by Jane Heller
Before the meeting began, everybody was asking me about the dramatic change in my appearance—what I’d done to my hair, how I’d managed to lose weight so quickly, whether I was taking diet pills. Only Charlotte didn’t seem to notice that I looked different. When she saw me she smiled and told me to give her regards to my parents. My parents had been dead for seven years.
“Now, ladies,” she said, calling the meeting to order. “Who has something she’d like to discuss?”
June raised her hand.
“Yes, June?” said Charlotte.
“Lloyd told me that Sylvester Stallone is thinking of selling his place in Miami and buying here in Banyan,” June announced.
“Sylvia who, dear?” Charlotte asked.
“No, not Sylvia. Sylvester,” June said impatiently. “Sylvester Stallone. You know. Rocky.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I believe that the fellow you’re talking about passed away some time ago,” she said. “Pity, too. After all those lovely movies he made with Doris Day.”
“No, that was Rock Hudson,” June corrected Charlotte. “The actor I’m talking about played Rocky, the boxer who…Oh, never mind.”
“My God, if Stallone moves here, it’ll be the end of life as we know it,” Althea scowled.
“Come on,” said Deirdre. “I think he’s adorable. A real cutie-pie.”
“He’s also rich,” added June. “Think of the house he’ll buy. And before you know it, his friends will want to buy in Banyan, too. Home Sweet Home will become the realtor to the stars.”
“Just what Banyan Beach needs,” Althea snapped. “Stars. Doesn’t anybody realize that if Stallone moves in, Madonna will be next? And then where will we be?”
“Selling a lot more real estate,” Suzanne replied. “Luxury real estate. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Not a thing,” Frances chimed in. “I, for one, would be happy to sell Madonna a house.”
“Barbs would probably be the one to sell her the house,” Deirdre said with a touch of sour grapes. “She’s on a hot streak all of a sudden. She covered for me on Friday afternoon and ended up with the $700,000 customer I should have gotten.”
“I was due for a little good luck,” I pointed out. “Besides, Deirdre, I was doing you a favor by taking floor duty, remember?”
“Ladies, ladies,” Charlotte interrupted. “Let’s try to stick to our agenda, shall we? June was telling us about the movie actor. What was his name, dear?”
“Sylvester Stallone,” June answered.
“Does he play golf?” asked Suzanne.
“Probably,” said June. “Why?”
“Because there’s a $4 million house coming on the market in Cotswold Cove, that new golf community on the Intracoastal. It’s glitzy enough for a movie star.”
“Cotswold Cove? Give me a break,” I groaned. Like many of the so-called “country club communities” that had sprouted up across South Florida, Cotswold Cove took its name from merry old England in an effort to appeal to people who admired all things old and staid and yet lived, wore, and drove all things new and flashy. The place was a joke, especially the houses. You would think that, for $4 million, you’d get a house of true distinction, a property that afforded complete and total privacy. Well, not at Cotswold Cove. The residents there didn’t want privacy or distinction. What they wanted—and got—was a Levittown for exhibitionists. Every single house looked exactly like the one next door. What’s more, the houses were so close together you could hear the messages on your neighbor’s answering machine.
“Let’s wait and see if Sylvester Stallone actually shows up in Banyan Beach,” Frances suggested. “He could decide to stay in Miami after all.”
“Miami,” Althea sniffed. “That’s what Banyan Beach is becoming. Another Miami. The crime, the traffic, the pollution, the—”
“This is still a beautiful town,” Frances protested. “I don’t know why you’re always so down on everything, Althea.”
“Beautiful town? Don’t be naive,” Althea said, looking first at Frances, then at the rest of us. “Haven’t you all seen what’s happened? Haven’t you?”
“No, what’s happened?” Charlotte asked, totally bewildered by Althea’s ravings. To her, Banyan Beach would always remain an unspoiled, picture-perfect paradise. In a way, I envied her ability to distance herself from reality.
“I’ll tell you what’s happened,” said Althea, growing more and more angry. “Banyan Beach is going to hell. Little by little. Inch by inch. I don’t know exactly when it began or why. But I do know that while we weren’t paying attention, while our backs were turned, the devil came to town and decided to make it his own.”
Suzanne and I looked at each other and started to giggle. Obviously, Althea was more than just grumpy; she was certifiable. A lunatic. She reminded me of those holy rollers who rant and rave about the devil on Sunday morning television. And then I remembered that her father was an evangelist who claimed he could heal people if they paid him $150. In cash. In advance.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Althea sneered at us. “There will come a time when you’ll see that I’m right. You’ll think about the fact that the murder rate has gone up and the beaches have eroded and the river has become polluted and you’ll say, ‘Althea Dicks knew what she was talking about.’”
“Have some more tea,” Charlotte said to Althea. “It will calm your nerves, dear.”
“My nerves don’t need calming,” said Althea. “I’m just trying to make a point.”
“What point? That the devil is behind all of Banyan Beach’s problems? That he’s living right here in our little town?” Suzanne said, trying to keep a straight face.
Althea nodded.
“I bet he lives in Cotswold Cove,” I said between snickers. Charlotte’s Monday morning meetings were always a little bizarre, but not this bizarre. “I bet he’s the one who’s putting his four-million-dollar house on the market. He wants something bigger. He’s dying for a trade-up.”
“Either that, or he’s unhappy with the golf course there,” Suzanne suggested. “It does get crowded on weekends.”
“Maybe he lives in your building, Suzanne,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me that one of your neighbors never leaves home without his pitchfork?”
“Fine, Barbara. Make jokes if you want to,” said Althea. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t,” I said, stifling a laugh.
I leaned over and whispered to Suzanne, “There are times when I’d like to put a muzzle on that woman.”
Suzanne giggled and was about to respond when Althea began to speak—but all that came out of her mouth was a croak.
She cleared her throat and tried again, but her voice was so hoarse we couldn’t hear her. Only seconds before, she’d been going on and on about the devil. Now, all of a sudden she couldn’t talk at all.
“Sounds like you’ve developed a case of laryngitis, dear,” Charlotte said, patting Althea on the shoulder.
Suzanne looked at me and raised her eyebrow.
“Didn’t you just say you wanted to put a muzzle on Althea?” she whispered to me.
I gulped. “I did, didn’t I?”
Suzanne nodded and then smiled weakly. I couldn’t help noticing that she moved ever so slightly away from me.
Dr. Messersmith had been our family doctor for years, so it was only natural that I would seek his advice about my curious condition. He was a highly respected physician in town and projected a real air of authority and competence. The only problem with him was that his office was as busy as a golf course on Saturday morning. There were always zillions of people in the waiting room and no matter how early you got there the good magazines—not to mention the chairs—were all taken. So you ended up spending an hour trying to find something reasonably entertaining about Popular Mechanics, and then the nurse would finally call your name and lead you into an examining room. You’d take off your clothes, anticipating Dr. Messersmith’s imminent arriva
l, and wind up staring at his diplomas for another hour. Then he’d march in, clutching your chart in his scrubbed and gloved hands, and before you could get out a single syllable, he’d take a phone call. You’d sit there on the examining table, feeling insignificant, shivering in your skimpy little hospital gown, the backs of your legs sticking to that god-awful wax paper, while he’d be gabbing with some other doctor about Mrs. So-and-So’s gall bladder.
“Hello, Barbara,” he said when he entered the examining room smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol. He was a rather imposing figure—tall, terrific posture, gray-haired, bushy eyebrows. “What can we do for you today?”
“I haven’t been feeling well,” I said.
“Really? You look awfully well,” he said. “You’ve taken off a few pounds, I can see. And the hair’s different, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, but I don’t feel well,” I said.
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, it’s sort of hard to—”
The phone on the wall buzzed. Dr. Messersmith picked it up and, after instructing his nurse to put the call through, began to discuss the gastroenterological side effects of erythromycin.
“Now then, Barbara. You were saying?” he said after hanging up the phone.
“I was saying that I’m not myself. I think you should give me a blood test, take X-rays, do a CAT scan, the works.”
Dr. Messersmith eyed me. “Is there trouble at home?” he asked, his tone becoming paternal.
“Yes, Mitchell and I are splitting up. But my marriage has nothing to do with this. I really am sick.”
“Tell me your symptoms.”
I took a deep breath. “My short-term memory is gone,” I said, thinking there was a possibility that I had colored my hair, taken diet pills, undergone cosmetic surgery, and bought a dog, but didn’t remember. “And I’ve been having—”
The phone buzzed again. This time, Dr. Messersmith was lured into a conversation about carpal tunnel syndrome.
“You’ve been having what?” he asked when the call was over.
“I’ve been having thoughts…What I mean is, I seem to…Well, let’s just say I believe that I can make things happen.”
“Excellent,” said Dr. Messersmith with a big smile. “That’s just what I like to hear. It’s very important for people to feel a sense of empowerment, especially in this modern age where we have so little control over our lives. Bravo, Barbara. Bravo.”
“No, Doctor. This has nothing to do with empowerment. I feel totally impotent about my own life. Yet at the same time, I’m under some sort of delusion that I can cause things to happen to other people. Bad things.”
Dr. Messersmith stepped back to look at me. “And so you think you have a brain tumor? Isn’t that what you told my nurse?”
“Yes. Is there any way you could check it out?”
“Are you having headaches?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Seizures?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Yes. Occasionally.” Whenever David Bettinger touches me, I thought but didn’t say.
The doctor buzzed for his nurse. She took my temperature and blood pressure and asked me to give her a urine sample. Then he examined me. He listened to my heart, palpated my abdomen, felt my neck for lumps, shined a little light in my eyes, and inserted a tongue depressor into my mouth.
“Say ‘Aaaaah,’” he commanded me.
“Aaaaah.”
Dr. Messersmith pulled away from me, a look of dread on his face.
“You saw something?” I asked with alarm.
“No, I smelled something,” he said. “Did you by any chance have Brussels sprouts for lunch today, Barbara?”
“No. I didn’t have lunch at all,” I said.
He made notes on my chart and continued with his examination. When he was finished, he told me to get dressed and meet him in his office.
“What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” I asked as I sat facing him across his desk. I prepared myself for the worst.
Dr. Messersmith didn’t answer me. Instead, he scribbled something on the top sheet of his prescription pad and handed it to me.
It read, “Dr. Louise Schaffran,” along with a local phone number.
“You want me to see a specialist?” I asked.
He nodded, his expression somber.
“Is this Dr. Schaffran a neurologist?” I asked, still clinging to my brain-tumor theory.
He shook his head.
“A throat specialist?” I asked, thinking of the reaction people were having to my breath.
He shook his head again. I was becoming a little exasperated.
“Look, Dr. Messersmith. I’d rather not play twenty questions. Why don’t you just tell me what Dr. Schaffran’s specialty is.”
“She’s a Freudian psychiatrist,” he replied. “A very fine one.”
I sank back into the chair.
“So I’m having a nervous breakdown, is that it?” I said.
“Well, I didn’t find anything physically wrong with you during my preliminary examination,” he said.
“Yes, but you didn’t—”
“You mentioned that you and your husband have broken up. You were married for several years, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think that has anything—”
“And the last time you were here you told me that there were problems at work, that you were concerned about your ability to earn a living as a real estate agent.”
“Right, but what’s happening to me now isn’t—”
“Call Dr. Schaffran, Barbara,” he cut me off. “She’ll be able to help you.”
Sure, doc, I thought sourly. Keep me waiting for two fucking hours and then pass the buck.
Dr. Messersmith reached for the phone on his desk and dialed. Obviously, my audience with him was over.
“I hope your damn phone goes dead,” I muttered under my breath as I left his office.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard Dr. Messersmith shout, “What the hell’s the matter with this phone?”
Nervous breakdown my ass.
Chapter 10
“Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night, Bah-barah?” David asked.
I had gotten home from my appointment with Dr. Messersmith, curled up in the fetal position on the living room sofa, and fallen asleep, with Pete standing guard at my feet. The ringing of the phone had jolted me awake.
“I’d love to,” I said.
Sure, I could have played hard to get and pretended I was busy on Saturday night. But I was delighted that David was still interested in me and I couldn’t hide it. After the way our last date had ended—with the two of us having to rouse Jeremy out of a drunken slumber, drag him to the pickup truck, and help him fix his flat tire—I wasn’t sure he wanted to see me again.
“Wonderful. This time we’ll have dinner at my house. Just the two of us,” he said. “No interruptions.”
“No interruptions? And I thought you liked Jeremy,” I teased.
“That’s funny. I thought you liked Jeremy,” said David. “I was just being polite to your friend.”
“My brother’s friend,” I corrected him.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I had the feeling that you and Jeremy were…well, close.”
I laughed. “Yeah, close to strangling each other.”
“Sorry. I must have misread the situation. In any case, I’m looking forward to seeing you on Saturday night. I intend to cook you a dinner you’ll never forget. How’s seven-thirty?”
“Sounds fine.”
We chatted for ten minutes or so, and, after we hung up, I closed my eyes and anticipated having dinner at David’s house. It was nice to have something to look forward to for a change, I thought, remembering how bleak my future had seemed when I was married to Mitchell, how the weekends were just as empty as the weekdays, how one day melted into another. Now, in addit
ion to my renewed excitement about Home Sweet Home, where I was becoming the hottest agent in the office, I had a man to be excited about, to daydream about. Suddenly, life was filled with possibilities.
Even so, there was still the matter of my supposed nervous breakdown. I called Dr. Schaffran’s office and made an appointment for Wednesday.
Dr. Schaffran turned out to be my age. She had long black hair, pulled back into a braid, and she was dressed in what I would describe as the Southwestern look: mid-calf-length blue jeans skirt, white cotton shirt, cowboy boots, lots of silver-and-turquoise jewelry, you get the picture. She was pleasant-looking, had a nice smile and told me to call her Louise.
“I’ve never been in therapy before, Louise,” I admitted as the session got underway.
“How…does…that…make…you…feel?” said Louise, who spoke very slowly, elongating every word, in a way that was probably meant to be comforting but sounded ridiculous.
I replied that I felt a little strange, being asked to unburden myself to a complete stranger, but that Dr. Messersmith had suggested I come after I had told him I had the power to cause bad things to happen to people. “He seems to think my problems are related to the breakup of my marriage,” I said, then went on to explain that Mitchell had left me for a younger woman.