting for me. I’m afraid if I go to sleep he will come in and get me.”
“Why do you think you’re more nervous in the guest room than you would be on the couch in the great room?”
“I don’t know, maybe because I’ve slept on the couch before, but the guest room is really a strange place to me. Don’t expect me to be rational, the whole thing is stupid, and I know it.”
“What do you think you ought to do about it?”
“I knew you would ask me that,” she smiled weakly. “I think you ought to give me the name of a good psychiatrist who will tame the squirrels in my brain. Somebody who thinks like you do.”
“That’s very flattering, actually. Do you think you’d be more comfortable talking to a female therapist?”
“No, quite the contrary.” She seemed adamant.
Brian interjected at this point, “That surprises me a little. Any particular reason?”
“There was a lady who stopped into my room briefly when I was in the hospital. She was a counselor from a rape crisis center. She gave me what was obviously supposed to be the standard pep talk, and it depressed me. Of course, she meant well, but I don’t think she liked men much. I don’t need radical feminism to solve my problems, just some common sense, which I seem to be in short supply of myself.”
“What did she say that depressed you?” Paul asked, curious.
“Oh, dear, let’s see. I could expect my ‘significant other’ to be cold and distant for a while. I could expect the police to be skeptical of what I said and suspect all my men friends of being the true culprit. If they ever caught the perpetrator, which was statistically unlikely, I could expect to be treated badly at the trial, if they didn’t plea bargain the whole thing. It was just generally very depressing. She seemed to think that men run the whole world and that women shouldn’t expect justice. I never did expect justice from this world, so it didn’t surprise me. That doesn’t mean I want to listen to a diatribe on the evils of the male-oriented criminal justice system.” Pausing for breath, she grinned a little. She went on to add what had become a stock expression, a sort of inside joke among the three of them, “Personally, I like men. Some of my best friends are men.”
Paul took a big chance with his next question, and he knew it. He prefaced it with his by own stock expression, “Old friends and psychiatrists ask nosy questions, but people don’t have to answer them. How are things with your ‘significant other’?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see his old friend start a little at the question.
Emily seemed to be in pain as she answered, “Oh, Brian’s not the one who’s turned cold, I am. If anyone male gets within three feet of me I start to shake all over.”
Paul said, “So I’ve noticed.”
“Do you suppose you’ve got a psychiatrist friend who could fix that?” Emily asked.
“I’ll set you up with somebody right away, but you’ve got to know it may be more complicated than you think. There may be things you’ll have to deal with that you would rather not think about at all. You’re going to have to make up your mind to stick it out and give the doctor a fair chance to help.
It seemed to Emily ironic that her first outing after getting out of the hospital was an appointment with a psychiatrist. One of the things she most wanted to get away from when she left the hospital was the psychiatrist there. She was very nervous about the visit, but she consoled herself with the twin thoughts that Brian was right out in the waiting room and that at least she wouldn’t have to take off her clothes for this doctor’s appointment. Until her accident in the snow, Emily had made it a practice never to go to the doctor for anything. Since then, it seemed that she couldn’t get away from medical practitioners.
Doctor John Whitfield had been a student of Paul’s when he first arrived at the School of Medicine some fifteen years ago. He was a heavy set, balding man with deep brown eyes and a genial smile. Emily’s first thought as she sat down in the chair he indicated for her was that this didn’t look like what she thought a psychiatrist’s office would look like. It was a tidy, well-kept room, almost staid in its conventionality. She had expected avant garde art and suggestive sculpture, ultra modern furniture, and a prominently placed couch.
“Miss Stone,” Dr. Whitfield began in his obviously North Carolina accent, “I’ve read your records from the hospital, and so I know about your injuries. How are you feeling physically?”
“Oh, fine. I really don’t hurt very much any more except occasionally my arm and my ribs.” She spoke softly, playing with the fabric of her sling.
“Good. If at any time you feel unwell, let me know and we can take a break. You understand that I spoke to Dr. Lawrence and he arranged for you to see me. He said you were having some trouble sleeping and some experiences with anxiety. Is that why you came to see me?”
“Yes. I’m not getting much sleep and I’ve been very nervous. I really haven’t been myself.” Her voice shook slightly as if to illustrate the point.
“You still don’t recall anything about the attack on you?”
“No.”
As they talked, Dr. Whitfield was sitting in an arm chair that matched the one in which Emily was sitting. He had a very pleasant voice and watched her when she answered his questions, but did not stare so intently that he made her uncomfortable. She found his demeanor a refreshing change from the psychiatrist in the hospital.
“It’s really not unusual for someone who has had a violent, traumatic experience to have sleep troubles. You don’t seem too thrilled to be here, and yet you’ve come. So I’m curious about whether you think there might be more to your problem than the assault you’ve suffered.”
“I rather suspect there might be. I’m usually a level-headed, pretty conservative person. But lately I’ve felt so jumpy and irritable, and I cry a lot. And I get very uncomfortable if a man gets
near me. I mean, I guess I’ve always been something of a prude, but it’s never been as bad as this. I think that maybe the rest of my life is catching up with me.”
“And what is there about the rest of your life that troubles you?”
“I’ve always known that I had a miserable childhood. There was a lot of yelling and carrying on. But I’ve begun to suspect that there might have been more to it than that. It’s like there are different varieties of fear. When I was in the hospital they had to do surgery on my arm and I was really scared. That was one kind of fear. It had its own sort of texture. Being here right now scares me, but it’s a totally different kind of fear. The fear that keeps me up at night and makes me so nervous is different yet again, but it has exactly the same texture as the terror I lived with as a child. I don’t think I realized how frightened I was back then. It’s a terrible fear, a feeling of menace, a feeling of certainty that something really awful is going to happen.”
“Do you have any memories of anything awful happening to you as a child?”
“Well, when I was in the hospital they told me that I had two broken ribs, but they also said I had two ribs that had been broken in the past. They wanted to know how I broke them. It was only when they asked me that I could make any sense of the memories I had. I was forbidden to climb trees, but I did it anyway, and I fell. I was unconscious for at least a little while, and when I came to I felt terrible pain. But I didn’t tell anybody. I was scared of the trouble I’d be in. The more I think about it, the less that makes sense to me. I was really hurt, I stayed in my room flat on my back for days. It strikes me now that it was sort of peculiar to behave that way. And why do I remember so little of those times?”
“Do you remember ever being punished as a child?”
“I remember being slapped for making smart remarks. I remember a lot of roughness. I remember being hit for breaking a coffee cup once. It’s hard to remember.”
“Who was it that hit you?”
“My father.”
Blackberry Winter Page 28