The Doctor Is In
There was no Grace
in the late afternoon. The ordinarily green, groomed lawns were typically filled
with the laughter of children. Not to say the little ones were absent from
expressing their imaginations in play, but instead the yards were in disarray.
For she wasn't to be seen. The afternoon just wasn't the same. No energetic
wave. No smile. Not even a story from the adventures of her youth, as she
usually provided just after exiting her car. The neighborhood had grown
accustomed to her car turning the corner just three houses from her driveway
and thereby illuminating faces like sunshine in spring. But she was late. It
was dark. The sun had set on another autumn evening. The streets were vacant,
but there was vacancy in her heart for those she missed. However, all the
children were summoned by the twilight which just passed before she walked home
from the nearest bus stop. A streetlamp flickered until it reached its full
illumination.
There was Grace. The other passengers on the bus had
never seen this new face. The interior lights flashed on as the bus driver
exclaimed his disgruntled opinion about his employer and wondered how the
lights worked after their lengthy disorder. The typical non-conversational
atmosphere was broken by the first person who mirrored the silent salutation of
her smile. The surrounding passengers were enthralled by the tale of the Great
Physician -- a story she often relayed to new people in her travels. It gave
them something they usually had not experienced.
She made her way up the path toward the front door of
a beautiful multi-gable home situated on the left of a sleepy cul-de-sac. The
motion sensor of the front porch did not trigger the light. She trembled for
what was to come. She pushed away her fear and fumbled for her keys. She sighed
with her head cocked back to seek relief, she took a deep breath which exhaled
into a prayer. The porch light flooded her vision which restored the smile in
her heart. Just as she crossed the threshold, a darkness challenged her
resolve. A hidden front of heated verbal assaults and icy secrets in constant
retreat, lay in wait.
The air was stale -- not a scent of any culinary
preparation. Despite her fatigue, she offered to anyone in ear shot, "What
shall I make for dinner?"
"Go ahead, make my day."[i]
Her husband swore at her with his usual fiery finesse while flipping channels
with a grimace locked on his face, like that of Clint Eastwood. He had been out
of work for years, but it hadn't taken long for him to labour his hand toward
the bottle. One, already emptied and filled with cigarettes, now displayed on
the end table next to his recliner. He sunk in the dank room. Once used to
entertain friends and family, it was now his lair --
his dungeon.
She dared not ask the status of her vehicle's
replacement -- the one her husband loaned to a so-called friend who was equal
in inebriation to his own. Instead, she asked her husband, "Where's
Crystal?"
"Keep your friends close, but your enemies
closer,"[ii]
he half-fired another heated metaphor reflecting the current programming. The
rest of his superlatives riddled down the front of his t-shirt.
"Drake. I calmly asked a simple question. May I
please receive a civil --"
"Say 'hello' to my little friend!"[iii]
He violently interrupted as he swung the back of his clenched claw in the
direction of her face. He missed his intended target as he was barely able to
rise from the cage which had trapped his mind as well as his heart. Concerned
the same disease had seized her daughter, she gazed from the edge of the room
down the hallway. Her daughter leered in returned.
"... you can't fight in here! This is the War
Room!"[iv]
Her daughter was an astute apprentice of her father in the art of profanity.
The darkness already soaked into her wardrobe, her hair and around her eyes,
which reflected her opinion of the world around her, and overall.
"Houston, we have a problem,"[v]
she exclaimed. There was no turning back from these words. They both cried.
Each of their tears reflected differently. The adolescent's tears instantly
chilled.
"May I have my cigarettes please, nurse..."[vi]
Drake loved to fire that insult at his wife. It was one of his ways to make
himself feel he was better than her. She was a doctor -- a well-respected
psychologist. He once held a high office. Now, in a crazed state he stumbled
out of his chair -- just as he had fallen from the chambers of court -- toward
the study adjacent from where the three stood. With his blurred vision he
examined the plethora of framed diplomas and scholastic achievements. He hurled
an empty bottle into the room. He missed again. His words were true in aim, but
not entirely in content. Law had failed him, and he failed the Law. He falsely
accused his wife of healing others over her own family. She knew he exchanged
the word caring, as his tongue tripped over his teeth. Her expression betrayed
her heart.
The charge and response did not go unnoticed by their
daughter. "Exactly. There's no way to win."[vii]
Crystal's opinion of her dysfunctional family ranked at DEFCON 2. This was no
game. Like her father, her poison was not only the bottle. But another escape
route existed. Undiscovered. Her room was always locked – as was her heart.
Negotiating at this point seemed futile.
There was Grace. She remembered the story, the gift of
the Great Physician she recently relayed to those on the bus earlier. Those who
would listen. Listen, and hear. The story of dire importance amid an explosive
environment. The same story she told to her family in the past, years gone by.
The same story her mother passed down. But not everyone receives this story as
a gift. The gift of healing. The gift of peace. "What you want is
temporary. What you need is permanent. But it takes time," she pleaded. "I'm
not a magician," she cried. It was the most she was able to say without
interruption in a long time. Nonetheless, as she began to add, "Please
allow --" her words were met with frigid ferocity.
"What we’ve got here is failure to
communicate,"[viii]
he slandered her good name.
Crystal outperformed her father and invented her own style of profanity. In cracked vulgarity she haphazardly stung her mother's heart with an icy response as she stormed back in the direction of her room, "Strangelove, or Strange! Will someone call a doctor!"
There was Grace. In a house with two others, she stood alone. Her tears fell short to warm the heart of her daughter. Her husband plastered to the wall in seared rage. She turned and faced the light streaming from under the back door. She softly whispered as she wept, "The Doctor is in."
~
[i] Dirty Harry Sudden Impact (1983) Director: Clint Eastwood, Warner Bros.
[ii] The Godfather Part II (1974) Director: Francis Ford Coppola,
Paramount Pictures
[iii] Scarface (1983) Director: Brian De Palma, Universal Pictures
[iv] Dr. Strangelove (1964) Director: Stanley Kubrick, Columbia Pictures
[v] Lost Moon: The Perilous Voyage of Apollo 13, Jeffery Kluger and Jim
Lovell, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994
[vi] One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) Director: Milŏs Forman,
United Artists, Warner Bros.
[vii] Wargames (1983)
Director: John Badham, MGM, United Artists, United International Pictures,
Chapel Distribution
[viii] Cool Hand Luke (1967) Director: Stuart Rosenberg, Warner Bros., Warner
Bros.-Seven Arts
.png)
