The Diagnosis, Page 4
Alan Lightman
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON
In the warm dark of the room, with day turned to night by the thick damask drapes, Melissa Chalmers was only a dim form in the small light of her screen. Her face faintly glowed. Almost invisible were the chairs and divan, the little French country writing desk and its antique tin-box lamp, her husband’s bureau. A thin wire ran from a telephone jack to the bed, where she reclined in her silk robe, her fingers fluttering on the keyboard.
Although she’d never met her correspondent, although her correspondent had not seen her once in their two years together, she always fixed herself up for their afternoon communions, and today was no exception. After coming home from her shop thirty-five minutes away, she had showered quickly, drunk a glass of lemonade while watching the clock on the bathroom counter, then allowed herself a few minutes at her chintz-covered vanity, carefully reapplying skin creams, lipstick, mascara. She smiled at herself nervously in the mirror. Even at age forty, her slightly upturned nose and mouth remained delicate and precious, like the features of a doll, and her waist was still twenty-four inches. She much regretted the shadows under her eyes, caused by insomnia as much as by age, and she worked at them intently until they vanished. With two minutes to spare, she succeeded in restoring herself to the youthful appearance she felt she deserved, after which she turned off the lights, let down the Scalamandre damask drapes, and curled up on the dark canopied bed with her laptop. Ocean waves flowed from the sound synthesizer by her bed. At 3:44 she logged on. Soon she was adrift, at great distance from the mumble of the television downstairs, the muffled shouts of children across the street, the clicking of keys.
Melissa cracked her bedroom door, letting a sliver of light into the dark room, and in leaped a huge Labrador retriever, dirty and dripping unashamedly. Gerty had returned from her afternoon romp through the neighborhood, careening through lawn sprinklers, chasing squirrels past the sugar maples on both sides of the street. Immediately, the dog began barking happily, then wriggled on the floral hooked rug, jumped over the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, and flopped on the cushioned divan near the vanity. The unruly appearance of Gerty contrasted strongly with the rest of the room, which looked like an antique dealer’s display. In a fashion it was, for Melissa Chalmers was constantly buying new furniture for her house and sending what she had tired of to her retail shop in Littleton.
“What a mess you are, Gerty girl,” said Melissa, futilely picking up hairs from the part of the rug she could see. “I don’t know why I keep you. Do you love Mama? Yes, you do. Yes. Yes.” She stroked the creature under the neck. “Now, be a good Gerty girl and you can stay.” She closed her door gently and the room became dark once again.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Fred at Noplace.Com ==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP Orlando Vacation Give Aways, [email protected]
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: MT at TX.ORG ==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP id AQ06498; Wed, 25 Jun 15:56:52 EDT for [email protected]; Wed, 25 Jun 15:57:03 –0400
Press * for message
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Unknown at Unknown.Com ==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP Make Big ### Online, Cowboys on Computers [email protected]
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: ACHALM at AOL.COM
==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP id AQ06498; Wed, 25 Jun 16:04:33 EDT
for [email protected]; Wed, 25 Jun 16:04:52 –0400
MESSAGE LOCK OVERRIDE
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Alexander at AOL.COM There is a rude man dowwnstairs who has invaded my domain. He carries secret papers and shouts vile demands. Also, He woldn’t fence with me. I dn’t think he could handle a sword anywya. Should we send him to the dungeon?
What’s for dinner? And when’s Dad coming home? He promised to fence with me tnight.
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To: Alexander Chalmers
From: Melissa Chalmers
Subject: Re: Your message
Hi sweetie. I put a pizza in the microwave for you. That’s Mr. Turgis, the architect downstairs. Please don’t put him in the dungeon. I’ll be down in a few minutes.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Dolores at PLYM.COM
==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP id AQ06498; Wed, 25 Jun 16:16:26 EDT
for [email protected]; Wed, 25 Jun 16:16:50 –0400
Press * for message
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Dolores at PLYM.COM
Dear Ms. Chalmers,
Do you know where your husband is? He didn’t come to the office today. At 3:45 pm, we received a call that his briefcase had been found in a trash can at Sixth and Thorndike in Cambridge. That’s all we know. We’ve called the police.
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[email protected] logged off Wed, 25 Jun 16:19:05 –0400
Melissa moved in slow motion. At first, she remained sprawled on her bed, gazing at the computer. It flickered and hummed.
“Oh my God,” she moaned softly. Gertrude began whimpering and licking her feet. “Never never again, I won’t ever again. Just let Bill be all right. Oh God. Bill, I love you. I love you. Please be all right.”
The telephones began ringing, all of them, the telephone on the writing desk with its muted chisel, the telephone in the family room like a shrill hyena laugh full of teeth, the hammering telephone in the kitchen. It was George Mitrakis, the president of Plymouth, calling from his car. He’d been calling every two minutes, he said, getting a busy or the tape. He was fifteen minutes away and wanted her to wait for him.
She stared at the laptop. From across the room it looked so small, like a grin. Using all her strength, she tried to twist off its screen. Failing this, she shoved the machine over the side of the bed. It landed with a soft thud on the rug and continued to hum from the floor.
The air was suffocating. Melissa pulled open the damask drapes, flooding the room with the full summer light, and its heat. Reeling back from the window, she went to the walk-in closet and hurriedly began dressing. “Bill, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she threw on a pale yellow sundress. She sat down on a stool and began crying.
The telephones were ringing again. Numbly, she let them ring. Then, she ran for the phone on her desk, but the caller had hung up even before the tape machine kicked in. When the telephones stopped, in the silence after the ringing, she listened to the computer humming from the floor. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She was perspiring and she dabbed a handkerchief under her arms. Uncontrollably, her fingers began twitching and tapping on the desk.
The humming grew louder and louder, overwhelming the waves from the ocean, the thoughts in her mind.
ESCAPE
After his clandestine departure from Boston City Hospital, Chalmers began walking northwest along Massachusetts Avenue. The air felt hot and thick against his skin, especially after the cool of the hospital ward, and he began sweating almost immediately. Something hummed overhead. Looking up, he saw dozens of wires hung between poles like dark nooses waiting to be drawn taut, wires for telephones and electricity and cable TV. In the distance a police siren warbled and wailed. He hurried away from the hospital, staying far from the streetlamps and their yellow cocoons of light. The siren continued screaming. Surely, his escape could not have been reported so soon. Was he now a common criminal, to be hunted down by the police? To the contrary, he was a professional of some kind, an accomplished professional, he was certain of that. A wave of anger surged through him and settled like sewage in his stomach. He had been violated and soiled. But to whom should he direct his anger?
