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Going down the walk toward the car, we passed Uncle Ira, and I said, " 'Night, Mr. Lentz."
" 'Night, Miles; come again." He gri
"Sure is." I smiled, and Becky murmured good night.
In the car I asked Becky if she'd like to do something, have di
She lived only three blocks away, in the direction of my house, in a big, white, old-fashioned frame house that her father had been born in. When we stopped at the curb, Becky said, "Miles, what do you think – will she be all right?"
I hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. I'm a doctor, according to my diploma, but I don't really know what Wilma's trouble is. I could start talking psychiatrical jargon, but the truth is that it's out of my line, and in Ma
"Well, do you think he can help her?"
Sometimes there's a limit to how truthful you should be, and I said, "Yes. If anyone can help her, Ma
At Becky's door, without any advance pla
Maybe that sounds heartless; maybe you think I should have been worrying about Wilma, and in a way I was, far back in my mind. But a doctor learns, because he has to, not to worry actively about patients until the worrying can do some good; meanwhile, they have to be walled off in a quiet compartment of the mind. They don't teach that at medical school, but it's as important as your stethoscope. You've even got to be able to lose a patient, and go on back to your office and treat a cinder in the eye with absolute attention. And if you can't do it, you give up medicine. Or specialize.
I had di
Chapter three
Next morning when I got to my office, a patient was waiting, a quiet little woman in her forties who sat in the leather chair in front of my desk, hands folded in her lap over her purse, and told me she was perfectly sure her husband wasn't her husband at all. Her voice calm, she said he looked, talked, and acted exactly the way her husband always had – and they'd been married eighteen years – but that it simply wasn't him. It was Wilma's story all over again, except for the actual details, and when she left I phoned Ma
I'll cut this short; by Tuesday of the following week, the night of the County Medical Association meeting, I'd sent five more patients to Ma
Ma
Then I saw it was Ma
"What the hell's going on in Santa Mira?" Ma
"It's a new hobby over our way," I said, leaning an arm on the open door. "A cinch to replace weaving and ceramics."
"Well, it's the first contagious neurosis I ever ran into," Ma
"Most unusual series of cases," Carmichael said judiciously.
"Well" – I shrugged – "psychiatry is in its infancy, of course. The backward stepchild of medicine, and naturally you two can't – "
"No fooling, Miles; these cases have got me stopped." Ma
Charley Carmichael didn't answer, and no one else said anything for a moment. Then Ed Pursey sighed, and said, "I had another this afternoon. Man about fifty. Been a patient of mine for years. Has a daughter, twenty-five. Now she isn't his daughter, he says. Same kind of case." He shrugged and spoke to the front seat. "Shall I send him over to one of you guys?"
Neither of them answered for a moment, then Ma
Carmichael said, "You might send him over; I'll do what I can. But Ma
"Or anything else," said Ma
"Maybe we should try a little blood-letting," I said.
"By God, you might as well," said Ma
It was time to go in, and they got out of the car, and we all went into the hall. The meeting was as fascinating as usual; we heard a speaker, a university professor who was rambling and dull, and I wished I were with Becky, or at home, or even at a movie. After the meeting, Ma