The Lost Children: Part 3 of 3. Mary MacCracken
a day), he loved the children and they knew it. They would often go of their own volition to stand beside him or sit near him at Circle.
Dr. Marino, our psychiatrist, was there too. Reserved, always at a slight distance from all of us, but able, informed; I wished there was some way that he could spend more time at the school.
There was no shop talk that day, only gentle jokes and reminiscences. Zoe drank martinis and sat on the flagstone terrace like a small guru. Only our speech pathologist was absent.
I knew I must go – Rick’s high-school graduation was that night – but the tenderness I had felt all year had risen to the surface, floating on Jerry’s bourbon, and it was difficult for me to leave these people. I kissed Zoe and hugged Doris, surprised at myself; I was not usually a woman hugger.
Then Dan walked me to my car parked in front of the house, opened the door for me and waited while I found the key and put it in the ignition.
“How about working with me this summer, Mair? I’ve already got eight kids signed up for the summer program and there are a lot more prospects. I’ll need help. How about it?”
I wanted to. Rick was driving cross-country with friends before college; Elizabeth had been asked back to camp as a junior counselor. I wanted the work, the children, the closeness – but I had problems to resolve in my marriage; I could not retreat from them into the joy of teaching.
I turn on the ignition, and regret makes my voice formal. “Thank you, Dan, but I can’t. I’ve made other commitments.” And the word stands formal and strange between us.
Dan leans his arms on the edge of the car window and bends his big frame until his eyes are only an inch from mine, and I turn my head away before I say, “Good-bye, Dan. Good luck. Ill see you in the fall.”
He leans there looking at me, not moving, holding the car door, and then finally he straightens, “Take care, Junior. Take care of yourself this summer.”
I left then and drove down the highway in the heat of the late afternoon, but before I have gone a mile I pull to the side of the road and put up the top of my convertible. Even with the heat I put the top up, and put my own polished shell back on as well.
I went to the marriage counselor alone. I tried to persuade Larry to come with me, but he said it was ridiculous because there was nothing wrong. I thought perhaps it was true – it might be ridiculous, but for the opposite reason: everything was so wrong it could not be put right.
I sat opposite the tall, distinguished psychiatrist – shy, not knowing what to say, intimidated by the black leather couch on the outer rim of my vision. Will he ask me to lie down?
“Yes …?” he says.
I try to tell him about all the good things and the bad. My voice seems far away. I can hear it while I am talking, and it is almost as though I am speaking about another person. I talk about our children – and Larry’s and my good physical relationship, and the lovely house and tennis – but when I try to tell him about the bad parts, I find I cannot talk about them very well; all the reserve I was taught as a child, the New England sense of privacy, wells up and sorrow fills my throat.
“Humph. Now. So. Do you think you are beautiful?”
Surprise makes me raise my head and look at him. “No,” I say. “No.”
All angular and lean is Dr. McPhearson, but now he smiles at me, a slow, kind smile and I like him suddenly.
“Ahhrph.” This man has his noises, too, not so different from the children. “So. Well, do you feel you are intelligent?”
“A little. Some. I can think better than I can talk.”
It is easier to talk now, and I tell him more. How it will not be as difficult to live with Larry with the children gone next year, Rick to college, Elizabeth to Kent. How we never fight, Larry and myself – how if I could just be content with the things I have, it would probably be all right; but there seems to be so much emptiness. And then, there is all this love, and I don’t know what to do with it. Larry doesn’t really want it. I don’t blame him – it’s too much. It gets too much for me too. I get all filled up with it and I have to let it out. Do you think maybe it’s like too much fat – that it could be slimmed down?
“The school,” he suggests.
“Yes. I am good at that,” I say. “I love teaching there, but, I don’t know – it’s hard to say it – but you see, anyone could do that. I mean either a man or a woman could do that kind of loving and it’s – the school is – good for that part; but there’s this other part of me that loves only like a woman. This part is for a man. I love being a woman …”
He takes off his glasses and smiles again, a small, tired smile.
“Yes,” he says. “Can your husband come with you next time?”
Larry almost came, but then he was detained at his bank in the city and so I go alone again. This time we talk about the laser: Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation. Delicate, intricate, powerful. Energy harnessed from a larger source. Is it possible that love could be like this?
On the fifth visit he says unexpectedly, “What will you do if you leave your husband?”
“I’ll teach.”
“And how will you live? Who will take care of you? Have you ever lived alone?”
It seems amazing to me. I realize I never have. I have never spent a night alone. First my parents – overnights with friends – college, roommates – Larry – my parents when he was in the army – the children.
“No,” I say. “Not really. But I am sure that I can learn.”
Dr. McPhearson called Larry and arranged an appointment, and Larry went first alone and then with me. He explained carefully to Dr. McPhearson how there was nothing wrong, that I tended to be too sensitive, imagine things.
I sat silently, listening, shrinking, getting smaller again.
“Hrrmph. Ah. Mmph.” Dr. McPhearson clears his throat, and the familiar noises cheer me. “Well, Mary. What do you say?”
“I am going” – sounding stubborn, I knew, unreasoning – but it would take so little. It would be so easy to stay.
Dr. McPhearson recommends that I take a trip. Living alone is different from thinking about it, he says. Larry is enthusiastic. Just what she needs, he says – a trip, to get away from it all. He likes the doctor, and I am glad. He will need someone to talk to.
I go for one more visit.
“Ahhh,” he says, even before we begin. “I am sorry. Perhaps if you had come ten years ago …”
I shake his hand before I go. Is that how you say good-bye to a psychiatrist?
“Thank you,” I say, “for all your time.”
“Yahrmph.” A combination of yes and throat-clearing. “Is there anything more? Anything I can do? Where will you be?”
“California, I think. I’ve never been there.”
He stands silently.
“There is one other thing,” I say. “The guilt. I feel a big ball of guilt … Here.” I touch my stomach. “Is there anything I can do about that?”
“Guilt. Why is that? What do you mean, guilt?”
It is so difficult to tell him and I think again how hard it is to communicate through words, and I marvel to myself that we all do as well as we do. We are all interpreters by necessity, even though we are not trained or suited for the profession. Simultaneous interpreters, hearing one language and then speaking another, our own. Ahh, we need more tolerance, more admiration