I subside into bed early.
Midway through graduate school, I met a seven-year-old boy afflicted with the so-called Cotard delusion, a psychological phenomenon whereby the individual believes that he is dead. A rare disorder, with pediatric instances rarer still; the recommended treatment is an antipsychotic regimen or, in stubborn cases, electroconvulsive therapy. But I managed to talk him out of it. It was my first great success, and it brought me to Wesley’s attention.
That little boy would be well into his teens now, almost Ethan’s age, not quite half mine. I think of him tonight as I stare at the ceiling, feeling dead myself. Dead but not gone, watching life surge forward around me, powerless to intervene.
Monday, November 1
13
When I come downstairs this morning, sloping into the kitchen, I find a note slipped beneath the basement door. eggs.
I study it, confused. Does David want breakfast? Then I turn it over, see the word Cleaned above the fold. Thank you, David.
Eggs do sound good, come to think of it, so I empty three into a skillet and serve myself sunny-side up. A few minutes later I’m at my desk, sucking the last of the yolk and punching in at the Agora.
Morning is rush hour here—agoraphobes often register acute anxiety after waking up. Sure enough, we’re gridlocked today. I spend two hours offering solace and support; I refer users to assorted medications (imipramine is my drug of choice these days, although Xanax never goes out of style); I mediate a dispute over the (indisputable) benefits of aversion therapy; I watch, at the request of Dimples2016, a video clip in which a cat plays the drums.
I’m about to sign off, zip over to the chess forum, avenge Saturday’s defeats, when a message box blooms on my screen.
DiscoMickey: Thanks again for your help the other day doc.
The panic attack. I’d manned the keyboard for nearly an hour as DiscoMickey, in his words, “freaked out.”
thedoctorisin: Anytime. You better?
DiscoMickey: Much.
DiscoMickey: Writing b/c I’m talking to a lady who’s new and she’s asking if there are any professionals on here. Sent her your FAQs.
A referral. I check the clock.
thedoctorisin: I might not have much time today, but send her my way.
DiscoMickey: Cool.
DiscoMickey has left the chat.
A moment later, up pops a second chat box. GrannyLizzie. I click on the name, skim the user profile. Age: seventy. Residence: Montana. Joined: two days ago.
I flick another glance at the clock. Chess can wait for a seventy-year-old in Montana.
A strip of text at the bottom of the screen reports that GrannyLizzie is typing. I wait a moment, then another; either she’s whipping up a long message or it’s a case of senioritis. Both my parents used to stab at the keyboard with their index fingers, like flamingos picking their way through the shallows; it took them half a minute just to bash out a hello.
GrannyLizzie: Well hello there!
Friendly. Before I can respond:
GrannyLizzie: Disco Mickey gave your name to me. Desperate for some advice!
GrannyLizzie: Also for some chocolate, but that’s another matter . . .
I manage to get a word in edgewise.
thedoctorisin: Hello to you! You’re new to this forum?
GrannyLizzie: Yes I am!
thedoctorisin: I hope that DiscoMickey made you feel welcome.
GrannyLizzie: Yes he did!
thedoctorisin: How can I help you?
GrannyLizzie: Well I don’t think you can help with the chocolate I’m afraid!
Is she effervescent or nervous? I wait it out.
GrannyLizzie: The thing is . . .
GrannyLizzie: And I hate to say it . . .
Drum roll . . .
GrannyLizzie: I haven’t been able to leave my home for the past month.
GrannyLizzie: So THAT is the problem!
thedoctorisin: I’m sorry to hear that. May I call you Lizzie?
GrannyLizzie: You bet.
GrannyLizzie: I live in Montana. Grandmother first, art teacher second!
We’ll get to all that, but for now:
thedoctorisin: Lizzie, did anything special happen a month ago?
A pause.
GrannyLizzie: My husband died.
thedoctorisin: I see. What was your husband’s name?
GrannyLizzie: Richard.
thedoctorisin: I’m so sorry for your loss, Lizzie. Richard was my father’s name.
GrannyLizzie: Has your f ather died?
thedoctorisin: He and my mother both died 4 years ago. She had cancer and then he had a stroke 5 months later. But I’ve always believed that some of the best people are called Richard.
GrannyLizzie: So was Nixon!!!
Good; we’re developing a rapport.
thedoctorisin: How long were you married?
GrannyLizzie: Forty seven years.
GrannyLizzie: We met on the job. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT BY THE WAY!
GrannyLizzie: He taught chemistry. I taught art. Opposites attract!
thedoctorisin: That’s amazing! And you have children?
GrannyLizzie: I have two sons and three grandsons.
GrannyLizzie: My sons are pretty cute, but my grandsons are beautiful!
thedoctorisin: That’s a lot of boys.
GrannyLizzie: You’re telling me!
GrannyLizzie: The things I’ve seen!
GrannyLizzie: The things I’ve smelled!
I note the tone, brisk and insistently upbeat; I clock the language, informal but confident, and the precise punctuation, the infrequent errors. She’s intelligent, outgoing. Thorough, too—she spells out numbers, and writes by the way instead of btw, although maybe that’s a function of age. Whatever the case, she’s an adult I can work with.
GrannyLizzie: Are YOU a boy, by the way?
GrannyLizzie: Sorry if you are, it’s just that girls are sometimes doctors too! Even out here in Montana!
I smile. I like her.
thedoctorisin: I am indeed a girl doctor.
GrannyLizzie: Good! We need more of you!
thedoctorisin: Tell me, Lizzie, what’s happened since Richard passed?
And tell me she does. She tells me how, on returning from the funeral, she felt too frightened to walk the mourners beyond the front door; she tells me that in the days following, it felt like the outside was trying to get into my house, and so she drew the blinds; she tells me about her sons far away in the Southeast, their confusion, their concern.
GrannyLizzie: I’ve got to tell you, all joking aside, that this is really upsetting.
Time to roll up my sleeves.
thedoctorisin: Naturally it is. What’s happening, I think, is that Richard’s passing has fundamentally altered your world, but the world outside has moved on without him. And that’s very difficult to face and to accept.
I await a response. Nothing.
thedoctorisin: You mentioned that you haven’t removed any of Richard’s belongings, which I understand. But I’d like you to think about that.
Radio silence.
And then:
GrannyLizzie: I’m so grateful to have found you. Really really.
GrannyLizzie: That’s something my grandsons say. They heard it in Shrek. Really really.
GrannyLizzie: May I speak to you again soon, I hope?
thedoctorisin: Really really!
Couldn’t help myself.
GrannyLizzie: I am really really (!!) grateful to Disco Mickey for pointing me to you . You’re a doll.
thedoctorisin: My pleasure.
I wait for her to sign off, but she’s still typing.
GrannyLizzie: I just realized I don’t even know your name!
I hesitate. I’ve never shared my name on the Agora, not even with Sally. I don’t want anyone to find me, to pair my name with my profession and figure me out, unlock me; yet something in Lizzie’s story snags my heart: this elderly widow, alone and bereaved, putting on a brave face beneath those huge skies. She can crack jokes all she wants, but she’s housebound, and that’s terrifying.
thedoctorisin: I’m Anna.
As I prepare to log out, a last message pings on my screen.
GrannyLizzie: Thank you, Anna.
GrannyLizzie has left the chat.
I feel my veins rushing. I’ve helped someone. I’ve connected. Only connect. Where have I heard that?
I deserve a drink.
14