Believe me, Marty, this is a bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there. You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her home—and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.”
“That’s a swell image.”
“Vivid, huh? Maybe I should’ve been a writer.” He began to examine Marty’s left eye with an ophthalmoscope. “Have you been having unusually intense headaches? ”
“One headache over the weekend. But nothing unusual.”
“Repeated spells of dizziness?”
“No.”
“Temporary blindness, noticeable narrowing of peripheral vision?”
“Nothing like that.”
Turning his attention to Marty’s right eye, Guthridge said, “As for being a writer—other doctors have done it, you know. Michael Crichton, Robin Cook, Somerset Maugham—”
“Seuss.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Next time I have to give you an injection, I might use a horse syringe.”
“It always feels like you do anyway. I’ll tell you something, being a writer isn’t half as romantic as people think.”
“At least you don’t have to handle urine samples,” Guthridge said, setting aside the ophthalmoscope.
With squiggly ghost images of the instrument light still dancing in his eyes, Marty said, “When a writer’s first starting out, a lot of editors and agents and movie producers treat him as if he
“Yeah, but now you’re a celebrity,” Guthridge said, plugging his stethoscope ear tips in place.
“Far from it,” Marty objected.
Guthridge pressed the icy steel of the stethoscope diaphragm against Marty’s chest. “Okay, breathe deeply . . . hold . . . breathe out . . . and again.” After listening to Marty’s lungs as well as his heart, the doctor put the stethoscope aside. “Hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Strange smells?”
“No.”
“Things taste the way they should? I mean, you haven’t been eating ice cream and it suddenly tasted bitter or oniony, nothing like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
As he wrapped the pressure cuff of a sphygmomanometer around Marty’s arm, Guthridge said, “Well, all I know is, to get into
“How’d you know about
“We subscribe for the waiting room.” He pumped air into the cuff until it was tight, then read the falling mercury on the gauge before he continued: “The latest copy was in this morning’s mail. My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine.”
Confused, Marty said, “Mr. Murder?”
“You haven’t seen the piece?” Guthridge asked as he pulled off the pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro seal tearing open.
“Not yet, no. They don’t show it to you in advance. You mean, in the article, they call me Mr. Murder?”
“Well, it’s sort of cute.”
“Cute?” Marty winced. “I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute to be ‘Mr. Litterateur’ or Terry McMillan ‘Ms. Black Saga.’ ”
“You know what they say—all publicity is good publicity. ”
“That was Nixon’s first reaction to Watergate, wasn’t it?”
“We actually take two subscriptions to
Marty groaned. “I was afraid of this.”
“It’s not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you’ll find it a little embarrassing. But it won’t kill you.”
“What
Frowning, Guthridge said, “Based on this exam, I’d say old age. From all outward signs, you’re in good shape.”
“The key word is ‘outward,’ ” Marty said.
“Right. I’d like you to have some tests. It’ll be on an out-patient basis at Hoag Hospital.”
“I’m ready,” Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
“Oh, not today. They won’t have an opening until at least tomorrow, probably Wednesday.”
“What’re you looking for with these tests?”
“Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on surrounding brain tissue—which could cause symptoms similar to some of yours. Other things. But don’t worry about it because I’m pretty sure we’re going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply stress.”
“That’s what Paige said.”
“See? You could’ve saved my fee.”
“Be straight with me, Doc.”
“I am being straight.”
“I don’t mind saying this scares me.”
Guthridge nodded sympathetically. “Of course it does. But listen, I’ve seen symptoms far more bizarre and severe than yours—and it turns out to be stress.”
“Psychological.”
“Yes, but nothing long-term. You aren’t going mad, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. Try to relax, Marty. We’ll know where we stand by the end of the week.” When he needed it, Guthridge could call upon a demeanor as reassuring—and a bedside manner as soothing—as that of any gray-haired medical eminence in a three-piece suit. He slipped Marty’s shirt from one of the clothes hooks on the back of the door and handed it to him. The faint gleam in his eye betrayed another shift in mood: “Now, when I book time at the hospital, what patient name should I give to them? Martin Stillwater or Martin Murder?”
He explores his home. He is eager to learn about his new family.
Because he is most intrigued by the thought of himself as a father, he begins in the girls’ bedroom. For a while he stands just inside the door, studying the two distinctly different sides of the room.
He wonders which of his young daughters is the effervescent one who decorates her walls with posters of dazzlingly colorful hot-air balloons and leaping dancers, who keeps a gerbil and other pets in wire cages and glass terrariums. He still holds the photograph of his wife and children, but the smiling faces in it reveal nothing of their personalities.
The second daughter is apparently contemplative, favoring quiet landscapes on her walls. Her bed is neatly made, the pillows plumped just-so. Her storybooks are shelved in orderly fashion, and her corner desk is free of clutter.
When he slides open the mirrored closet door, he finds a similar division in the hanging clothes. Those to the left are arranged both according to the type of garment and color. Those to the right are in no particular order, askew on the hangers, and jammed against one another in a way that virtually assures wrinkling.
Because the smaller jeans and dresses are on the left side of the closet, he can be sure that the neat and contemplative girl is the younger of the two. He raises the photograph and stares at her. The pixie. So cute. He still
