by Stan Mason
The doctor stuffed the papers back into the envelope where they had been lodged for many years. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Roach. I don’t believe you can hear your wife speaking to you. Not at all. Personal grief has a profound effect on the human mind. What you have is a classic case of grief accompanied by shock or delayed shock. A young man... married for only a short time... very much in love with his wife. Suddenly, as a result of a horrific accident, their lives are shattered and they’re separated for ever. The shock often translates into psychosomatic illness which means the mind finds an excuse to make some parts of the body or mind to suffer. People have phantom headaches, phantom stomach pains, and so on... all of which are unreal even thought hey feel real to the patient. In your case, you suffer no physical pain... only mental agony. Your mind is telling you that you can hear her voice. In time, it will fade away as you cope with the grief and also overcome the anger against the person who killed her.’
‘It’s true I’m not suffering physically,’ continued Roach, resenting the standard theoretical answer doled out to him by the doctor. ‘but I don’t think I’m affected mentally. It’s just that I hear Jennifer talking to me/’
‘At night... or in the early hours of the morning,’
‘She does communicate with me then.’
‘It’s psychosomatic, Mr. Roach. You only believe you can hear her voice. In reality she no longer exists. It’s your mind reflecting what you think she should communicate.’
The banker disagreed with him strongly but felt it more prudent to hold the man’s opinion in contempt than argue the point. He knew for certain that he had heard Jennifer’s voice. It was no figment of his imagination. She had told him what happened initially when one crossed the bridge. How could he have imagined that? He had seen and witnessed her actions on his electronic equipment which the doctor couldn’t hope to explain satisfactorily. No doubt the physician treated all the patients with his condition with a broad-brush view that shock followed grief and expressed itself in the form of psychosomatic behaviour.
‘What doe you recommend as the next step?’ he asked, hoping to proceed on a more practical level.
‘It’s simple enough if you want to take if further,’ he was advised. ‘You’ll need to see a specialist... a psychiatrist. He should be able to interpret your mental state more accurately and help you.’
‘How long will that take to arrange?’
The doctor’s eyes scanned the front of the envelope containing the banker’s medical records. ‘I see you’re a banker,’ he went on. ‘Bankers usually ensure their employees are afforded the benefit of a private health scheme. I presume you belong to one of them.’
‘Yes, I do,’ confirmed Charles.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He turned to the telephone on his desk and picked up the receiver., dialling a single digit number. ‘Miss Jenkins! Will you ring Mr. Hamilton right away. I have a private health patient with me now who would like to make an appointment. Find out when he can fit him in, will you?’ He replaced the receiver and turned to his patient. ‘Have you lost your appetite lately or had any real difficulty getting off to sleep?’
‘Not really. I didn’t eat anything for a while after Jennifer died but my appetite’s returning slowly.’
‘I should imagine that one of the problems is a deep sense of loneliness. The loss of a partner makes that inevitable.’
‘I would describe it more of strangeness rather than loneliness. One picks up a lot of habits when involved in a relationship. I’m not used to going to bed alone or eating by myself or returning home to an empty house. And worst of all, there’s no one to talk to any more. That’s the most debilitating feature of all.’
‘Grief is a heavy burden. When it happens to someone else, people think it an be shrugged off by the end of the month. It’s not like that at all. It can take years and the departed person is never forgotten. Have you spoke to relatives and friends about it to try to rid yourself of the burden? If you haven’t, it could hang like a dark giant rain cloud above you threatening to burst at any moment. Then it can start to affect you in one way or another as I’ve mentioned. I’ve even known people to lose the use of their legs through grief and despair.’
‘To be honest, I don’t feel that I want to talk about it to other people,’ expressed Charles frankly, becoming slightly irritated by the trend of the conversation. ‘It’s my business and I prefer to keep it that way.’
At that point, the telephone rang and the doctor placed the receiver to his ear. ‘Well,’ he told the patient after the conversation had ended, ‘that’s a bit of luck. Mr. Hamilton’s had a cancellation. As you’re a private health patient, he’s willing to see you now if you wish. His office is upstairs on the second floor of this building. Turn left as you go through the doors... .it’s the third office on the right-hand side. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you. Whatever happens, I suggest that you take a fair amount of exercise and eat wisely but not too well,. By that I mean regular meals each day... and get proper rest at night.’
Roach got to his feet and thanked the physician although he felt that the man had failed him. The doctor was far too busy and clinical to delve into the realms of his problems. However, it was only fair to say that the field was really in the province of a specialist... the psychiatrist! The banker climbed the stairs to the second floor and found himself shortly outside Mr. Hamilton’s office. He knocked softly on the door and entered. A receptionist smiled at him warmly, took down his details, and then ushered him into the next room
‘Please sit down,’ invited Hamilton from behind and enormous ornate desk, pointing to a large chair which was heavily padded. Charles sat down, sinking into the soft luxurious foam. The psychiatrist was a tall thin man who looked very undernourished. The jacket of his light grey suit seemed to hang on him rather than fit him. In his late fifties, he had thin grey hair receding far back from the temples and wore gold-rimmed spectacles which perched on the end of his nose. He stared at his new client with penetrating eyes and ventured his first question.
‘Tell me... what’s the problem?’
The banker took a deep breath and started the monologue again. ‘My wife was killed by a hit-and-run driver and she’s been communicating with me... on and off.’
The specialist leaned forward with interest and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘What is she telling you?’
‘so far it’s been details about the soul after death. Or, as she put it, across the bridge.’
‘That’s very interesting. Do go on!’
Charles hesitated wondering whether to hold back anything and then decided it would be pointless to withhold the facts. After ll, if he shrouded the details, it would be futile to expect any help from the man. ‘She speaks to me in my middle ear,’ he continued. ‘It’s very sensitive. But I’ve also heard her voice on my telephone answering machine and seen her write on my computer as I was sitting in front of it ready to use it.’
‘Do you have the tape from the telephone answering machine?’
‘I’m afraid it was damaged beyond repair.’
‘I see.’ Mr. Hamilton’s tone indicated doubt and mistrust although he tried to hide it. ‘Apart from that, tell me more about how your wife makes contact with you.’
‘She speaks to me at night... or in the early hours of the morning. You see, when I was young I contacted an infection in my middle ear. It’ s always been sensitive to specific sounds other people can’t hear. Jennifer spoke to me in a whisper although her words were very clear.’
The face of the specialist hardened and he clenched his hand even more tightly as he listened intently. ‘What does she tell you... in detail?’
‘Everything she’s experienced so far after death. She came out of her body and floated upwards through a tunnel facing a bright light as she crossed the bridge before coming face to face with a
net of high luminosity. She told me that she had no senses or any fear and she seemed to be happy. It was quite remarkable.’
‘It would help if you could write down all these details so that I can examine them to assess the situation. Do you think you could do that and let me have them at your next appointment?’
‘I can arrange for you to have them tomorrow if you wish.’
‘You tell me you can hear her voice. Are you positive it is the voice of your late wife?’ continued the psychiatrist ignoring the bankers offer.
‘Absolutely positive! She mentioned code words which only the two of us know.’
‘And she’s telling you all about her life after death. But you obviously have a problem otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What is it?’
The banker stared at him in surprise. He expected the other man to recognise the reason for his visit. There was an amusing anecdote that he had read somewhere which went: ’anyone who wanted to be a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined’. ‘I want to know if anyone else has experienced the same thing or whether I’m going out of my mind. If I’m going round the twist, I ought to receive some kind of treatment before things go too far. The only thing left in my life is my job at the bank. I don’t want to jeopardise that by failing to have treatment now.’
The other man unclasped his hands and sat back in his chair. ‘There have been many cases in history of people hearing voices,’ he stated flatly. ‘Most notable was Joan of Arc and Bernadette of Lourdes. No doubt a great many others dared not reveal that they could hear voices for fear of being called witches and put to death after prosecution. But you’re quite right. Most voices are heard by the mentally ill which are not quite the same... or so we believe. In most cases, there are multiple personalities talking within the same individual, therefore the voices they hear come from within their other selves within themselves. It sounds complicated but it’s perfectly true.’
Surely that sort of thing doesn’t apply to me,’ returned Roach slightly on edge. ‘I mean I don’t have a multiple personality. I’m quite lucid. I’m hearing the voice of my late wife. It’s not as thought there’s another personality inside me. She was a character on her own account when she was alive.’
‘The reason I put my argument in such a way is that you can only hear her voice. You’ve not seen her after her death.’
‘But I have!’ exclaimed the banker. ‘I have seen her! The night after the funeral, she appeared at the foot of my bed... in the early hours of the morning. When she was killed, she was wearing yellow oilskins with a hood and it was pulled down over her head that evening because there was a kind of drizzle. But when I saw her at the foot of the bed, she had rolled it back so that I could see her face clearly.’
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it. To me, ghosts have always been amusing features in cinemas or on television films. Nothing more.’
‘Had you been asleep just before you saw her apparition?’ came the next questions sharply, staring over his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘You woke up drowsily, possibly under the influence of sleeping tablets, and as you opened your eyes she was standing there. Then, when you cleared your eyes, she was gone. Is that correct?’
‘That’s exactly what happened. But I never saw her again after that. She told me later, on my computer, that it was becoming more difficult to find the energy to do anything but to speak to me. She wrote the words: “Can’t appear any more. Not enough strength. Will speak to you soon.“’
‘I see,’ commented the psychiatrist slowly, his eyes ostensibly boring into the banker’s face. ‘Do you not consider that you may have typed out those words yourself without realising?’
‘I was sitting there with my hands on my lap when it happened. I couldn’t have been responsible.’
‘You say she wrote: “Not enough strength. Can’t appear any more.” What about her voice. Do you think her voice will fade away?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you want her voice to fade away, never to hear it again? Is that what you really desire? Then you could be free to lead a new life.’
Charles sat silent for a moment to consider the situation. ‘I don’t know the answer to that question,’ he returned quietly. ‘I really want her to remain with me always but I have to recognise the fact that she’s dead. I love to hear her voice but it’s something I need to think about. I mean she talks to me and I can speak with her. She’s already told me to lead my own life and forget about her but I don’t want to let go. Naturally, I’ll never forget her but I’m a simple man with his feet on the ground. I don’t suppose I’d want Jennifer to keep talking to me week in and week out. Not really. The main thing is to determine whether I’m really hearing her voice or just imagining it.’
‘Good!’ remarked Hamilton cheerfully. ‘I think we’re making good progress in an extremely short period of time. We’ve established that you don’t see the image of your late wife any more. That problem seems to have resolved itself. Telephone and computer messages have stopped. Now you only hear her voice in your middle ear... which may fade away in due course. I think you’ll find her voice will vanish soon and you’ll be back to normal. By that I mean you’ll be able to start your life afresh without her troubling you again.’
‘You still believe I’m imagining she’s speaking to me, aren’t you? And that all those other things never happened.’
‘That’s just the point. You’re actually hearing her voice because your mind is relating it to you. Whether it’s from your sub-conscious or form across the bridge is a matter I have to let you decide. I’m unable to comment on the other incidents. They’re beyond my scope. The mind plays fantastic tricks on us when we’re under severe pressure, or face tremendous fear, or become riddled with grief or anger. The anger being held against the man who killed your wife. Have you confronted him yet?’
‘He was a hit-and-run driver. They never caught him.’
‘You haven’t mentioned your anger against the man.’
‘I’ve never thought about him. Only about Jennifer.’
‘I find that rather odd. You may be harbouring all kinds of enmity in your sub-conscious mind. My advice is that you shouldn’t be too concerned about what is happening at the present time. It will fade away as you deal with your grief, Give it a couple of months and you’ll find that everything will settle down You have nothing with which to concern yourself except for loneliness. On that score, you’ll have to make up your own mind whether to reorganise your life, take up other interests, start a relationship with another woman, or take up some kind of leisure activity to compensate. We all have different views, interests, choices and talents. All I can say, in a bizarre way, is that I’m rather glad that most of my patients are not as sound in mind as you are, otherwise I’d be out of business.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘This is one of the shortest interviews I’ve given in years.. I’d like to see you again in say four weeks’ time. Perhaps you’d arrange it with my secretary. I’m very confident that you won’t hear your late wife’s voice by then. Time will prove to be a great healer. Mark my words!’
Charles shook the psychiatrist by the hand wondering whether the man would charge a fee for such a short visit. In truth, he had learned nothing from either the doctor or the psychiatrist. Each one had hustled him away with an air of indifference, indicating his grief had caused his imagination to burst its banks. Neither of them believed that Jennifer could speak with him. He could understand the attitude of the busy general practitioner, but th psychiatrist ought to have known better. But then perhaps he did. Maybe he had patients who experienced the same problem. He said that lots of people heard voices, albeit he stressed that hearing voices after a bereavement was not a subject for insanity. It was a release... a general mourning process. Well... perhaps he ought to accept the words of wisdom from the specialist. Af
ter all, the man made his living from his knowledge of the illness of the mind.
Charles intended to return to his office but the frustration of the two interviews caused him to feel inertia, He had an urge to get out into wide open spaces rather than to remain encapsulated in the claustrophobic offices of the bank. He needed to express himself in one form of physical activity or another to drive the feeling out of his system. At random, he caught a bus without troubling to find out its destination, and travelled on for half-an-hour without caring where it might take him. He alighted at a park divided by a lake where some geese and ducks paddled aimlessly. At a shop, within the precincts of the park, he bought a French-stick loaf and sat on a bench feeding the fowl, tossing them piece of bred every so often. It was a cold day but the numbness of his body precluded any sense of external influences. Why did everyone believe that he had imagined hearing Jennifer’s voice? It sounded crystal clear in his middle ear! Yet no one believed him! Eventually, he began to get hungry. He was beginning to recover his appetite. He went to the restaurant in the part and sat eating a simple meal staring vacantly out of the window. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing and the trip had not particularly eased his mind. He realised that grief was a serious problem that he had to overcome but he had no idea how to do it. When the love of one’s life, one’s soul-mate, is snatched away, there is no means by which one could easily adjust.
By the time he left the area it was getting dark. As he waited at the bus-stop to return home, he realised that he would be alone again all evening. He didn’t relish the idea at all. Neither did he want company. The thought of other people talking softly, stepping on egg-shells around him, and commiserating with him, made him feel sick. His whole concept of life seemed suspended over a chasm of discontent without any recourse to happiness. After he arrived home, he made himself a cup of coffee and sat in the lounge moodily. There was something the psychiatrist mentioned that circled around and around in his mind. His anger against the hit-and-run driver! In all the time since the accident, Charles had never given any thought to the man. The issue of a hit-and-run driver had infuriated relatives, friends, neighbours and the local newspaper reporters alike but it had never touched him. The loss of Jennifer was more important that any consideration of that kind. Yet now he began to think about it although he could conjure up no anger. How could anyone be angry at a practically innocent person who was not really to blame? If he had kept the dog on a tighter leash..,, ,,if Jennifer had been on the inside of him instead of being on the edge of the pavement... if the truck hadn’t been coming down the hill at that moment ,,,,if the snow hadn’t fallen! How on earth could anyone blame the driver>