He increased the pressure on the shoulder. 'Won't you turn around to look at me? Then we can sit together and talk.'
The only response was a perceptible rigidity, a tightening of the position in which Celia was huddled.
Her skin texture, Alex saw, was mottled and her fair hair only roughly combed. Even now her gentle, fragile beauty had not entirely vanished, though clearly it would not be long before it did.
'Has she been like this long?' he asked the nurse quietIy.
'All of today and part of yesterday; some other days as well.' The girl added matter-of-factly, 'she feels more comfortable that way, so it's best if you take no notice, just sit down and talk.'
Alex nodded. As he went to the single armchair and settled himself, the nurse tiptoed out, closing the door gently.
'I went to the ballet last week, Celia,' Alex said. 'It was Coppelia. Natalia Makarova danced the lead and Ivan Nagy was Frantz. They were magnificent together and, of course, the music was wonderful. It reminded me of how you loved Coppelia, that it was one of your favorites. Do you remember that night, soon after we were married, when you and I…'
He could call back in memory clearly, even now, the way Celia had looked that evening in a long, pale green chiffon gown, tiny sequins glittering with reflected light. As usual, she had been ethereally beautiful, slim and gossamer-like, as if a breeze might steal her if he looked away. In those days he seldom did. They had been married six months and she was still shy at meeting Alex's friends, so that sometimes in a group she clung tightly to his arm. Because she was ten years younger than himself, he hadn't minded. Celia's shyness, at the beginning, had been one of the reasons why he fell in love with her, and he was proud of her reliance on hind Only long after, when she continued to be diffident and unsure foolishly, it seemed to hire his impatience surfaced, and eventually anger.
How little, how tragically little, he had understood! With more perception he would have realized that Celia's background before they met was so totally different from his own that nothing had prepared her for the active social and domestic life he accepted matter-of-factly. It was all new and bewildering to Celia, at times alarming. She was the only child of reclusive parents of modest means, had attended convent schools, had never known the leavening propinquity of college living. Before Celia met Alex she had had no responsibilities, her social experience was nil. Marriage increased her natural nervousness; at the same time, self-doubts and tensions grew until eventually as psychiatrists explained it a burden of guilt at failing snapped something in her mind. With hindsight, Alex blamed himself. He could, he afterwards believed, have helped Celia so easily, could have given advice, eased tensions, offered reassurance. But when it mattered most he never had. He had been too thoughtless, busy, ambitious.
'… so last week's performance, Celia, made me sorry we weren't seeing it together…'
In fact, he had been to Coppelia with Margot, whom Alex had known now for a year and a half, and who zestfully filled a gap in his life which had been empty for so long. Margot, or someone else, had been necessary if Alex a flesh and blood man were not to become a mental case, too, he sometimes told himself. Or was that a self- delusion, conveniently assuaging guilt?
Either way, this was no time or place to introduce Margots name.
'Oh, yes, and not long ago, Celia, I saw the Harringtons. You remember John and Elise. Anyway, they told me they had been to Scandinavia to see Elise's parents.' 'Yes,' Celia said tonelessly.
She had still not stirred from the huddled position, but evidently was listening, so he continued talking, using only half his mind while the other half asked: How did it happen? Why? - 'We've been busy at the bank lately, Celia.'
One reason, he assumed, had been his preoccupation with his work, the long bourn during which as their marriage deteriorated he had left Celia alone. That, as, he now saw it, was when she had needed him most. As it was, Celia accepted his absences without complaint but grew increasingly reserved and timid, burying herself in books or looking interminably at plants and powers, appearing to watch them grow, though occasionally in contrast and without apparent reason she became animated, talking incessantly and sometimes incoherently. Those were periods in which Celia seemed to have exceptional energy. Then, with equal suddenness, the energy would disappear, leaving her depressed and withdrawn once more. And all the while their communication and companionship diminished.
It was during that time the thought of it shamed him now he had suggested they divorce. Celia had seemed shattered and he let the subject drop, hoping things would get better, but they hadn't.
Only at length, when the thought occurred to him almost casually that Celia might need psychiatric help, and he had sought it, had the truth of her malady become clear. For a while, anguish and concern revived his love. But, by then, it was too late.
At times he speculated: Perhaps it had always been too late. Perhaps not even greater kindness, understanding, would have helped. But he would never know. He could never nurture the conviction he had done his best and, because of it, could never shed the guilt which haunted him.
'Everybody seems to be thinking about money spending it, borrowing it, lending it, though I guess that's not unusual and what banks are for. A sad thing happened yesterday, though. Ben Rosselli, our president, told us he was dying. He called a meeting and …'
Alex went on, describing the scene in the boardroom and reactions afterward, then abruptly stopped.
Celia had begun to tremble. Her body was rocking back and forth. A wail, half moan, escaped her.
Had his mention of the bank upset her? the bank into which he had thrown his energies, widening the gulf between them. It was another bank then, the Federal Reserve, but to Celia one bank was like another. Or was it his reference to Ben Rosselli?
Ben would die soon. How many years before Celia died? Many, perhaps.
Alex thought: she could easily outlive him, could live on like this. His pity evaporated. Anger seized him; the angry impatience which had marred their marriage. 'For Christ's sake, Celia, control yourself!' Her trembling and the moans continued.
He hated her! She wam't human any more, yet she remained the barrier between himself and a full life.
Getting up, Alex savagely punched a bell push on the wall, knowing it would summon help. In the same motion he strode to the door to leave.
And looked back. At Celia his wife whom once he had loved; at what she had become; at the gulf between them they would never bridge. He paused, and wept.
Wept with pity, sadness, guilt, his momentary anger spent, the hatred washed away.
He returned to the studio couch and, on his knees before her, begged, 'Celia, forgive met Oh, God, forgive me'
He fel a gentle hand on his shoulder, heard the young nurse's voice. 'Mr. Vandervoort, I think you should go now.' 'Water or soda, Alex?' 'Soda.'
Dr. McCartney took a bottle from the small refrigerator in his consulting room and used an opener to flip the top. He poured into a glass which already contained a generous slug of scotch and added ice. He brought the glass to Alex, then poured the rest of the soda, without liquor, for himself.
For a big man Tim McCartney was six feet five with a football player's chest and shoulders, and enormous hands his movements were remarkably deft. Though the clinic director was young, in his mid-thirties Alex guessed, his manner and voice seemed older and his brushed-back brown hair was graying at the temples. Probably because of a lot of sessions like this, Alex thought. He sipped the scotch gratefully.
The paneled room was softly lighted, its color tones more muted than the corridors and other rooms outside. Bookshelves and racks for journals filled one wall, the works of Freud, Adler, Jung, and Rogers prominent.
Alex was still shaken as the result of his meeting with Celia, yet in a way the horror of it seemed unreal
Dr. McCartney returned to a chair at his desk and swung it to face the sofa where Alex sat.
'I should report to you first that your wife's general diagnosis remains the same schizophrenia, catatonic type. You'll remember we've discussed this in the past.' 'I remember all the jargon, yes.' 'I'll try to spare you any more.'
Alex swirled the ice in his glass and drank again; the scotch had warmed him. 'Tell me about Celia's condition now.'
'You may find this hard to accept, but your wife, despite the way she seems, is relatively happy.'' 'Yes,' Alex said. 'I find that hard to believe.'
