Doctor Perry

by Kirsten McKenzie

  The baby cried and the moment burst like a sudsy bubble in the sink, oil floating on the surface corralled by a single strand of white spaghetti. Myra gazed out the window towards the lawn, her world. There were no fields, or long bike rides and raucous games here. She’d been imprisoned in a velvet covered box.

  The baby cried again, his volume rising with her misery, sensing her unhappiness. Outside on the lawn her old cat joined in, his yowl full of urgency trying to tell her something, something important.

  Doctor Perry stood by the door looking at the twin faces. It was as if there was a full length mirror in the room reflecting the image of one boy. They were in different clothes now than the matching outfits their mother had dressed them in when he’d first brought them home. A mother now laying in a mortician’s drawer, her shattered head concealed behind a chiller door.

  “Hello boys,” Doctor Perry said, still marvelling at their identical features.

  “Hello,” said Jesse.

  The boys had been doodling in their school books, swirls and spheres danced across the pages. Childish handwriting marched down the edges of the book, nothing which made any sense, odd words and snippets of phrases — ashes, mother, dust, pretty girl, mommy, ice, open the door, get out, family, get out, stop, get out.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, the lady gave us dinner, thank you,” Jesse answered again while his brother concentrated on drawing long entwined tails, or was it a jumbled morass of spaghetti strands? James didn’t offer an explanation, intent on his charcoal pencil scratching across the lined paper.

  “Myra said you had a blood nose…”

  The boys looked at each other, a mute conversation passing between them.

  “We’re okay now. We didn’t get blood on the carpet, we were careful.” Jesse looked towards his brother as he answered, seeking confirmation that he’d answered the right way.

  “The state of the carpet doesn’t matter, just your health. I need to make sure we return you to your family as fit as we found you,” Doctor Perry explained.

  “Is our mother dead?” James asked, looking up from his workbook.

  His brother froze cross-legged on the opposite bed, his breath as still as an icicle hanging on a winter’s branch.

  Doctor Perry nodded. This made things easier.

  “I’m sorry, but yes, your mother did not survive the accident. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Do we have to go home?” James asked, scrawling through the words he’d written out around the edges. With the words family and mommy obliterated, he chose another coloured pen, a red pen, and circled the words get out over and over, until there was only a red circle. The black words smudged beyond recognition.

  “Tell me about your home,” Doctor Perry countered.

  Another look passed between the boys which said should we tell him the truth or a version of the truth?

  Perry hadn’t questioned patients for so long without learning how to read body language - a better yard stick of human thoughts than written words. Words can deceive. Body language was the subconscious’s way of communicating with the world, nuanced and delicate, flighty and humourless. And these boys were holding something back. Something he couldn’t pinpoint. Something which made him feel uneasy.

  “We don’t have a home now so can we stay here? We promise not to bleed on anything.”

  Doctor Perry had no words. How to handle these two? Everyone had a home. Part of his procedure after signing up the patients he only ever had come in late at night was disposing of their belongings. In the beginning he’d left loose ends, untidy edges, and there had been moments where he was nearly burnt. He was more cautious now. People packed up all the time, running from rent arrears, from angry partners, from poor financial decisions, from life. Tidying up behind them was easy now he had a process, and one didn’t deviate from a system protecting a successful enterprise. Even his system required cogs and wheels, other people — an unfortunate downside. He’d tried doing everything himself but that was too visible, so now he had a small stable of contacts who worked on the dark edges. Like rats they scurried behind him, cleaning up behind him. Undoubtedly these boys had loose ends he’d need to consider — school, grandparents, nosy neighbours, babysitters. And he needed the loose ends tidied up before he could sell his newest acquisitions.

  “Child Welfare has directed that you stay here until we can sort out a permanent placement. They need to contact your family, your grandparents—”

  James interrupted, “We don’t have any.”

  “Our grandfather—” Jesse started.

  “Our grandfather is dead too,” James finished.

  Doctor Perry tilted his greying head, his own dark eyes taking in the talking heads in front of him. Older than their years, these boys were speaking untruths, a dangerous prospect. Only the truth allowed him to work without suspicion falling his shoulders.

  “You should get ready for bed now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The boys blinked, their long eyelashes exaggerating the movement as if blinking in slow motion. Doctor Perry’s heart skipped a beat, and he fumbled at the door. Something wasn’t right with those boys, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was his own imminent escape weighing on him, tainting everything else around him, or perhaps it was something more. He’d look into the boy’s history and consider his options. He’d need to get them to his clinic sooner rather than later, that was something he was sure about.

  Once in the kitchen he let out the breath he’d been holding. Myra had gone off to the nursery to change the baby who would be gone soon and after that, well, then it would be time for Myra to go. He had a long list of willing clients who’d take her, given how fit and healthy she was. All his wives had been, that was a requirement, because when he tired of them, they had to be suitable for trading.

  He opened the fridge and pulled out his bottle of tonic. This was the same batch he’d given Myra which hadn’t had any noticeable effect. He sloshed it around, the viscous liquid inching its way up to the rim. He was careful not to spill any because replacing it was proving to be more difficult. Another reason to pack it in and retire to enjoy the fruits of his labours, but not with Myra. Her time was over.

  25

  Mary Louise stared at the reflection looking back at her in the bathroom mirror. Wiping the steam from the glass she peered closer, closing her eyes and opening them again. She’d never considered herself beautiful, it had been an aunt who’d told her when she was young she’d been standing behind the door when God was handing out the good looks, but the face staring back at her now was the face of a forgotten stranger, a beautiful but forgotten stranger.

  Tugging her towel tighter around her middle, she traced the face in the reflection. It was a face she barely remembered. A face she remembered spending more time studying than partying, more time babysitting than dating, and more time sleeping than dancing. A face which should have been told to have more fun and stop worrying about the future. A face which didn’t yet understand that Bobby Sharpe would never be interested in her because he was a loser, destined to end up working in the local Bed King Supermarket as the weekend manager… hardly the most illustrious career for the best-looking boy in high school. The face looking back at her wasted so many days dreaming about someone who didn’t matter, frittering away a life full of promise.

  On the toilet seat Mary Louise gathered her thoughts. That she could sit on the toilet seat without lowering herself using the edge of the avocado-coloured sink for support, was a miracle. Her recovery had been quick, faster than she’d expected, and she had been eager to get on with her life before her employment was ended. But now… now she felt a certain reluctance to leave the house. Reluctant to do anything other than stare at herself in every reflective surface in the house. She’d caught herself admiring her reflection in the range hood, the kitchen window, the television screen. Each surface showing the same youthful face and lush dark hair, hair she’d given up caring too m
uch about before, allowing long silvery strands to slither past her shoulders.

  Ever since swallowing the doctor’s chalky tonic, she’d recovered from her horrific injuries with ungodly speed and it seemed she was growing younger by the hour. She didn’t know how or why, but lines which crisscrossed her face for years had vanished. A frown line cultivated by years of union negations at work was nothing more than a ghost of its former self. It was as if she’d stepped out of her college dorm room as a fresh faced eighteen-year-old and not as a woman in her early forties recovering from an accident which most people would never recover from. She didn’t want to squander this opportunity, but she was almost too scared to leave the house in case the fantasy dissolved.

  Walking to her bedroom, she tried not to glance at her reflection in the brass shades of the wall lamps, and assessed her wardrobe. She was slimmer than she’d ever been before, despite all the running she did, and she hadn’t even stepped foot in a gym. She hadn’t paid for a gym membership for over a decade, couldn’t abide donating money to a giant concrete box filled with vapid people preening themselves in front of each other, which is why she ran, thrusting her into this situation. Mary Louise couldn’t get her head around it.

  Pulling a pair of ripped jeans from the bottom of her drawers, she pulled the faded denim up her smooth legs. It had been forever since this pair of jeans fit so well. A siren outside disturbed her silent musings, the strident sound filling the space with its self importance before it faded down the long street. Zipping up the fly, she let the towel fall as she stepped in front of the mirror.

  A jagged scar traced the bony steps of her ribcage and time passed like a lumbering bear, slow but steady as she examined her youthful skin, until she shivered and pulled a sweater over her unrecognisable body. The rough fabric tickled her skin. She had to go out, to the supermarket or for a walk, with sunglasses and a cap on, no one would stop her to ask her how she was. Anyway, the neighbours had shown little interest in her over the past ten years and she doubted that would change now.

  With the front door open she breathed in the heady scent of… a new life or freedom from the old? Whatever it was she allowed it to fill her lungs, her fully healed lungs, and stepped off down the path. With no destination in mind, she walked without purpose engaging only with the birds and the bees on the street. She didn’t see the curtains twitching behind the windows of the red brick house across the road nor the masculine face behind the yellowing net curtains following her every step.

  26

  “Hands up everyone, that’s right, up to the ceiling. Arms straight. You can do it. And, stretch. Okay, now we’re all going to stand up. Take it slow folks, feet apart and now we will stretch up again. To the ceiling. Fingers apart. Don’t worry if you can’t stand up, yes you can do it sitting down. It would be nice if you could try standing up… yes, perfect. Okay team, now shake out your hands, gently at first and then copy me. Imagine you’ve walked through a huge spider web, shake it off, make that blood flow.”

  The excitable woman at the front of the lounge babbled on, cajoling her reluctant audience to push and fold their elderly bodies into poses better left to lithe yoga aficionados. All the residents had to attend the weekly exercise classes, part of the Rose Haven’s wellness campaign. Whether the instructor noticed the misery on the attendees faces was a subject much discussed over tea every week. The consensus was that she was happy being paid to show up but had no real interest in whether the elderly residents got any benefit out of her programme. Sure she tried to encourage those taking part in her class and who put up with her condescending comments about how well they were doing, but she never acknowledged the high number of frowning residents who sat in their armchairs watching the proceedings. It was as if eighty percent of the residents didn’t exist for her. Perhaps Jules the instructor, was too strung out on a homeopathic stimulant to notice anything around her.

  “She like this all time?” Sulia asked, her dark face incredulous at the travesty underway.

  Elijah shrugged, never taking his eyes off the thin Agatha Christie paperback in his hands. Given he had to attend, he came prepared to these god-awful sessions. For the first few sessions he'd tried to participate but had now found the solace he needed… hell, he’d lived and breathed exercise for more years than this hippyesque instructor had been alive and he’d come to the realisation she lacked complete understanding about fine motor skills or even gross motor skills.

  “Are you going to read?”

  “Ah huh,” Elijah responded, trying to ignore the woman who’d deposited her bulk next to his seat at the back of the overheated room. He almost felt fit enough to take part in the class although he still wouldn’t because he had standards. But whatever had been in the doctor’s tonic seemed to have oiled his joints and eased his arthritis. It had mostly worn off now, but for the first time in years he’d slept through the night, pain free, and now this woman was ruining his day.

  “It’s good for you, exercise. You should give it a go, might help with your hands, get the blood flowing. You don’t need to be embarrassed cause you got a disability. I’m not.”

  The woman was like a high speed freight train hurtling towards a washed out bridge. Elijah tried turning away but as she gabbled on she grabbed him by the hand. Elijah screamed, the scream tearing at his throat, ricocheting off the other residents, racing around the walls of the lounge before settling back in his throat, replaced by a solitary sob as he cradled his hand against his chest.

  The crying broke the trancelike state of the residents and an excited clamour filled the room. Sulia fussed over him mother-like and the instructor snapped out of her reverie, or her drug-induced calm, and flew to Elijah’s side. He was oblivious to the surrounding noise, to the accusations fired at the woman of colour sitting beside him - a larger-than-life enemy, a new face, therefore an easy target.

  “Hey, can you hear me?” Jules asked Elijah, her hands fluttering over him. “Hello? Are you okay? Was it the exercise? Oh don’t say it was the exercise. They’re all gentle exercises, that’s all I’m allowed to do. Don’t say it was the exercises.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, “I need this job, please don’t say it was the exercises. Are you okay though? Can I help?” Jules looked terrified and her eyes darting between him and the crowd, expecting accusations of torture from the residents at any moment.

  “I’m fine. It’s arthritis, nothing to do with your class. Leave me alone, please.” Elijah replied. The relief on her face as bright as the sun. She fluttered around him for another moment, her desire to help at odds with the way she ran the moronic exercise class. Perhaps she had more of a clue than he’d given her credit for. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Life was a litany of perhapses and maybes. But none of them turned the clock back.

  His fellow residents returned to their positions, the show over. Sulia remained by Elijah’s side — the person responsible for plunging a barbed dagger into his hand.

  “Sorry, shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I didn’t know you was in such pain. Do they have any idea here?” Sulia said, her tone lower than the ocean at low tide.

  “A couple of them. I don’t shout it out from the roof top. They don’t like the residents to have problems. Problems are costly so they move those residents off site. Don’t know where they go, but given how bad this place is I can only imagine how bad it must be in comparison.”

  Sulia nodded, taking it all in, the bangles on her wrists clinking with the movement. “They give you anything for the pain then?”

  “Tylenol mostly, can’t afford anything else. No healthcare package, I lost all that when… well, lost it anyway. No coverage now and couldn’t afford to keep it even if I had it. Shit country we live in. The Doc gave me some holistic stuff, but it didn’t last too long.”

  Sulia's cloudy eyes looked into the distance, past Jules who was trying to get back into the swing of things by jollying the residents into an organised shuffle around the room.

  “What if I could get
my hands on something for you, for the pain?”

  “What sort of something are we talking about?” he queried.

  “Something for the pain and trust me when I say you won’t be asking any more questions once that pain disappears like rain on a summers day. You come see me when you’re ready.”

  Sulia heaved her bulk out of her chair and waddled from the room, her bracelets providing a tinkling backdrop to the grunts and moans from the rest of the room. He considered his options as he waited for the pain in his hand to abate. It had taken every ounce of his strength to downplay the agony he was in. Even now, waves of pain were making him dizzy and there was no way he’d be able to stand up and leave the class without passing out. Leaving him here with only his pain and his thoughts to occupy him. He’d dropped his book when Sulia had grabbed him and it had fallen face up. The empty pill bottle on the old fashioned cover seemed to be a sign that whatever pain relief Sulia was alluding to couldn’t be worse than the pain he was in now.

  The familiar voice in the back of his mind, the one telling him he deserved the pain, was curiously silent.

  27

  “How much do you want for this?” asked the man in the grubby jeans, his stained hands caressing the back of an oak rocking chair, its polished arms bright through years of use.

  “They’re a dime a dozen, nothing special. I’ll offer forty for it.”

  “Forty! You’re dreaming, this here’s a nice piece. My uncle loved it like it was one of his damn grandchildren-”