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main | table of contents Copyright © 2003, S. Y. Affolee 6 The Doctor and the Patient The corridor of doctors’ offices was entirely white except for the black plaques beside each door. A patient in a white gown and white shoes shuffled along in a slow two-step. He was an old man, his hair white wisps, his face a mass of wrinkles and two faded blue eyes fixed at some point beyond. Verity had an armful of case reports that Dr. Miram Greene had requested. He was supposed to be in Room 156, but as far as she could tell, none of the rooms were numbered. So she was peering at every plaque, wondering if there was a pattern to the offices. So far, she determined that it was not alphabetical. The patient neared her and appeared to be oblivious to her until he abruptly stopped beside her. His gaze was still somewhere, far off. “Looking for someone?” “Yes. Dr. Greene’s office.” He swung his gaze to her and they were remarkably lucid. “An appointment?” “No. I have some documents he requested from the archives.” His expression suddenly turned confiding. “If you are not religious, don’t tell him that.” Then his eyes focused away from her. “You won’t find him by reading all those plaques. His office is at the very end of the hall. That’s because he has the most patients.” As the old man ambled off to the other end of the corridor, Verity stared after him, frowning. Shouldn’t someone be watching over him? Resolved to find a nurse right after she dropped off the documents, she took off toward the back end of the corridor where the old man had said was Dr. Greene’s office. As she neared the last door, she noticed that this office had no plaque. She knocked and heard a muffled “Enter.” Inside, a man in a white lab jacket sat at a large wooden desk apparently writing up a report. His blondish-gray hair was thinning—one could already discern a bare patch on top of his head. He appeared to be in his fifties and fit. He looked like the type who would go running or biking in the morning and then went to the gym in the evening to lift weights. “Dr. Greene?” “Yes?” “I have the case reports that you have requested.” He finally looked up. His eyes were blue and his face, ruggedly handsome, but she didn’t like his stare. It wasn’t like Gammell’s stare which gave her an oddly familiar recollection. Greene’s stare was a bit dirty, as if he were imagining her in some obscene pose, naked. She hastily dumped the folders onto his desk and retreated to the door, uneasy that she was alone with him. “You’re new, aren’t you?” “I just got transferred here from the main administrative branch to do work at the archives.” “Ah, that would explain it. Have you looked at the case files?” Of course she had looked at the case files. The first thing she noticed that they were all of disturbed patients with one singular delusion. One of those files, in fact, was one of Dr. Urich’s sessions with the patient called Bost. She particularly remembered one passage: Dr. Urich: And these “suspicious people”, why did you think they were? Why don’t you think other people, say, your next door neighbor, are suspicious? “No,” Verity lied. “I just got the folders as requested.” “That’s too bad,” Greene said. “It would have been interesting to know what an archivist’s opinion on these cases were. Thank you, Ms…” “Tage.” Verity hated that she was forced to give her name. She curtly nodded then, not even saying “You’re welcome” and backed all the way up into the corridor. He was still looking at her when she closed the door. She quickly walked down the hallway and paused when she saw that the old man had stopped in front of a window to look outside. She looked too and saw that a flock of crows were resting on the snow. “So did he ask you about religion?” the old man said, his eyes still to the window. “No, I was only there to drop off some documents,” she told him again. “And shouldn’t you be in your room? I could go get a nurse to help you.” “That, won’t be necessary, I’m one of the better ones.” He finally turned to her, his rheumy eyes smiling, seemingly coherent. “Come then, I’d like to walk with you to the recreation room. It’s upstairs.” “The recreation room?” “That’s where all the better ones are. By the way, I’m Aeneus. Besides being one of the better ones, I’m also one of the luckier ones. My doctor is Dr. Friedman.” “I’m Verity.” “Ah, Truth. You must be very honest.” “I can lie.” “Everyone lies.” They turned at the end of the corridor which led back into the entrance atrium. Georgette and Patrice mouthed a hello as they passed into another corridor and took a flight of stairs up. “A pair of clown-faced dummies if I ever saw,” he muttered. Unsure if he was referring to the ladies at the welcoming station or something in his imagination, Verity said, “So is Dr. Friedman a good doctor?” “He’s not so good as he is someone other than Greene. Greene may have many patients and they may all say he’s the best in the world, but I’ve seen all of his patients wilt over time. It’s as if he manages to sap all their energy. I wouldn’t have Greene touch me if he were the last doctor on earth.” “I guess I can sort of see that.” “Do you?” Aeneus said, suddenly sly. “Greene is extremely charismatic. Especially with the women. I bet he’s bedded more than half of the nurses in this institution already. I figure he’s got something, you know. That’s why I protect myself, see?” He turned up the sleeve of his hospital gown revealing a lining of what looked like aluminum foil. “Nothing can get through this.” “Are you sure that works?” “I’ve been here for ten years and they haven’t come near me yet. I’ll tell you what; you were lucky he let you go so fast. Either he had something else more important to do or he didn’t like you. Maybe it’s your hair. Your hairdresser didn’t do such a good job with a straight line, did he?” “I cut it myself.” The old man shook his head. “Bad job you did of it, my dear.” “I know. I didn’t want it to be pretty.”  |