"The first time you and I made love. I thought you were following same sex how-to book. You kept asking me. "Is that all right? Is this all right? It was more like an examination than lovemaking. Claude."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Since then I've taught you a lot and you've become better at it. It's funny that I had to teach a psychiatrist the art of making love, don't you think? You, of all people, should know how important the fantasy is. That's why I have worked so hard to make this room so plush and feminine." she said, gesturing at the velvet drapes, the canopy bed, the gilded mirrors, and the plush carpeting. "I don't know if you even notice what an effort I make. Do you. Claude?"
"Of course I notice. It's a beautiful room. You have done wonders with it." I told her, gazing around and nodding as if it were really the first time I had seen it.
"I'll say I have. I've done wanders with this whole house. Your mother lived as if she didn't have a penny. Some of the things in this house were literally rotting away when I first came here to live with you. Claude. I was surprised your father didn't have more pride in his home. He did have people visiting often, didn't he?"
"Oh, yes."
"They must have been very disappointed with what they found. Now, at least, this is the home of a successful doctor and we don't have to be
embarrassed. I wouldn't have it look any less, but do you appreciate that?"
"I do. Alberta. I might not show it because I'm so involved in my work, but I do." I protested.
She smirked. "It's all right if you don't. I appreciate enough for the both of us," she said. "So"-- she continued turning to me and undoing her nightgown. "you remembered you were married to an attractive woman and the man in you was finally stirred up, is that it?"
"No, I... I mean. yes. I mean..."
"Forget about it. I'm not looking for a scientific explanation. Are you going to get undressed_. Claude, or do you expect me to do that for you?" she asked.
I looked about to place my drink an something, and she screamed. "Not there, Put it on the desk. You'll leave a circle in the wood. How you can be so intelligent and do so many stupid things, I don't know."
I put the glass down where she wanted it put and began to undress.
No matter what, I thought, it just wasn't romantic. It just wasn't emanating from any heart beating with love, and the irony was, it was she who was always teaching, instructing, critiquing it all, not me. She was analyzing, comparing, designing every movement to fit some preconceived image. She put herself in a romance novel or a movie love scene. and I was the one who was no more than a prop, a manikin standing in for this actor or that dreamboat.
I won't go into all that happened afterward. Willow. but I can tell you this-- when I lay back on my own pillow in my own bed afterward that night, I was even more in love with Grace. How do I know? I couldn't make love to Alberta without thinking about Grace, without doing just what Alberta did most likely every time we were together: pretending she was with someone else. In my case it wasn't a movie actor or a singing star I was imagining, nor was it a debonair socialite. It was someone I knew, someone I could touch,
Grace, I kept thinking in my mind. Grace, how I want to curl up in your heart and sleep contented forever and ever. How can that ever be? Just thinking such thoughts made me ashamed of myself, Grace Montgomery was my patient. It was assumed she was vulnerable and in my most protected trust. A doctor cannot take advantage of that trust, can he? He can't and remain true to his profession, to the essence of who and what he is and abuse that relationship.
I tossed and turned, trying to keep myself from dreaming of her. I deliberately reviewed my reports on other patients. I planned my whole month's calendar. I did everything I could to keep awake, for fear that once I fell asleep, I would fall victim to my own secret heart, which, my darling Willow, was exactly what did happen.
Over the next few days I kept my sessions with Grace as professional as I could. I met with her only in my office. and I spent time working on correcting her medications. I busied myself with my other patients, and I tried desperately to occupy my every free hour with something that would keep me from thinking about her. Nothing worked,
This is madness, I kept telling myself. I'm growing more and more obsessed. It had to stop, but for all my wisdom and for all my experience. I could not heal myself, Willow. I could not purge my mind of your mother. Her eyes, her lips, her hair, the way she held her head or moved her hands, every little thing about her was caught in a mental snapshot and replayed on the screen of my memory and in the corridors of my dreams.
Finally one night after I had finished dinner and Alberta had gone upstairs. I went to my office and tried to reason with myself. I reviewed my thoughts, my actions. What should I do next to stop this fall into a sweet oblivion? I had another tumbler of scotch and then went up to bed, but almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, your mother's face returned to the inside of my eyelids.
In a crazed rush of impulsive activity, I rose, dressed, and left the house. Miles was already asleep. I drove myself back to the clinic. It was a very dark night, overcast, with not a star in sight. The clinic looked asleep itself, the lights turned down low and the lobby very quiet. All of our patients were in their roams, and the attendants and nurses were sitting and having coffee or tea or watching television. I was able to let myself in and, like some burglar, sneak down the corridor. When I reached Grace Montgomery's door. I stopped and stood there, my heart pounding.
What was I doing?
Why had I come here? What were my intentions?
I saw my hand move slowly toward the doorknob, and then I heard. "Dr. De Beers?"
One of the night nurses had appeared in the corridor. "Oh, Suzanne," I said.
"Is anything wrong?"
"I was a little concerned about Grace Montgomery today and wanted to check on her. How has she been?"
"Fine," she said. shaking her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary. She ate well, worked in the arts and crafts room, did some reading in our library. I'm sure she's asleep."
"Yes, yes, you're probably right." I said.