“Suppose I tell you about this person who came to my hospital…”
The technique came back to him as though he had used it yesterday, instead of eleven years before. Gently he projected the hint that the children should shut their eyes, just as he had done long ago for the deaf-and-dumb girl whose mind was closed to anything but bright plain images and rich sensory impressions.
First… A hospital ward: efficiency, confidence, kindliness. Pretty nurses — Jill could be one of them for an instant, calming a patient whose face reflected gratitude.
Now…A glance inside the patient’s mind. Nightmare: but not a child’s nightmare, which would have been too terrifying for them. An adult nightmare, rather — too complex for them to recognize more than its superficial nature.
And then… Sharp, well-defined images: the patient running through the corridors of his own mind pursued by monsters from his subconscious; running for help and finding none until the presence of the doctor suggested reassurance and comfort. Then the harrying horrors paused in their chase: armed themselves with weapons which they could create merely by thinking, patient and doctor together cowed the things, drove them back, cornered them — and they were not.
It was a compound of half a dozen cases he had handled as a novice, simple, vigorous and exciting without being too fearful. When he had done, Howson broke the link and suggested that they open their eyes again.
“Goodness!” said Bobby with considerable new respect. “I didn’t know it was like that at all!”
Jill was about to confirm his reaction when she glanced through the open door into the hallway and bounced to her feet. “There’s Mummy!” she exclaimed. “Mummy, here’s somebody to see you — he’s been telling us such an exciting story like the ones he used to tell you!”
Mary Williams pushed the door fully open and looked at Howson. Her face — rather coarse, as he remembered it, but showing more personality and cleverly made up — set in a frozen stare. Through lips which barely opened she said, “That was nice of him. Now you run along so I can talk to Mr How-son on my own.”
Obediently the children started for the door. “Will you tell us some more stories some time, please?” Jill threw over her shoulder as she went out.
“If you like,” Howson promised, smiling, and when they had gone added to Mary, “Two fine children you have there!”
She ignored the remark. With her face still icy cold and empty, she said, “Well, Gerry ? So you’ve come back to plague me, have you?”
Howson waited in blank astonishment for a few seconds. When she did not amplify this amazing statement, he got to his feet. “I came to find out how you were getting on,” he snapped. “If you call it plaguing you, I’ll go. Right now!”
He picked up his valise, half-expecting her to open the door and say it was good riddance. Instead, she burst into tears.
“Mary!” he exclaimed, and realized and added aloud in the same moment: “Why, that’s the first time I’ve ever called you by name! And we knew each other pretty well, didn’t we?”
She mastered her sobs, and gestured for him to sit down again. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. It was amazing how completely she had learned to use her artificial vocal cords; unless one looked carefully for the scar on her throat it was impossible to detect they had been inserted by the hand of man. “It just took me by surprise, I guess. It — it’s nice of you to call, Gerry.”
“But what did you mean when you said I’d come to plague you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She moved to the place where Jill had been sitting, and waved vaguely at her surroundings — the room, the house, the whole suburb. “Now you have come, what have you found ? An ordinary housewife with a couple of ordinary kids and a decent enough guy for a husband. You can find a million people like me wherever you go. Only—”
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and sat up, crossing her legs. “Only seeing you reminded me of what I was going to be… That was why I stopped coming to see you.”
“I think I understand,” Howson said faintly. A cold weight was settling in the pit of his stomach. “But I never suspected there was anything wrong. You seemed so happy!”
“Oh — I guess I didn’t really suspect it myself.” She stared past him at the plain pastel walls. “It was after I came home that I realized. You remember how — in the stories you used to tell me — I was always beautiful and sought after, and I could hear and talk like anyone else.” She gave a harsh laugh.
“Well, the only part that came true was the ‘like anyone else’! I thought I’d got over it — until I came through the door and saw you sitting there. And it reminded me that instead of being the — the princess in the fairy tale, I’m plain Mary Williams the West Walnut housewife, and I shall never be anything else.”
There was silence for a moment. Howson could think of nothing to say.
“And of course I’ve been so jealous of you,” she went on in a level tone. “While I had to drop back into this anonymous existence, you became important and famous…”
“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me,” said Howson meditatively, “if I were to tell you that sometimes I feel I’d give up fame, importance, everything, for the privilege of looking other men straight in the eye and walking down the street without a limp.”
In an odd voice she said, “Yes, Gerry, I think I do believe you. I heard they hadn’t been able to do anything — about your leg, I mean. And the rest of it. I’m sorry.”
A thought struck her, and she stiffened. “Gerry, you haven’t really been telling Jill and Bobby the same kind of stories you told me? I’d never forgive you if you cursed them with the same kind of discontent.”
“I’ve learned a lot in eleven years,” Howson said bitterly. “You needn’t worry. I just told them about my work at Ulan Bator, and Jill says she wants to be a nurse anyway. I don’t think it will leave them discontented.”
“It left me that way,” Mary mused. “I remember the stories you told me much more vividly than I remember the dreadful place where we were living. The stories are more—more definite. While the real world has faded into a blur of grey.”
Howson had not yet replied when there were steps in the hall, and the sound of the children running. A man’s voice was heard greeting them affectionately.
“There’s Steve,” said Mary dispiritedly. “I wish—”
Howson didn’t hear what she wished, for at that moment Williams entered the lounge and stopped in surprise at seeing Howson there. “Uh — good afternoon!” he said blankly, his eyes asking furious questions of his wife.
“Steve, this is — I guess I should call you ‘doctor’, shouldn’t I, Gerry? — Dr. Gerry Howson, from Ulan Bator. He used to be a friend of mine before I met you.”
Williams signally failed to mask the fact that he thought his wife’s choice of friends must have been peculiar, but he offered his hand and Howson rose to take it.
“Gerry’s a psychiatrist,” Mary explained further, and Howson shook his head, wondering why she hadn’t told her husband about him.
“Not exactly. I’m actually a curative telepathist on the staff of the therapy centre there — the Asian headquarters of WHO.”
“A telepathist!” The information shook Williams severely. “Well, how — uh — interesting! I never met one of you people before.” And never particularly wanted to, his mind glossed silently.