Catalina’s answers were prepared, of course. Yes, Bermuda would have been a more fitting and gentler denouement to his long career, but neither lifespan nor will to live came with a guaranteed end date — something, perhaps, for Mrs. Dubois to mull over as well? And men manifested depression in different ways than women: irritability, violence, impulsivity. These were things she might not have readily noticed in the sterile environment of the office, no matter how well she thought she knew him. Not to mention there was an increased incidence, statistically speaking, of suicidal ideation among psychotherapists. But since Mrs. Dubois wouldn’t be around long enough for this first encounter to matter, Catalina didn’t bother comforting her with facts or philosophical musings, nor did she explain how she had come to fill Dr. Schmidt’s orthopedic shoes, which as she recalled were not that big. For the moment, she would just empathize and validate the woman’s feelings — it was what all the literature recommended.
“I can see how hard this has been on you, Joan,” Catalina said in her most compassionate tone. She handed the woman another tissue, and Mrs. Dubois wiped her tears, smudging mascara into her crow’s feet, then blowing her nose like a rusty trumpet.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman replied, trying to smile. “I didn’t expect to have such a reaction. I didn’t even cry at the memorial service. I guess there was no time to process it — he was at work one day and buried the next.” She waved her frail hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lifted her handbag onto her lap and retrieved a dented compact. “Look at me, I’m such a mess.” She worked haphazardly on the smudges around her eyes with the soggy tissue. “It’s a good thing that no clients are coming in today. There are dozens of messages and just as many referrals that were made before he... left us.” Her face began to collapse again; she managed to catch it, but not the quaver in her voice. From a drawer she retrieved two folders, which she handed to Catalina: the first was full of little pink callback slips, the second contained almost a dozen intake sheets, which provided basic information about each potential client — name, age, address, as well as a few lines summarizing the reason for the referral. Catalina placed the folder with the pink slips back onto the desk and slipped the second folder into her briefcase. Mrs. Dubois gave her a puzzled look.
“It will be at least a few more weeks before I can return any of these calls,” she explained, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I’d like to spruce up the waiting room, give it a fresh start, and probably the rest of the office too.”
A mild panic flitted across the secretary’s face as she glanced at the sagging furniture and the fading posters hung with no apparent design on the walls. They illustrated Freud’s defense mechanisms — projection, sublimation, denial, reaction formation — with large-headed and frightened-looking characters who were sure to make clients uneasy.
“Feel free to take anything that holds sentimental value for you. I’m sure Dr. Schmidt would have wanted it that way.” This statement seemed to placate the secretary, as her only response was a quiet, “Thank you.”
“Now, if it’s not too much trouble, can you make a list of all the clients with active files? I’d like you to note who should be contacted by phone as well as who should receive the lawyer’s letter explaining what has occurred and what will happen next.” It was protocol to reach out to each client individually, and Catalina believed that you could get away with almost anything if you kept on top of the smaller tasks. From her briefcase she extracted a flash drive containing the lawyer’s letter and placed it before Mrs. Dubois. “Make sure everyone on the list gets a copy of the file labeled, Schmidt-death-notice.”
Mrs. Dubois plugged the flash drive into her computer and pulled up the document, which bore the letterhead of Dr. Schmidt’s attorney, Anthony Curtiss, and was signed by him as well, though Catalina had composed the message herself for expediency. The secretary pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose and silently read the letter.
Dear——,
It is with deep regret that I write to inform you of Dr. Forrest Schmidt’s passing. Many of you have known him and counted upon his support for years, and no doubt this news comes as a shock. It is understandable if you have questions about his death, but Dr. Schmidt’s primary concern in his professional relationship with you was to keep the focus on your needs and emotions. Although he did not have the time to generate personal referrals for each of you, rest assured that in the coming weeks you will be contacted by his curator, Dr. Catalina Thwaite, who will also be assuming much of his practice. She will confirm any referrals, as well as inform you when appointments will resume at the Sherbrooke Street location. In the interim, should you experience overwhelming distress as a result of Dr. Schmidt’s passing and the concomitant halt of your therapy, please do not hesitate to present yourself at the nearest emergency room or call one of the help lines provided with this letter. In closing, I would like to express my deepest condolences for your loss.
Oddly, the letter perked Mrs. Dubois up a bit, though it might have been the prospect of filling the role of next-of-kin by informing the clients of the doctor’s passing. The office’s voice mail had announced that all sessions were cancelled until further notice, and a statement of Dr. Schmidt’s death had appeared in the Gazette and Le Devoir. There had been no reference to the cause of death, which was certain to be the first question everyone would ask, had Mrs. Dubois not already spilled the beans when she called to cancel their appointments.
“Would you like me to phone them since I already know them all?”
“No,” Catalina said firmly, “it would be better if they heard it from someone—” she paused as if to select her words, “—less involved.”
Mrs. Dubois looked somewhat sheepish as she nodded, but she picked up a pen and legal pad, eager to prove she was something more than a quivering sack of grief. “And by what criteria would you like me to select who gets called, Dr. Thwaite?”
“By who is most likely to become hysterical, naturally.”
Catalina did not indicate which clients would receive the phone call in addition to the letter. She had yet to decide what would be most interesting.
It took Mrs. Dubois all morning to compile the patient list and personalize and print the letters. Meanwhile, Catalina sequestered herself behind the dark wooden door that led to both Dr. Schmidt’s consultation room and study. Like the waiting area, the rooms were spacious, with large windows looking onto the street. The consultation room had the dark wainscoting of what was once a dining room or parlor before the town house had been cut up into office space — two other doctors had offices on the second floor. There was also a fireplace that no longer functioned; a fake log in need of dusting sat on its grate. The mantelpiece was made of the same dark walnut as the doors of the waiting room and study. A porcelain Ming reproduction vase holding dried flowers sat before a wood-framed mirror, and a green corduroy sofa was pushed up against the wall by the windows. This kept the distractions of the outside world away from clients, but afforded them to Dr. Schmidt. Catalina had to admit this was good planning — it went without saying that most of his long-term patients were going to be unbearably dull. (The hysterics would be called, she all at once decided.) A matching armchair sat facing the sofa with an end table next to it, an obvious cousin to the coffee table in the waiting room. A few files still lay upon it instead of being locked away in a file cabinet as professional standards and bylaws required. She wasn’t sure who was at fault for the lapse: Dr. Schmidt or Mrs. Dubois. She chose to condemn them both. She sat on neither the sofa nor chair; both looked lumpy and likely to shed a powder of grass-stain green on her lovely new suit. With amused contempt, she imagined the sofa being carried out with Mrs. Dubois stretched across it, complaining to the ghost of Dr. Schmidt about his successor.