Chapter 36
After returning from the cemetery, Barnes drove back to the hospital for his 2:00 p.m. appointment with Dr. Parks in the clinic building down the street from the main hospital. He rode the escalator to the second floor and entered the waiting room marked “Psychiatry: E. A. Winslow, MD, K. L. Hubbar, MD, R. Kaplan, MD, C. B. Bardles, MD, J. L. Parks, MD, PhD.” He was just enough of an elitist to think that having two degrees might make his physician better than the others.
He turned in the usual medical history forms, and the receptionist showed him to the psychiatrist’s office. Stepping inside, Barnes suddenly felt confined. The room had no windows and only the one door. Why would a psychiatrist have a windowless office? Probably either to avoid distractions or to avoid tempting suicidal patients.
Half a dozen framed certificates hung on the back wall behind the psychiatrist’s desk, and along the walls on either side stood bookshelves filled with journals and textbooks, all neatly arranged. On top of one of the bookshelves, an antique clock ticked away like a metronome.
He suddenly noticed the color of the carpet—a light gray. It reminded him of fog. That, along with the ticking clock, reminded him of his disability, the way time slips by and events get lost in the fog. He wondered what effect the room had on other patients.
The walls were devoid of artwork with one exception: a framed print of a painting by Andrew Wyeth. Barnes recognized it as Christina’s World, from the late 1940s, a somber work in mostly brown hues. The slender woman in it was sitting awkwardly in a field, propped up by a thin arm and looking away from the viewer, toward a distant farmhouse. Barnes had recently read that Christina was a neighbor of Wyeth’s and that she’d been afflicted with a degenerative muscular disorder, leaving her unable to walk. After Barnes learned about her disability, the painting was never the same. Instead of a girl sitting in a meadow, Christina became a cripple struggling in isolation. People would now view him the same way.
He turned his attention from the artwork to Dr. Parks. The psychiatrist struck him as remarkably average—average height, average weight, even average age, about forty. His brown hair receded at the temples, and his pale eyes appeared neither blue nor brown.
The two of them exchanged handshakes, and Dr. Parks motioned Barnes to an easy chair. “Have a seat, Dr. Barnes.”
Barnes sat with his back to the clock, facing the Wyeth painting, and took out his notes and a pen. Parks took a seat opposite him in another easy chair.
“I’ve spoken to Dr. Vincent in Toronto,” the psychiatrist said, “and he’s apprised me of your situation.”
“Good.” Barnes remembered no Dr. Vincent. “Then maybe you can tell me why I’m here.”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
Barnes wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “I don’t know, but what I need is for someone to improve my memory. Can you do that?”
Dr. Parks folded his hands in his lap. “I believe so, at least to a limited degree. First I’d like to ascertain for myself the extent of your impairment and the manner in which you’re compensating. I know the strain on you must be immense. You’ve suffered two separate tragedies—the loss of your wife and the loss of your capacity to encode new information. I can help you more with the former.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yes, well, with that in mind, let’s talk about your wife, Elizabeth. Did you love her?”
What an offensive question, thought Barnes. “Of course I loved her.”
“I don’t ask that lightly. Many men don’t love their wives. There’s nothing unusual about that. Sometimes when a sudden, unexpected loss like this occurs, it’s the men who don’t love their wives who suffer the most. Sometimes they feel guilty that they didn’t love them. They focus on the things they didn’t do, the emotional support they didn’t provide. These men need to come to terms with the fact that life isn’t perfect and that bad things happen to people irrespective of how we feel about them. That’s why I’m asking you, did you love Elizabeth?”
“Yes, I did.” Then suddenly he pictured her in the bathroom of their master bedroom, showing him her positive pregnancy test. He remembered the sense of betrayal and the rage that had overcome him. He’d felt an urge to put his fist through the wall, despite the risk of a hand injury. More than anything, he remembered Elizabeth’s expression—wide-eyed and tremulous, she believed that he might hurt her. Was he capable of that?
“All right.” Dr. Parks jotted a note. “I won’t belabor the point. As you probably know, people go through a fairly well-defined grieving process after the loss of a loved one. For you that may not be possible, considering your memory impairment. Do you remember from one day to the next whether Elizabeth is gone?”
“I doubt it,” said Barnes, “but I don’t recall enough to be able to answer that. I think of her all the time, but I don’t know how long specific thoughts of her stay with me.”
“I see.” Dr. Parks jotted another note. “I understand that your memory of the events shortly before your food poisoning is a problem. Tell me about that.”
“I remember parts of that night—I can see the mussels as clearly as if they were sitting on a plate here. But I can’t remember much in the days before that, including even before I left for the conference. I can’t even remember saying good-bye to Elizabeth.” He skimmed through his notes. “Apparently I moved out of the house shortly before the conference, but I don’t know anything about that. Why would I remember eating mussels in the restaurant but not moving out of the house?”
“It’s possible that from one day to the next you may be going through a process of repression, in which your subconscious keeps you from recalling unpleasant events.”
Barnes doubted that. “The night I ate those mussels was the worst day of my life, and I remember practically every bite I took.”
“You may think it was the worst day of your life,” Dr. Parks said, “but another part of you might believe otherwise. A part of you might think that losing Elizabeth, including whatever occurred that estranged you from her, was the worst thing ever to happen to you.”
“And you believe I’m suppressing those thoughts?”
“No. Suppression is a conscious effort not to remember. I believe you’re repressing those memories. I believe that your inability to recall at least some of what happened is entirely unconscious and not linked to the food poisoning.”
Barnes had never considered that, but repression made sense. It seemed the most logical explanation for why some memories were lost and others around them weren’t. “So you don’t think it’s just brain damage?”
“Not entirely. We can test that. I’d like you to start doing an exercise for me at home. When you wake up first thing in the morning, write down everything you remember from the previous night and from anytime since your illness, including whether you remember that Elizabeth is gone.”
Barnes made a note to himself.
“And write down anything that you may recall from the time period of memory loss before the food poisoning. If you can’t remember from one day to the next what happened after the food poisoning but you do begin to remember some previously forgotten events from before the food poisoning, then you’re repressing the earlier lost information.”
Barnes finished writing. “Is that good or bad?”
“In general it isn’t good. Repressing an event is sometimes necessary for a while—it’s a defense mechanism that enables us to go about our lives without being overwhelmed by something we’re unable to confront—but ultimately the solution is direct confrontation, facing the problem and finding a resolution. Sometimes the solution is simply an acceptance of the fact that there is no solution.”
“That doesn’t sound very satisfying.”
“Not superficially, but at a deeper level, perhaps.”
“Well, the fact is I can accept that Elizabeth and I had some major disagreement, and even that she’s dead.”
“Yes, but you can
’t resolve it. In part your problem is that you can’t remember, but I think you also don’t want to remember. In those moments that you forget, Elizabeth is still alive to you and you’re both still a happy couple, and you want that very much.”
“Of course I want her to be alive and I want us to be happy,” Barnes said. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means there’s a reason for your forgetting. Repression is a crutch. It takes your mind away from something unpleasant and helps you focus on other things. The first step in overcoming this problem is to recognize that it exists. For the time being, there’s no urgency in finding a resolution, although ultimately one of our goals will be to allow you to conduct your life with as few crutches as possible. We won’t try to take them all away at once. We’ll work on solving the problems one at a time.”
“Let’s solve my memory problem first.”
“We’ll work on that. Maybe during our next session I’ll hypnotize you, although I usually wait until the patient knows me better.”
“Given my condition, I may never know you better than I do right now.”
“Perhaps, but I’d prefer to know you a little better. I don’t believe hypnosis has much to offer during an initial visit. It may confirm that you’re repressing memories of Elizabeth, but that’s relatively unimportant at this time.”
“So what do you suggest we do?”
“Let’s talk about Elizabeth. What effect do you think her death has had on your overall state of mind, emotionally, intellectually?”
“Other than the obvious overwhelming grief?” Barnes thought about that. “I don’t remember enough from moment to moment to answer that, and I can’t separate all of the effects of losing her from the effects of the food poisoning. For example, I’ve become more organized, like her, but that’s necessary to avoid confusion.”
“Are you thinking more like her?”
He hadn’t considered that. “I probably am. I’m more organized and methodical, and my guess is I’m less critical of others, given my condition. Do you think that has a deeper meaning?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re not answering my question.”
“I think you know the answer. You’re internalizing a part of her. It’s a common phenomenon. When we admire others, we tend to acquire some of their characteristics. When we’re younger, that’s what shapes who we become, and that’s why there’s so much controversy about who should be role models in schools. The same thing happens to adults, although they usually aren’t as impressionable. Nevertheless, adults frequently change their behavior after they associate for a time with someone they admire. I believe that, for the most part, you’re becoming more organized because you have to—to cope with your disability—and you’re becoming less critical of others because of the different perspective you now have, again as a result of the food poisoning. But I also believe that you’re internalizing a part of Elizabeth because you admired her and because you want to hold on to part of her.”
“I guess that’s possible,” Barnes conceded, “but she was very different from me, or as she would say, different to me. She was British. I think about her much more now. I’m not sure how much, given my difficulty remembering things, but I get the feeling it’s practically all the time. Before, I took her for granted; I tended to focus more on work.”
“We all do that to some extent,” Dr. Parks said. “Other people in our life are ultimately what’s most important, but our career defines who we are, and most of us need that framework to feel we have a direction, if not a purpose, in life.”
“Yeah, well, my life is in shambles, and I may never get back my career, but one thing I do have is purpose. I’m going to live from day to day by doing the one thing I have to do.”
Dr. Parks raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”
Barnes was surprised the man didn’t know. “I’m going to solve Elizabeth’s murder.”
Chapter 37
Barnes spent much of the afternoon running errands, including going shopping and going to the gym for an abbreviated workout. At the gym he sometimes placed bets with Burt Fielding, a stockbroker who served as a bookie for anyone with a penchant for wagering on sports. Barnes had placed more bets with him than he could count, but not anymore. Now the added confusion and stress from not knowing whether he owed or was owed money would be a sufficient deterrent.
After returning home, he spent some time opening his and Elizabeth’s mail, including letters of condolence from people he hardly knew. The ringing of the telephone interrupted that chore just when he was thinking about taking a break.
An unfamiliar woman’s voice asked, “Christopher Barnes?”
“Speaking.” He prepared to interrupt a telemarketer.
“You don’t know me,” the woman began. “My name is Darcia. I’m a friend of Claire’s.”
Claire? He pulled the notes out of his pocket and skimmed through them. “Elizabeth’s attorney friend?”
“That’s right. I understand you had lunch with her this afternoon.”
Barnes said nothing. He was busy looking through his notes.
“I’m calling to inform you that she was distressed by your comments.”
“Oh?” His notes didn’t seem to offer any hint of what she was talking about.
“You criticized her for cremating your dog.”
There it was: Claire had instructed the vet to cremate Rex. “Well, if I did, she deserved it,” he said. “It’s common sense not to destroy potential evidence in a murder investigation.”
“She was trying to do you a favor at a difficult time,” the woman said, an edge to her voice. “You shouldn’t have expressed a lack of appreciation. You—”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“Don’t interrupt me. She does know you, through Elizabeth, and you’ve upset her. Claire cared deeply for Elizabeth and is still grieving for her. She doesn’t need any additional stress in her life.”
Tell me about it, he thought. “What did you say your name is?”
“Darcia Parker. You don’t want to hear from me again.”
He wrote that down. “Are you an attorney?”
“I’m a judge.”
Suddenly he remembered her. The woman had run commercials on television, campaign ads for a local election. Elect Judge Parker. He may have even voted for her. In her advertisement, she’d looked like a thirty-something librarian—glasses, hair up in a bun. Nothing like the shrew he’d envisioned from this conversation. “Did you know Elizabeth?” he asked.
“Don’t change the subject. I’m calling about Claire, and specifically to tell you that if you can’t show some appreciation for her, then stay away. Am I making myself clear? Stay away. Write a note to yourself so you don’t forget. If I hear another complaint about you, you’ll regret it.” And she hung up.
Barnes did write a note to himself: Claire had feelings for Elizabeth. Darcia (Claire’s overly protective significant other) threatened me. Did Darcia know Elizabeth? Then he added, Ask Claire about that.
Elizabeth’s relationship with Claire could have been more complicated than he’d thought. According to his notes, Elizabeth had been unfaithful. But with whom? The police didn’t know, and neither did he. Could it have been with Claire?
Somewhere Elizabeth had likely kept evidence of her infidelity. He decided to conduct a search, starting with the most likely place—her office.
Entering her room, he felt out of place, even guilty. This was Elizabeth’s personal and professional space, and she wouldn’t want him snooping around in it. But the truth was more important than propriety.
He sat at her desk, in the chair she had occupied countless times, yet he felt no closer to her. His intent here was to gather information, not to reminisce. But then a small framed picture next to her computer monitor caught his attention. It was a photograph of the two of them with her parents, taken shortly before their wedding. They’d eaten at a small place on Newbury
Street, dining outside under an umbrella just a couple of feet from the sidewalk. Elizabeth’s parents liked to people-watch, and Newbury Street was an ideal place for that. Lined with shops, art galleries, and restaurants, it attracted locals as well as tourists. Everything from tuxedos to tattoos. Long dresses, short shorts. Bald heads, spiked hair. And multiple piercings. Elizabeth’s parents also enjoyed making fun of the Boston accents. He could still hear them imitating, “Pock the cah.”
Barnes looked up from the photograph. What was he doing in Elizabeth’s office? How long had he been there? Her computer was right in front of him, so that must mean he’d intended to look for something on it.
He pushed the computer’s power switch. Nothing. Was the CPU unplugged? He looked under the desk. No, the surge protector had been turned off. He turned it on, and the computer whirred to life.
Elizabeth didn’t store much research or other work-related material on her hard drive at home—she usually saved it only on her computer at work and on disks as backups—but he listed every document file on the computer. Not surprisingly, most of them were months old and contained information unrelated to clinical research. That was just as well. Her disks alone could take weeks to review. He would need to prioritize them, in part by subject but mainly by date. The most recent ones would likely be the most meaningful. He just needed to be methodical. Like Elizabeth. Already he’d forgotten the letter the police had shown him suggesting that she’d had an affair, and that he’d been intent upon uncovering the details. Instead he was focusing on being organized and thinking about how well everything was falling into place, how applying simple logic could guide him through whatever activities needed to be done.
He had no idea how wrong that was.
Chapter 38
Barnes left Elizabeth’s office and decided to open the day’s mail. A business envelope caught his attention—a plain white envelope without a return address. It was postmarked in Boston on December 15 and addressed to “Chris Barnes,” not “Dr. Barnes” or “Christopher Barnes, MD.” The address was printed in capital letters, childlike, with a black felt-tipped pen.
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