There was an immunization record, proving that Emily had indeed been vaccinated against the standard childhood diseases. Emily remembered with some annoyance asking her mother when she started college if such a record existed. Her mother had denied any knowledge of it, so Emily had had to have all those shots again.
There were odds and ends of all sorts, newspaper clippings from the day the space shuttle Challenger blew up, term papers from high school classes, a few poems that she must have thought terribly profound at the time she wrote them, but now seemed very trite.
There were a few old coins, ticket stubs and programs from high school plays, and political buttons from the long ago campaigns. Each had attached a carefully written tag to identify its significance. “Gracious,” she thought, “I was a fusspot even then.”
There was a little envelope of the kind that pharmacists used to use to put pills in labeled “Beads from Miss Margaret for ‘Something Old.’” When Emily saw the tiny white beads she was astonished at herself for having forgotten about them. Miss Margaret Hathaway had snipped a few beads off the beautiful wedding gown that was yellowing in her closet. Emily could almost hear that tiny, quivery old voice, “When you get married you put these on your dress somewhere and they can be your something old.” Emily reflected that Miss Margaret had gotten married before the turn of the century, and so old was a very good description of the tiny white orbs. “I must have put these away at the same time that I put away all my hopes of ever getting married,” she thought.
At the bottom of the box was a dingy brown envelope. It was not one of the things that Emily remembered putting away, so it must, like the obituary notice, have been added by her sister when she mailed the box. When Emily tipped the envelope, photographs in black and white tumbled out on to the floor. Then began in Emily’s mind the “this is” sentences, as in “this is me when I was a toddler and we went to Uncle Mel’s funeral,” or “this is me when I was in third grade and my class went to the history museum.” Her overall impression was that she had certainly been a scrawny child, and what a horrible mess of hair, and that none of the clothes she was wearing in any of the pictures seemed to quite fit. Beyond that brief overview, the pictures suggested nothing to her as she rapidly scanned them, and as rapidly put them back in the envelope. She decided to take them to her next appointment with Dr. Whitfield, “If only,” she said to herself, “so that he can have a good laugh at the funny looking kid.”
It seemed a shame to Emily that Brian should spend a precious week of vacation time basically hanging around the house watching her mope. On Wednesday she brought the subject up over breakfast.
“Brian, aren’t you dying of clotted boredom hanging around the house all the time? Wouldn’t you like to get out and do something fun today? Wouldn’t you enjoy a change of scenery?”
He looked at her and smiled over the top of his coffee cup. “What did you have in mind? What would you like to do?”
“Oh, I don’t want to do anything, I was thinking you might like to go off by yourself and do something,” she answered. “It seems a shame for you to spend your vacation time doing nothing.”
“I’m enjoying being with you, and I’m getting a lot done around the house. The main thing about vacation is that it’s not work. One thing I would like to do is go for a drive. There is some beautiful countryside outside the city that is pleasant to drive through. Would you enjoy that?”
Emily agreed that it would be nice to get out in the country, and so they packed a light lunch and set out. They drove through the city traffic and then, almost abruptly, they were in the rolling hills that characterize the Piedmont. The hazy, humid air of early summer hung over the lush green fields where corn was already well past knee high. Acres and acres of tobacco were growing in neat rows, a few already sporting the pink flowers that would hold their seed for the coming year. And one after another there were the old tobacco barns that are a fixture of rural North Carolina.
“Why do you suppose the farmers don’t tear some of those things down?” Brian asked. “It doesn’t look like anybody uses them anymore. They’re really eyesores.”
“It is a disease of the rural Southern mind. You could call it tobacco barn syndrome. Southerners hate to get rid of the things that used to be useful, even if they’re not anymore. You will hear it time and again when some young person or some Yankee suggests a replacement for an old system. ‘We’ve always done it this way.’ That’s supposed to settle it, it’s thought of as not only a convincing argument, but the only necessary argument, for doing things the same way even after that way doesn’t work anymore. Even when they finally decide to upgrade or modernize something, they hold on to the old things as well, almost as shrines to their former inefficiency, their old stubbornness.”
Eventually they found themselves in the western portion of the county where there was a lovely park. They decided to have their picnic there. There was a pretty lake, and as they sat at a picnic table and ate their sandwiches, they watched some senior citizens in paddle boats propelling themselves up and down the length of the green water. Nearby there was a playground, and Brian noticed Emily staring fixedly at the toddlers playing on the swings.
“What are you thinking about, Emily?” he asked in a mildly curious voice.
Emily gazed at him and said, “We’re the in-betweens here. The older people are there paddling in the lake. They’re having fun, seemingly without a care in the world. The little children over there are swinging and playing, and they don’t seem to have much to bother them, either. We’re right in between.”
“Well, aren’t we having fun sitting here in the sunshine having our picnic?”
“It’s hard to imagine ever having fun again.” There was something gripping about the look of intensity on her face. “My imagination is too busy with other things. I’m imagining what the man with B positive blood might look like, what kind of weapon he might have had. I wonder what he said to me, I wonder why it was my tires he flattened. I am figuring all the different scenarios, which injuries did he inflict first, how long did it all go on, how many other women might he have done it to, how many more will there be. My imagination is too busy to let me think about ever having fun again. And always the question looms, why me?” After a tearful silence, she saw the look on his face, and said sorrowfully, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m spoiling our day, aren’t I?”
“Emily, I know you’ve been thinking about these things for days, I’m glad you came right out and said it.”
“You know in those old horror movies when they really wanted to scare you, they didn’t show the monster. You would see the look of horror on the faces of the characters when they saw the monster, but you never saw the monster yourself. That’s what this is like. I can imagine something much more horrible than what necessarily happened. And even if what happened was as bad as anything I’ve imagined, at least if I knew, I could stop wondering how it all was. And it’s not just the attack, it’s my whole life. I don’t know for sure what all the monsters in my closet even look like, I only know they’re scaring me to death.”
Emily was less apprehensive before her second appointment with Dr. Whitfield than she had been before the first, which she thought was a good sign. She felt confident enough to encourage Brian to go out and do something amusing and not stay the whole time in the waiting room. Life is full of small triumphs.
“How are you today, Miss Stone?” the psychiatrist asked.
“I reckon I’m all right. You can call me Emily if you want to.”
“Thank you, Emily. What have you got there?” He indicated the little bundle she was carrying from her memory box.
“Just some stuff like you talked about. When I was in high school I put together a box of junk that I had kept and left in the attic of my parent’s house. When they died, my sister Jean stayed on for a few years, and then eventually sold the house. When she emptied it, she found the box and sent it to me. She added those pictures, I guess they’re the o
nly ones of me that she found. I’ve never been photogenic.”
“Why don’t you show them to me?”
Emily ran through the ‘this is’ sentences in a mumbling, embarrassed way. The psychiatrist seemed intent on looking carefully at each picture. Finally he asked, “Do you remember the times these pictures were taken, like this one of you at a birthday party, do you remember being there?”
“Yes, it was my older sister’s birthday party. I remember the cake and ice cream. I think it was when she turned twelve. I was about ten. I remember she got a radio.”
“Describe the child that’s in these pictures, how do you see yourself in them?”
“I was very thin, sort of puny looking. I wasn’t much to look at.”
“The thing that I notice is that there are a dozen or so pictures, most of them taken on birthdays or Christmas or other such occasions, but there’s not one picture of you smiling.”
Emily waited, but apparently, it was not a question, but an observation. Finally she commented, “I’ve never liked having my picture taken.”
Dr. Whitfield then turned to the report cards that Emily brought. “May I?” he asked politely. At her nod, he looked them over, one for each grade of elementary school. “Did you like school?” he asked.
“I suppose it was all right, I was pretty much an average student. I got a lot of talks from guidance counselors and teachers about how I wasn’t performing up to my potential. You see mostly C’s there. I didn’t keep up with my studies the way that I should. I wasn’t very motivated.”
“Did your parents take an active interest in your school work?”
“Not in the slightest. I doubt if my father could have told you at any given time what grade I was in.”
“You missed a lot of school, didn’t you? I notice here that your third grade teacher commented ‘Emily’s frequent absences have hindered her progress.’ In the sixth grade you missed eighteen days of school. Were you ill often?”
“I don’t remember being sick very often. My mother kept us home sometimes when we weren’t really sick. We would watch television all day.”
“Why do you suppose she would do that?”
“Well, like if Barbara said she didn’t feel good, Mother would tell her she could stay home, and then she’d tell me to stay home too. She didn’t do it that way when we were older, like in high school.”
“Do you ever remember being sick enough to go to a doctor?”
“I remember getting sent home from school a couple of times with a stomach ache, and finally they told my parents that I ought to see the doctor about it. He just gave me bottles of this nasty medicine to take and said I shouldn’t eat spicy food.”
“Did you have a lot of trouble with heartburn and indigestion?”
“Yes, I guess I did when I was an adolescent.”
“Were you ever diagnosed as having an ulcer?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t remember.” In this response as in many of her others, Emily had a vague, puzzled expression on her face.
The psychiatrist went on asking questions about her health, about her schooling, about what teachers she remembered. He wanted to hear everything she could recall about her friends and the way she spent her spare time. One by one he drew out the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and worked each into place. A picture began to emerge of a lonely, fearful child, a marginal student with few interests and fewer amusements. Emily saw the picture and mourned for the child, and every tear that fell was long overdue.
A family picture was also emerging. It was a house full of people, all of whom wanted only to survive, to protect themselves. There was no loyalty, no tenderness, there was only blame. There was no love, there was only fear. Dr. Whitfield finally voiced what had become plainly apparent. “Your whole family lived in fear of your father, didn’t they?”
“Yes. He was so unpredictable. One minute everything would be fine, and then he would just erupt and be irrational in his rage.”
“And then what would happen?”
Emily sighed deeply in resignation. “Then he would start throwing things, I hate to think what they must have spent on dishes, I honestly think he liked the sound of plates breaking. And then he would start hitting people.”
In an apparent regression, the psychiatrist asked in a gentle voice, “Why do you think you stayed home from school so much, Emily?”
For the first time in their conversation, she looked directly at the doctor, her posture suggesting an attitude of angry surrender, “Because my mother didn’t want people to see us black and blue and to know that we had been beaten.”
“Who are you angry with right this minute?”
“I’m trying to work up a good mad at you for making me remember all of this, but I know that’s just because you’re convenient. I’m angry at my father, of course, but I think I’m also mad at my mother. She was protecting him, but she never protected us. I resent that...oh dear...”
“What is it?”
“I don’t feel well. All of a sudden, my side is killing me.” She leaned heavily on the arm of her chair, pain evident on her face.
“I’m sorry you’re not well. Shall I have someone drive you home?”
“No, I’m sure Brian’s here.”
Dr. Whitfield stepped into his waiting room and saw Brian, whom he recognized from his days as a resident.
“Dr. McClellan? John Whitfield. Could you step in here for a minute, please?”
When Brian was in the room, he could see Emily’s discomfort. As he walked over to her, the psychiatrist explained that she had suddenly felt unwell.
“Hi, Emily.” His voice was tender, and she smiled up at him a little. “Where does it hurt?”
“I’m all right, Brian, I must have just turned funny or something, all of a sudden my ribs started hurting.”
“Well, you know, sweetheart, it’s only been two weeks, it takes a while for bones to mend. Why don’t we run down to the hospital and pester the orthopedist for a while?”
“No, I think I’ll be fine if I just go home and lie down for a while.”
Dr. Whitfield took note throughout this exchange of the tenderness in Brian’s voice, the concern on his face, and way that Emily seemed embarrassed by the whole situation. This was confirmed by her next comment which was directed toward the psychiatrist, “I’m sorry about all this fuss.”
“Not at all. I hope you feel better soon. It looks like you’re in good hands.”
As they drove slowly through the snarl of late afternoon traffic, Emily reflected on what Brian had said, “It’s only been two weeks.” It seemed more like two years, twenty years, or even a whole lifetime. For two weeks, she hadn’t been able to sleep well, enjoy eating, pray coherently, or touch the man she loved. She turned and looked at him as he maneuvered the car through the maze of the city streets, finding the shortest route to his house expertly. “He does everything well,” she thought. “He’s taken care of me and not once shown any sign of impatience. He’s put up with my ridiculous moods. He’s been my favorite person since the day I met him. I can’t think of a single thing about him that I don’t love. So why am I being so difficult? It must hurt him, the way I’ve been treating him lately.”
She kept this train of thought going all the way through a light meal and the telecast of the evening news. He was reading a professional journal and she was supposedly resting on the couch and working a crossword puzzle when he finally said with a sort of chuckle, “Emily, every time I turn around you’re staring me. Have I grown a third eye or something?”
She blushed a little and said, “I was just thinking about what a nuisance I’ve been and how kindly you’ve treated me. I’m going to have to find some special way of making it up to you.” There was something just a little suggestive about the look on her face which Brian wasn’t even sure he saw.
“You haven’t been a nuisance. How are you feeling right now? Are those ribs still bothering you?”
“No, I’m fine. Why don
’t you come over here and sit with me?”
This time there was no mistaking her tone. Brian crossed the space between them and sat on the edge of the couch next to where she was reclining.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said as he stroked her arm with his finger tips. She reached up to touch his face and he bent to kiss her.
“Emily, you’re trembling.” His voice could not have been more gentle, but she felt it an accusation.
“It’s cold in here,” she said defensively.
“I don’t think you’re cold, I think you’re scared to death. Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doing what?” By now she was angry.
“Why are you kissing me when you know you don’t want to?” He was still gentle, but there was a firmness in his voice as well.
“There hasn’t been a day in the last year and a half that I didn’t want to kiss you,” she asserted.
Framing his response carefully, he said, “I appreciate that, but let’s be honest. You’re very uncomfortable about being close to me right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to do something right,” she said tiredly. “I’m trying to express the way I feel.”
“Emily, I know how your mind works. What you feel at this moment is guilty. You think you’ve been a terrible nuisance and that you can make it up to me by a false show of passion.” He sighed heavily before he continued. “I want you right now more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I ache to take you into my bed and do everything I know how to do to make you forget the last two weeks ever happened. But it wouldn’t work, and we both know it.”
There was a leaden silence in the room. Emily’s gaze seemed fixed for a long while on the drooping stephanotis in the bowl on the table. The fragrance of the flowers was fading and would soon be undetectable. When she returned her eyes to his face, there was almost a quality of desperation in her countenance.
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