The January wind whined outside the window of the chemistry classroom. Midge tried hard to concentrate on the lecture. Somehow she had to stay focused on the events of the moment, but the challenge seemed just too much. She had an overwhelming urge to quietly push her notebook out of the way, fold her arms on the table, and bury her face in them. Having to put on a happy countenance for anybody and everybody was a constant pressure, and she was tired of it.
It would be five months tomorrow since she’d given birth to little Nicky and then kissed him goodbye less than an hour later. She remembered like it was yesterday tenderly squeezing the tiny boy so sweet in that last embrace. Someday he would surely understand the depth of her love for him, she mused. The chemistry lesson faded out of her conscious thoughts. “Oh, God,” she silently prayed, “Please give me the chance to be reunited with him. Help Bob and June to cherish Nicky and always be the best of parents.”
“OK, class, close your notebooks. I want you to write a summary of today’s lecture,” the teacher said as he passed out papers to each row. “When you’ve turned it in, you’re free to study or sleep for the rest of the period.”
Midge sighed and took the piece of paper. “Oh, well,” she thought wryly, “it could be worse. I could have been checked out for the whole lecture instead of just the last half.” She picked up her pencil and wrote her name at the top of the sheet of paper. “I hope this depressed feeling doesn’t last much longer,” she said to herself.
She was on the way to the cafeteria a short while later when Candle Lawson, a popular girl Midge only knew by name and face, caught up with her.
“How’re you doing?” she asked, boldly locking arms with Midge.
“Oh, all right, I guess,” Midge was so caught off guard she had no time to hide her surprise.
Candle stopped, bringing Midge to a halt as well, and looked right at her. “No, you’re not.”
“OK, I’m a little depressed, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Yes, there is, Midge Ferguson. I can’t walk in your shoes. I’m walkin’ in my own.” She lowered her voice. “But I think you need to remember just this: your baby’s alive. A lot of girls are separated from their babies, but without any hope whatsoever of seeing them again; it’s final—the baby’s gone. It’s final.”
Midge’s look was one of astonishment at this girl whom she’d never considered even a casual acquaintance. She was surprised Candle even knew her name.
“I know, because I’m one of those girls,” Candle whispered. Then she nudged Midge to resume their walk together. “I have a lot of respect for you, Midge. You didn’t choose the easy way out, but the easy way out isn’t so easy.” She turned and looked earnestly at Midge’s face that still showed surprise. “I’d give anything to be able to have a second chance to make the decision whether to go through a pregnancy. Looking back, I’d do exactly what you did.” She squeezed Midge’s arm. “Your baby’s alive, Midge. You’ve got no reason to be depressed.” She smiled kindly. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”
“Hey, Candle!” another girl called out. “We’re over here.”
“OK!” Candle called back. She turned again quickly to Midge. “I just needed to tell you that,” she whispered, and walked away.
Midge took a deep breath and headed toward the table where she saw Marlene and Gerri. She felt as if she’d been given a high-potency shot of mood enhancer. Things didn’t seem so bad, after all.
……….
Marc Garman’s life had taken some unique turns in the past six months. One year ago he had looked forward to the day when he would be coming home to a beautiful woman and baby to fill his evenings with the meaning that an average American man should by all rights expect. Instead, here he was on a Saturday afternoon in late January, looking for a diversion from the gnawing emptiness he felt.
When his child was scooped out of his life, he had been filled with anger and resentment, which had precipitated his separation from Patrice. That separation had brought a partial resolution to his bitterness, but it had not reduced the guilt he’d absorbed through Trent’s death.
At times, his loneliness had superseded his partially abated resentment toward Patrice, and he had almost wished they had never separated but had stayed together, burying their mutual guilt and forging ahead for more of life and laughter and happiness. After all, they had had a lot going for them—a very good living and a sufficient compatibility on a natural level. Who needed more? “Not me!” Marc had almost convinced himself on each of these occasions.
But the truth was, he admitted to himself, that deep inside he wasn’t satisfied with a relationship that was root-bound on a natural level. He knew he could go all the way through life, experiencing joy and sorrow, happiness and disappointment, success and failure, and live as normally as the guy next door. But he had rubbed shoulders with just enough people lately so as to become highly suspicious that there was something more to be had on this trip of seventy or eighty years.
It was his secretary Carla who had unknowingly dropped the first clue. She’d left on that overnight date and come back a different person. Musing about it now, Marc decided to find out more about that date. He felt he knew Carla well enough to be able just to ask her about it—maybe over lunch sometime.
And then there was the psychologist Denspot. Marc had never met anybody like him before. Certainly, he thought wryly, he had never heard any fanatic go into detail like the doctor had that day. Marc had thought he’d swept the whole monologue under the rug—way under the rug, but different things Denspot had said kept resurfacing, despite his not wanting them to. Several times during the day—and almost every day since the day of his appointment with Denspot, the word “void” came to the forefront of his thoughts.
Was there a void in his life—more significant than his loneliness? He had to concede that the loneliness had turned into an emptiness that was more than just emptiness: it was a hounding emptiness from which he wanted to escape. His workaday world served as a diversion, but he couldn’t deny that the persistent emptiness had become an almost tangible presence in his life—every moment he was awake.
And finally, there was Nancy Herring, who had taken on Patrice’s problems as though they were next of kin. It was no wonder someone like Carla valued her friendship. But then, he told himself, Nancy was a Christian, too—a ‘believer,’ Carla had told him. Was being a ‘believer’ the resolution for the void? A believer in what? A bunch of ancient manuscripts? He consciously shook off the sneer he felt. He was, after all, a reasonable man—above being intolerant—even of people who abort reason in their own ignorance. Strangely enough, however, he had to honestly concede that these three people were certainly each one as intelligent as he. And what was intelligence worth anyway? It had no bearing on the void he felt. Of that he was certain.
Marc drove past the restaurant where he had overheard the conversation between Dr. Denspot and his client. That eavesdropping incident had prompted him to track down the doctor. Now, strangely enough, he wanted to talk with the other man—the client. He had known his name once but had forgotten it now. It was a strange name—one he’d never heard before. He felt a sudden urge to turn around and head back to Covella’s. Why, he didn’t know. It was Saturday, not the day for business lunches. But it had a bar, and he could use a drink right now. It might help get rid of this uncomfortable introspection.
As he walked into the bar and sat down, his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. The bartender sauntered over.
“Whuddle it be, Buddie?”
“Give me a beer.”
“House?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“OK.” He came back in a moment and set the foaming glass in front of Marc.
“So how ya doin’?”
“Not bad. And you?” Marc didn’t bother to look up; he wasn’t in the mood to talk right now.
“Aw, fine. You from around here or just passin’ through?”
“Passing through,” Marc lied. He did not want to converse with a loud bartender.
The man took the hint and busied himself with collecting empty glasses and general cleanup. Marc sat in silence, sipping his beer and not wanting any interruption of his focusing on the subtle cracks in the surface of the marble countertop. He allowed his eyes to follow them while he drank the beer. It had been a long time since he’d had any liquor at all, and he wondered to himself why he was drinking this. A soda would taste as good.
“Hey, Geno,” he heard the bartender say, as a man walked up to the counter and sat down almost next to him.
“What’s up, Charlie?”
Marc recognized that voice immediately. He glanced up and then back down, staring wide-eyed at his beer in disbelief. “Unbelievable!” he muttered to himself. It was Denspot’s client, big as life.
……….
“Is this some sign?” Marc thought to himself. He glanced again at the man beside him and then turned his head the other direction to think for a moment.
What he really wanted to say was easy to figure out: “I overheard your conversation here about three months ago. Sorry for eavesdropping, but did you ever go back to your doctor friend and get an answer for the nightmare? And what do you make of his philosophy?” But this was one of those times when transparency had to defer to tact.
He turned to the man whose name he couldn’t remember, and said, “Have you tried the food here?”
“Oh, yeah.” The man grinned amiably. “Not bad. Great pot roast.”
“I might try it.” Marc took another sip of beer. After a moment he made another effort at conversation.
“Not bad out there for a Saturday.”
“Yeah. It’s supposed to hit fifty, but I don’t think it’ll make it.”
Marc glanced at the man’s wedding ring. He took a deep breath and decided to go for broke. “Hey, if I were married, I’d be spending Saturday with my family.”
The man turned to him. “You would, huh?” he replied, letting the question drop like a cold rag. Marc swallowed hard, accepting the humiliation he knew he deserved. He was surprised to hear the man speak up again, a full two minutes later.
“My family’s at a ________basketball game, and I didn’t feel like going. Too loud. If my son were playing, of course I’d be there. But he’s not, and I just needed to unwind a bit.”
“Stressful work?”
“Not really.”
Dead ball again, thought Marc. He got up to leave. “Have a good one.”
“You leavin?”
“Yeah.” Marc smiled perfunctorily.
“Not gonna try the pot roast?”
“Well…”
“Why don’t you join me? I could use a little company. Be my guest?”
“All right.” Marc shrugged, belying his amazement and the triumph he felt. The man got off his barstool and motioned for Marc to follow him. He led him to a booth that had to have been the very one he and Denspot had occupied on the day Marc had overheard their conversation.
“Keep your cool,” Marc told himself. He slid into the bench opposite his unnamed companion. The two men shook hands, but neither offered his name.
“Nice of you to invite me to eat with you. I’ll buy my own dinner, though,” Marc said. “I appreciate the company; I’ve never liked eating alone.”
Chemosh nodded and explained in a roundabout way that he didn’t either. Marc wondered at how so many gutter words could fit into a single response and braced himself for street language he wasn’t used to. He felt comfortable abandoning chitchat, thinking the well-dressed man opposite him would probably appreciate a direct conversation as much as he himself.
“So, what do you do?” Marc asked.
“Ah, a little of this, a little of that. Jack of all trades, master of none.”
“Yeah?”
“Nah, I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“An MD.”
“No joke.” Marc let his surprise show. “What specialty?”
“Family practice.” Chemosh looked at his cup as he said it.
“So where’s your office?”
“North side,” Chemosh replied. It was a vague response, and Marc chose not to pursue a more definite answer to his question. He studied the menu.
“What do you do?” Chemosh picked up the conversation again.
“I have an R&D firm that keeps me busy.” A light turned on in his brain, and he added, “But not busy enough. The last few weeks I’ve been struggling with a kind of numbness. Not physical—emotional.” He smiled. “I don’t know you from Adam. But actually I’ve been thinking about seeing a professional counselor in hopes he can help me get my act back together.”
Chemosh waited to respond until after the waitress took their order and had left. “It must be something in the air,” he replied. He explained that he’d been going through a bit of an emotional upheaval himself, including a recurring nightmare that actually bothered him quite a lot.
“Do you know of a good professional counselor?” Marc probed.
“I thought I did—a doc here in town that has a tremendous reputation in the medical community.”
“Yeah?”
“I said I thought I did. I’ve met with him a couple of times, but the counseling sessions are at a _______ stalemate.”
Marc raised his eyebrows, curious, and then looked down at the plate of meat and vegetables the waitress had just set in front of him. “And why is that?”
Chemosh scratched his head absent-mindedly. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to do what he’s suggested I do.” He took a bite of roast beef and talked as he chewed, obviously savoring his food. “He’s a little weird, to say the least, although something in my gut tells me he might have answers. I’m just not wanting them bad enough yet.”
“Are you still having nightmares?”
Chemosh put down his fork, wiped his mouth and took a gulp of beer. “Yep! That’s the basic ______problem. A ______nightmare.” His answer was fused with expletives. “Excuse my French,” he apologized.
Marc was curious. “Bad dreams but still not bad enough to make you follow the doctor’s orders?”
“Not bad dreams, man. A nightmare—a custom–made nightmare.”
“OK. A nightmare, but not bad enough yet?
“Nope.” Chemosh looked up at Marc with a strange look, as though a revelation was just coming to him. “Hmm,” he muttered. “It’s plenty bad enough. I guess I could at least try what he… prescribed.” He paused for a moment, his facial expression reflecting his nonchalant shrug. “Maybe I just will,” he said, looking puzzled and pleased at the same time. “I’m glad we talked.” Chemosh wiped his mouth and washed down one more hurried bite with a final gulp of beer.
Marc was only half-finished with his own lunch, but started to get up when the other man stood.
“No, no. Stay. And the bill’s on me. Actually I feel a sense of…encouragement. I guess I am _______desperate enough, and I do have a last recourse.” He gave a quick nod as he picked up his coat and started putting it on. “Thanks for your time.”
“Thanks for the lunch,” Marc countered. He didn’t know what to think. He hadn’t found out what he’d wanted and hardly knew anymore than when he’d entered the restaurant.
Chemosh turned back momentarily to say, “Hey, if you’re ever in the vicinity again on a Saturday afternoon, I usually come here for lunch.”
Marc smiled and held up his hand. “I’ll remember that.”
Chemosh turned and left.