Strident. Compelling. Commanding.
“… daddydaddydaddy hothothothot daddydaddy.…”
But the door remained shut.
“I’ll look in tomorrow; meanwhile, keep using the cold compresses to reduce the fever and keep her hands outside the covers. Those burns are nasty, and even the light pressure of a blanket might irritate them. Let her stay in your bed where you can keep an eye on her. The Nembutal suppository should make her sleep through the rest of the night. By the way, Bill, if I were you, I’d get in touch with that psychiatric clinic first thing in the morning. They helped her once, I recall.”
Lying there, inert, folded into the trembling form of her child, Janice heard the doctor’s words.
The quarter moon forced a wan path through the Venetian blinds onto the flushed and quivering face lying on the pillow next to her. Caught in the twilight of her own sedated brain, Janice tried to penetrate beyond the flesh life of the lovely face, beyond the glazed, half-open eyes, the two windows, the pair of light and air holes, that must surely lead into the dungeon where the restless soul of Audrey Rose, bound as with a seven-fold chain, lay captive and alert.
10
“Dead?” It was not so much a question as a shocked reiteration.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” The voice coming through the telephone belonged to Dr. Benjamin Schanzer, director of the Park East Psychiatric Clinic—a name totally unfamiliar to Bill. “Dr. Vassar passed away more than two years ago.”
“Oh.…” Bill paused, redirected his thoughts. “My daughter was a patient of Dr. Vassar’s … about seven years ago.”
“I see.”
Bill found himself groping. “She had a problem and … Dr. Vassar helped her. The problem seems to have returned.”
“Let me see … that would be in 1967 … a bit before my time, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I believe a doctor … Wyman was director of the clinic then.”
“Dr. Wyman is still a practicing member of the clinic. Why don’t I put you through to his office?”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.”
Bill was seated in his own office. It was just after nine o’clock, and the floor was still deserted. Abby wouldn’t arrive until nine fifteen. Don usually dragged himself in around ten. Bill was the early bird this morning and with reason. There was a lot to do and fewer than five hours in which to do it; a lot of loose ends to tie up before takeoff time. That, plus another reason, one that he hated thinking about. For the first time in their marriage he had felt the overwhelming need to escape this morning. Immature, irrational, inconsiderate, cruel—the fact remained that he had to get away.
Ivy’s tears had awakened him; normal tears, a natural reaction to the pain in her hands. As usual, she remembered nothing of the nightmare and was willing to accept Bill’s explanation of the accident with only one question.
“If I burned them on the radiator, going to the bathroom, how come I didn’t wake up?”
“Because we put ointment on quickly, and burns only hurt later on.”
“Oh, yes,” she remembered. “Like when I got sunburned on the beach last summer.” Though terribly hurt and feverish, she still managed to bring a smile to her lips, a smile of acceptance, of a willingness to start the day off on a positive, hopeful note.
Janice, however, awakened into a vacuum.
Mute, unresponsive, unapproachable, she went through her morning chores as if she were a wind-up toy. Neither Ivy’s complaints nor her gentle probings seemed to get through to Janice.
“Sorry to have kept you so long.” Dr. Schanzer’s voice came back on the line. “It seems Dr. Wyman won’t be coming in for the rest of the week. But Dr. Perez, who was interning here at the time, may have some memory of the case.”
“Well, may I speak to Dr. Perez?”
“Hold on, please.”
The first hint of apathy showed when he told Janice of his decision to scrub the trip to Hawaii—that he’d sooner quit than go without them. Her response was to make none. Then, when he asked if her silence signified that she wished him to go, she still said nothing, simply continued squeezing oranges. Finally, and with some heat, he asked her what the hell it was she wanted him to do? To which she replied, “I think you should go.” The words were fine, but the spirit behind them left much to be desired. When he suggested they keep her and Ivy’s tickets in abeyance, to be used the moment Ivy’s temperature eased off, she said, “Okay.” Again, the content of the reply was acceptable, but not the force and feeling behind it. When he asked her if she was afraid to be left alone, afraid that Hoover might annoy her or that Ivy might have a relapse, she said in the same bland, listless tone, “Why should I be afraid? The majesty of the law will protect me against Hoover, and Dr. Kaplan’s suppositories will help me with Ivy.”
It was at this point that he felt the need for some fresh air. He suggested they both meet with Dr. Vassar later in the morning and make immediate arrangements to get Ivy back into therapy, to which Janice replied, “If you wish.” And that was it. The sum and substance of their morning dialogue—the totality of their exchange,
“Hello, this is Dr. Perez speaking; to whom do I speak?” The voice was thin; the accent South American.
“My name is William Templeton, Dr. Perez. Our daughter, Ivy, was a patient of Dr. Vassar’s some years ago.…”
“Dr. Vassar died two years ago.…”
“Yes, I know, Doctor, but there are some questions I would like to ask you since I understand you were at the clinic during the time my daughter was being treated.”
“Please ask.…”
“First, I’d like to know, do you still have Dr. Vassar’s records pertaining to my daughter’s case?”
Dr. Perez answered without hesitation, seemingly without thinking.
“Yes, we are a group practice at Park East, and all physicians’ case records are kept in a master file room. That would include Dr. Vassar’s case records as well.”
“Might I have access to those records?”
“Yes, you must sign a request for them, and we will be happy to turn them over to any other physician.”
“That’s another thing I want to discuss Dr. Perez. My daughter’s problem has recurred, and we have no other physician at this time. Would it be possible for you to take on this case?”
“Yes, it is possible. One moment, please.” There was a short pause during which Bill heard Perez breathing. “Mr. Templeton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have here a space in my book on December 14, at one o’clock.…”
“No, Dr. Perez, perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. My daughter is quite ill; she requires attention immediately.…”
“Then it would be impossible for me to take your daughter’s, case. Perhaps another doctor in the clinic might do it.”
“Fine, fine. My wife and I would like to come to the clinic this morning and make some kind of arrangement. Whom do we see?”
“Dr. Schanzer would be the person to see.”
Bill then called Janice and told her that Dr. Vassar had died, and she asked, “What from?”
“I don’t know,” Bill said peevishly. “I didn’t think to ask. What the hell’s the difference?”
“None, I suppose,” was her reply. The apathy persisted, deep-grained and enduring.
“I made an appointment to see the head of the clinic at ten thirty. Do you think Carole would be willing to stay with Ivy?”
“I’ll ask,” she said.
“We can have lunch afterward. I don’t have to check in at Kennedy till two fifteen.”
“Fine.”
The anteroom of the Park East Psychiatric Clinic had undergone a few minor alterations but essentially corroborated the image Bill had held in his memory for seven years. The wall of undraped windows exposed the same lovely knoll of park, although the trees then were as yet untouched by snow. The character of the paintings on the opposite wall had, however, made the transition from European Impressionism to American Modern, relying heavily on Nolan and Robert Indiana.