Gene Chemosh had made the decision to call Joe Denspot for an appointment. At 2:30 on an overcast day, he walked into the doctor’s office. He looked around appreciatively at the simple décor that was ritzy without being ostentatious. When Denspot stood up from his desk, Chemosh commented, “Nice get-up.”
Joe Denspot smiled warmly, stretching out his hand. His eyes twinkled. “You mean my suit or the room?”
“I mean the room.”
“Thanks. Glad you like it.” He sat down, motioning his friend to do the same. “I know your time’s as valuable as mine.” Denspot spoke seriously, “Tell me what’s going on, Gene. What’s the problem—your family life, your work, your health?”
“Well, as far as I can tell, everything’s fine. My wife and son are fine. I have plenty of clients.” He sighed. “I’m in great health according to my last physical. It’s just this _____ nightmare that wakes me up in a panic almost every night.”
“Tell me about it.”
Chemosh related the dream from start to finish, carefully including every detail that came to his mind.
Even as he spoke, fear could be detected in his voice, and Joe Denspot remarked quietly, “That’s a pretty scary experience to go through in the middle of the night.”
“Yeah.” Chemosh’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “It drains me just telling it.”
“I understand.” Denspot reached for a pad and pencil. “How old is your son?”
“Almost seven.”
“No other children?”
“Nope.”
“How about Sally. Has she had any other children?”
“Andy’s our only child.”
“We’ve been out of touch for a while. Is your wife still at home?” He smiled apologetically, explaining, “Sometimes a woman gets a job just to keep from spending so many hours alone away from a hard-working physician.”
“No, Sally stays home, and she’s fine with that. She’s involved in some clubs and helps out at the school, I think.”
“You think?”
“Look, Joe. I told you my family’s fine. Sally and I have a great marriage.” His voice was almost testy, but Denspot seemed not to take offense.
“Well, good. And your work. You’re a gynecologist?”
“Yep.”
“Do you still do abortions?”
“Yep.”
“How often?”
“Four days a week.”
“Any issues with that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you hear about anti-abortion protests from time to time. Are you ever affected?”
Chemosh laughed. “Nooooo,” he said decidedly, giving long intonation to the word and shaking his head slowly but emphatically. “I ignore them.” He muttered something else disdainfully under his breath.
“What was that?” Denspot seemed to want to catch every nuance of emotion coming from his client.
“Ah…you wouldn’t want to hear what I call them. They’re disgusting, that’s all.”
“You’re probably not able to ignore them completely.”
“No, not when they’re in my face every time I go to the clinic.”
Denspot was writing rapidly.
Almost in exasperation, perhaps from another night of fractured sleep, Chemosh lifted his hand in a protesting gesture. “The picketers have nothing to do with this nightmare. It’s about my son and me, and… this…voice.”
Denspot spoke as he continued writing. “Is Andy the only child you and Sally have conceived?” He looked up.
Chemosh was obviously irritated. “What difference does it make?”
Denspot looked at him and asked pointedly, “Has Sally had an abortion?”
Chemosh’s face showed he felt the question intrusive. He refrained from challenging the question, however, and said matter-of-factly, “Yeah.”
Denspot rose. “Have you ever been religious?”
“No. What are you getting at?”
“Regardless of your never having been religious, I think you’re suffering from a guilt complex.”
“What?” His voice rang with disbelief.
“When did Sally abort?”
“A long time ago—not long after we were married.”
“Mmm. Do you remember the date?”
“Not really.”
“The year?”
Chemosh shrugged. “I don’t know—fourteen, fifteen years ago.”
Denspot walked to the door and laid his hand on the knob. “Well, I can help you, Gene, or, rather, I can show you how to get the relief you need. But it’s not a conventional method.”
A look of baffled curiosity spread across Chemosh’s face. He was obviously surprised by the briefness of the interview. “What are you saying, man?”
“I have an appointment that I need to get to. How about if we meet again on my time, and I’ll discuss it with you. When’s a good day for you?”
“I don’t know. Thursday my schedule’s lighter. I guess that would work.”
Denspot pulled out a slim day timer and opened it. In a moment he responded. “One-thirty at…uh…Covella’s?”
Chemosh shrugged. “OK.”
Denspot smiled, holding out one hand to shake Chemosh’s, briefly but sincerely, and then opening the door. “I’m sorry for the crunch today,” he apologized. “Thursday, 1:30.”
Chemosh nodded but said nothing. As he walked to his car, he tried to process in his mind Denspot’s proposal of a nonconventional method. The confidence he saw in the psychiatrist’s mien erased any unsettling feelings, but he was left with certain curiosity.
……….
Marc Garman sat musing in his office. Somehow he had lost control of his life in the last few weeks. In the past when he’d come up against a thorny challenge, he’d been able to regroup and inevitably conquer the problem. This time was different, and a depressed feeling had insidiously settled in his soul. He had come to the conclusion that his inability to shake off the depression troubled him almost as much as the irrevocable circumstances that had precipitated it. Once more he succumbed to the temptation to analyze the whole heinous affair, even though he knew it was useless to look for a solution to the problem.
Of course the most obvious problem was his child’s death. There was no getting around that, and there seemed to be no way to get past it, either. It was easiest to skip the first and foremost and go on to the second wound. That would be Patrice and the loss of a promising relationship. It was a hard pill to swallow—so many hopes and dreams gone up in smoke. Marc knew he could still turn the dead end into a U-turn, but he wasn’t willing to do that. Apart from his being convinced that Patrice had deceived him and used him, the real severing factor in their relationship was Marc’s empathy for their baby. He buried his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips hard against his forehead as if his head ached. A knock sounded, and Marc managed instant composure as the door opened.
“Excuse me, sir,” Carla said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but Joe Ponto’s secretary just called to say he can’t meet with you this afternoon: he went home twenty minutes ago with the flu.”
“You’re not interrupting me, Carla.” Despite his solemn thoughts, Marc couldn’t help but notice how pretty his secretary looked in the green outfit she wore. “I was just…” he paused, his lips in a pleasant grin, “…musing.”
Carla looked at him with a directness that surprised herself, let alone her boss. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.
Marc sighed. “Oh, yes and no. I think I’ll leave as though the appointment with Ponto was still on. And I won’t come back.”
“You won’t come back, sir?”
Marc smiled in appreciation of Carla’s concern. “Yes, I’ll come back. Just not today.”
“And if anyone calls?”
“Tell them I’ve taken the rest of the afternoon off, and I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Carla smiled. It pleased Marc to hear the relief in her voice and see it on her face. She was a good kid, that Carla.
Marc suddenly pounded his desktop with his fist. “I almost forgot. I’ve got to call Northrop about that contract.” He shook his head.
“Jean told me yesterday he’s out of the office all this week, sir.”
“Jean? Who’s Jean?”
“Mr. Northrop’s secretary.”
“She did?”
Carla nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“All right!” A grin spread across his face again. “I’m out of here.”
Carla smiled as well, then turned and walked back to her desk.
A moment later, Marc was out the door on the way to his car. He noticed that the heaviness had left temporarily, and this encouraged him. If it was all in his mind, he could learn to ignore it, and maybe life could return to normal. Just considering this possibility was invigorating.
Relieved to be taking the afternoon off, Marc Garman found himself suddenly hungry. He hadn’t felt hungry since before the abortion. Now, as he drove, he looked for a likely place to stop and have a leisurely lunch. On the north side two blocks ahead he could see the huge sign for Parker Buffet. But he didn’t want cafeteria style today. His eyes roamed the territory until he spotted Covella’s. That’s what he felt like—a quiet, comfortable spot in a large dark restaurant where he could sit and vegetate. His mind was tired of the agonizing analysis he’d assigned himself these past few weeks.
It was shortly after one o’clock when he sat down in the furthest booth. Twenty minutes later, he was relaxing in the comfort of the privacy of his table and the delicious aroma of the potato cheddar soup in front of him. But at exactly the same time he was about to try the first spoonful, two men walked to the booth adjoining his own high-backed upholstered bench and sat down at the table. They couldn’t see Marc, nor could he see them; but he could certainly hear them. There was a friendly bantering back and forth until one said to the other, “OK, Joe. Let’s get down to the brass tacks. I gave up my club time for this, you know.”
“Hey, I’m doing you a favor, remember?”
Marc’s ears perked in the direction of the two men newly seated behind him. He could hear their conversation clearly, and, eavesdropping or no, he subconsciously welcomed a further diversion from his own depressed mood.
The first man chuckled. “And I’m a grateful pile of _____.” Marc glanced up inadvertently when he heard the course language of the loud one.
“Let’s order, Chemosh. If I didn’t think I could help you, I wouldn’t have taken my time or yours. But you have to agree to stay put ’til I’m finished.” There was a slight pause. “OK?”
“Mmm…Fair enough.”
Marc Garman took a gulp of coffee and set down his cup quietly. He wanted to hear what “Joe” had to say to “Chemosh.” As far as he could tell, his table and theirs were the only two occupied in this section of Covella’s, and the two men must not be aware of his presence, else they would speak in more subdued tones. As he spread butter on the sour dough roll in his hand, he listened.
“Chemosh, do you believe we’re on our own in the universe?”
“On our own?”
“Are you on your own?”
“Uh…more or less. Yeah. I guess so. I mean, I’ve got family, friends, and…”
The man who sounded older probed further. “I mean a higher being.”
“Look, Joe.”
“Chemosh, I am certain I can help you. You know why? Because I’ve been in your shoes, hating where my own mind takes me, smothering emotions, drinking to drown out feelings I’m afraid of. You and I are alike in lots of ways. We’ve walked down similar paths towards the successful careers we both enjoy. But not all the paths are saintly white. Some are brackish. Do you agree?” He stopped, giving his companion a chance to reply.
“I suppose.”
“I’ll tell you one of mine.” It was the older man talking again. “When I met Sharon, I’d already slept with numerous women and was responsible for three abortions.”
“Look, Joe,” the younger man interrupted. “I don’t want you to bare your soul, and I don’t need a lecture. Besides, I didn’t sleep with lots of women.”
“No—just Sally?”
Marc strained to hear Chemosh’s lowered voice.
“Don’t bring Sal into this, Joe. She’s not having the nightmare, and who I slept with is irrelevant.”
“On the contrary, Gene, I believe it is relevant. I think the mysterious voice crying in your nightmare might represent your aborted child.”
Marc heard a flurry of expletives from Chemosh.
“Remember why you first came for help, Chemosh! Trust me, I’m not here to pound you. I know you can be free of this nightmare, and when you are, you’ll be a different person.” There was a long pause. “Now let’s go back over your dream.”
“It’s got nothing to do with an abortion.” Marc strained to hear, as both men now spoke in lowered voices.
“I think it does. When, to the best of your remembrance, did Sally abort?”
Marc heard a big sigh that sounded like exasperation.
“A long time ago. I don’t remember the year, but I know it was in the spring. Sally discovered she was pregnant. She didn’t want to terminate the pregnancy, but there was too much going on in our lives. I had just been accepted into a new practice, and I was under a lot of pressure.”
“Did Sally try to talk you into keeping the baby?”
“Oh, yeah. Many times. I remember telling her we needed to wait until we both wanted a baby…that we just weren’t ready for one. She finally agreed.”
The waitress came to the table, and Marc let her fill his coffee cup. Obviously the two men next to him now knew he was there in the booth behind theirs. He ordered dessert nonchalantly and asked for the paper in hopes the men wouldn’t know he was eavesdropping.
“Did you and Sally ever talk about the abortion afterwards?” The older man spoke in a subdued tone, but Marc, straining to do so, could still make out the words he spoke.
“Not really. We occasionally talk about abortion in general, from a political perspective. But I don’t remember ever discussing our own particular situation.”
“The voice you hear in your dream—what age do you think?”
“About thirteen, fourteen, I suppose. I really don’t know.”
“A teenager?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the age your aborted baby would be now, right?”
“What are you getting at? What are you saying?” Marc could hear the anger in the younger man’s voice.
“I’m saying, Gene, that I believe the voice in your nightmare represents your aborted child. How many heartbeats did you say you hear?”
“Fourteen.”
“Every time?”
“Uh…yes.”
“Mmm. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
Silence. Marc ate noisily. Finally, Chemosh responded. It was so softly that Marc couldn’t make it out.
Silence again. Marc was afraid he might have to leave in order to keep his eavesdropping from becoming awkwardly conspicuous.
“Well, Chemosh, if you experience the nightmare again, keep in mind our discussion.”
“You promised me an answer, Joe. What is it?”
“I did promise you an answer. And you can hold me to it. I could share it with you right now, but I’m thinking—hoping—you get it on your own—like I did, and that would be best.”
“Wait a minute.” There was a pause. “What about the rest of the stinking nightmare? Like—falling on Andy?”
“There’s meaning in that, too. Put it on hold. Just let me say this.” Marc heard the older man’s speech become softer but deliberate. “If you have the dream again—afterwards, at the end of it, if you feel an urge to connect with…God,” he paused, “be open to that. Do what you feel you’re supposed to do, Gene. And let’s close the subject for now.”
Marc heard no response, except for the sound of a man blowing his breath out slowly. Perhaps it was the escalation from exasperation to anger. Marc couldn’t tell. He only knew he was going to miss out on the rest of a conversation and interview that he very much wanted to hear.