The Blank Slate

How do we deal our own tragedy? How do we deal with others? A psychiatrist loses his daughter but must continue his professional career helping others.

            “Two weeks,” he had told me. Two stupid weeks.

I lean my face against the window as I trace the raindrops sliding down the glass with my finger. I concentrate on the cold glass, pressing my finger even harder against it, leaving foggy fingerprints which slowly disappear. I think about how the cold on the window reflects that of my own heart. As I ride over the Brooklyn Bridge, with the bright orange columns flying past, and the black cables stretching up towards the sky, I stare down at the water. For a second I think it’s somehow gotten into the cab and I’m drowning in it. I kind of wish I were. Doesn’t everyone?

“You have to plan accordingly,” he spoke calmly. How I hated that calmness in his voice. This had become his job, routine. He had become accustomed to these words, probably said them every other day. They had no real effect on him. The little girl he was treating was merely another patient, and no more. There were no people in his hospital, only broken objects for him to fix. Or not fix, as it was in her case. My daughter simply meant a greater income for him, and the only reason why he might have felt any twinge of melancholy was because he knew this source of money would disappear shortly. He knew nothing about life, nothing about death. He saw it every day, but seeing and seeing are two very different things. A coldness began growing inside of me. A coldness in body, coldness in spirit, and coldness to the world around me.

I lean forward and tell the driver to hurry up. I don’t like to be seen in such an unstable state, even by a stranger like himself. Leaning back in my seat and staring at the white snow falling against the window and flying past as the wind takes it, I begin to sob softly to myself.

            “You have to plan for what is to come,” I remembered his voice. That detached calm voice of his still resounded in my mind as I recalled how he leaned back in his expensive, reclinable office chair. The feeling I felt when those words hit my ears was like no other. How could he be relaxed at such a time? The indifferent doctor couldn’t even say the word that was on each of our minds. He simply insinuated it. What a coward.

“Death,” I said. He stared at me with that pathetic smile he always wore whenever he felt uncomfortable.  “My daughter’s death,” I said again, this time pushing my teary-eyed face closer to his until he could feel and taste the salty air from my breath. He backed his chair up a couple feet creating a high pitched screech from the ungreased wheels.

“Yes… like I said. You need to get yourself ready for-,” He hesitated, looking at me queerly. Maybe he realized how ridiculous he sounded. I doubt it. I stood up and turned my back towards him, walking to the other end of the room with my shaking hands deep in my pockets.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” I asked, turning back to face him.

The doctor shifted positions in his seat, and looked down at his hands, snorting rather loudly. “Well. I guess the first thing you should figure out is where to bury her,” he said.

“Bury her?” I asked, taking a step closer. “How am I supposed to make plans for her burial? She’s four years old! Do you understand? I haven’t even made plans on where she’ll attend school yet, and you want me to start writing her an obituary? What would I even say?”

The doctor put his face in his hands and let out a heavy sigh. “Maybe you should rest a while. It isn’t unusual to feel a bit flustered after receiving such news. You should feel better tomorrow morning.”

I decided then and there that this man was a lunatic disguised as a professional. Regardless, I felt my nerve slipping, and feared losing control of myself, so I took his advice and returned home. I never saw Sara again until she was lying in her casket.

It’s now been three weeks since that fateful afternoon. It’s Monday morning, and I’m on my way to work, having just buried my beloved daughter the previous Friday. I’m in a cab, and I haven’t the slightest on how I will get through the rest of the day. I look down at my schedule. Seven clients. A jolt of dread shoots through my body, and I suddenly feel weak. I crunch the schedule in my hands until it takes the shape of a ball, and stuff it into my coat pocket. I had now reached my destination, and saying a short prayer, I quickly grab my briefcase, pay the cabbie, and step out of the vehicle. The taxi drives away, spraying my trousers with dirty brown water, as if things weren’t already bad enough.

 

Beep! “Mrs. Hampton is in to see you,” my secretary declares through my pager.

The noise wakes me up abruptly and put me in a state of confusion, causing me to knock over the lamp on my desk. Thankfully it didn’t break. I had been leaning against my desk with my face in my hands, and had fallen asleep for approximately ten minutes. Why have I been so tired? I look at my desk mirror and attempt to straighten my hair and rub the red marks off my face from where my hands had been. Sighing, I reach to my pager and press the button, “Send her in.”

            I rub my face some more, hoping to extinguish the grogginess I felt, and stand up to greet my client. Mrs. Hampton had opens the door just enough for me to see her face, and peers in nervously.

            “H-hello, doctor. I’m sorry I’m late,” she says with a shaking voice.

            I motion for her to enter, “Come in,” I say, “have a seat.”

            Mrs. Hampton scurries over to the small sofa I had purchased for my clients and sits down. Her posture is rigid, with her back straight, and her hands cupped in between her legs, which press tightly together. She had chosen to sit right on the edge of the sofa over to the side, leaving an unproportioned amount of space to her side. She seemed to be middle aged, I think her file said something like 48 or 49, and this was her first visit to any sort of psychotherapist. I smile at her, hoping it would somehow calm her nerves and let her know that she’s welcome and is in a safe place.

            Mrs. Hampton is my first client of the day, and from the looks of her, an easy one. Her file had said very little about her, only mentioning that she was unable to move on from the death of her husband. Her posture and soft tone of voice told me that she cared much about her image. That was the first thing I would need to break if she was to heal. She had to face her grief head on and not repress it to appear in control. It was obvious she wasn’t in control anyways.

            “Mrs. Hampton,” I say, reaching forward and shaking her hand vigorously, “I’m Dr. Winston. I will be your primary therapist.” I sit back down in my chair behind my desk and continue, “Now, I read your file, but I would like to hear from you personally about what brings you here. Would that be alright?”

            She leans forward and speaks softly, almost in a whisper, as if she fears someone else is listening in, “The death of my husband. I can’t seem to get over him.”

            I raise my hand and stop her, “There’s no need to whisper, Miss Hampton, I assure you that I am the only one who will hear what you say.”          

            “Please,” she says, “call me Clara.”

            “Alright, Clara, continue.”

            “Six years ago,” Clara continues her story, this time in a normal volume, “my husband was diagnosed with cancer. It took the form of a tumor in his brain. We tried to have it removed, and for a short time, things seemed to be looking up. But a month after the operation, he went back in for a check-up, and they found that the cancer had spread. There was nothing they could do. They told us he had only six months left, at most.” She stops talking here, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, trying to keep herself together. I must say, I greatly admire her strength. Few of my previous clients could tell such a story without a box of tissues nearby. I continue to smile at her affectionately. Taking a deep breath, she proceeds to finish her tragic tale, “I just " I just kept thinking about what life would be like without him around. Every time I saw him, I was only reminded of what was to come. It’s as if he was already dead to me. Am I making any sense?”

            “Sure you are. Keep talking to me,” I reply calmly, still smiling and keeping eye contact. For some reason an image of my daughter’s doctor appeared in my head when I spoke these words, and I look down at my desk to hide my gloomy face. Stop it! You’re the doctor, not the patient. Besides which, the practice of medicine and the practice of therapy are two completely different things. Blank slate. Remember, be a blank slate.

            Clara continued on. “After that day, I began ignoring my husband more and more, until I stopped visiting him completely during his last two weeks. I just couldn’t handle it!” Her voice began to grow more intense and less shaky. I back up in my seat as she spoke these words. Two weeks. It was all too familiar. “It was only after his death that I realized how cruel I had been. He was the one dying, and I was the one who was scared. I should have been there for him! And now,” she reaches toward her eyes again and wipes them, sniffing a bit, but holding in her tears nonetheless. I am stupefied by her unrelenting determination. “Now, I can’t even say I’m sorry.”

            “Hmmm,” I lean forward and stare her sharply in the eye raising my hand to my chin and stroking my closely-shaven goatee. “It seems like what we have here is a lack of closure. Your story really isn’t all that unusual. Often times, we as people have a difficult time facing death, even when we have time to prepare for it.” I then ask in a soft soothing voice, “May I ask you a question?”

            She nods, without saying a word, and looks down at her feet, which had been playing with the corner of my checkered carpet.

            I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “If you were not bound by the laws of science, or anything we take as reality, what do you think you would do that could potentially resolve this dilemma?”

            Her face began turning a sort of dark red as I asked this question. She seems skeptical, but she decides to answer anyways. “Well, I guess, I don’t know. I guess I would do like I said before. Tell him I’m sorry.”

            An image of my daughter appears in my head again, without warning. What would I tell Sara if I wasn’t bound by reality, if she was standing in front of me? Maybe these are questions I should be asking myself. I know I should have visited her. I know I should have comforted her. But I guess I was just too weak. Guilt begins pressing against my mind like a bar clamp, having a progressively tighter hold, but I can’t let her get between me and my client, and I push against it in the opposite direction with all of my strength. I can’t show my true feelings, it just isn’t my place. I think about the way I had spoken to Sara’s doctor as well, but lingering on such thoughts is dangerous. I promptly return to the present. I look at Clara sternly, but with the same emotionless expression as before. I have to keep a blank slate. “Now think hard Clara. My next question is important, perhaps the most important question I will ask. Are you ready?”

            She nods slowly and apprehensively.

            “What would your husband say in response to your apology? What emotions would he feel? What would you feel?” I ask forthrightly.

            I watch her sit in her seat, still withdrawn into herself and still with a stiff posture. Five minutes pass and she still has no answer. I begin to speak again, but she cuts me off.

            “I guess, doctor… I guess he would probably tell me that it’s okay, and that he understands.”

            I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t, so I tell her to dig deeper. “What would he do? Is he being honest?”

            She thinks for a few more seconds, and then raises her head in response with a smile. “Yes. I think he is honest. There’s no way to be sure, but I think he would take me in his arms and comfort me; he was always much better at that than I was. My husband never sugarcoated anything. When he was sorry, he sincerely apologized. When he forgave me, he sincerely forgave me.”

            “Good,” I say, “very good.” I realize that I’ve been incessantly tapping my finger against the desk this entire time, and noticing an irritated look on my client, I quickly stop. I remind myself to stay in control. A nervous therapist isn’t an observant one, I tell myself. “I have one last question for you, and then our time will be almost up. Now that you have apologized, and he has forgiven you, what next?”

            She smiles, and begins to chuckle under her breath.

            I stare at her, no longer smiling. “What’s so amusing?” I ask, sincerely curious, as I see nothing amusing about this entire conversation.

            She begins laughing harder, out loud now. “Haha! You couldn’t give a damn about my story.”

            Yes. Finally we had something out of her. She was becoming defensive. Not exactly what I expected, but it will do for now. It is only our first session.

            I look at her, squinting my eyes to show my confusion, “I’m sorry? Come again?”

            “You heard me! This whole thing is a game to you. You really think it’s just that easy? When you look at me, do you see me? Or do you just see your paycheck. This is routine for you isn’t it?” She stood up now.

            I remain sitting in my seat, unsure of how to proceed, but I trust my intuition and tell her to remain calm. She continues standing however and begins pacing the room. Wow, this was a change. I hardly can believe this is the same reserved, quiet woman who had entered my office not fifteen minutes ago.

            “You say the right words here, you say the right words there. It’s like you’re reading from a script!” She yells. “There isn’t some easy, perfect fix for everything. My husband is dead, and even if I think he would forgive me, it doesn’t matter, because he’s dead. Don’t pretend like he isn’t!”

            Her words move me somehow. I stop smiling and instead take on a rather solemn expression. I feel her pain, and I understand. Yet I’m speechless. What can I say to her that will help? Is there anything? I watch her take another stride across the room and sit back down on the couch in her original position. It was as if, for a moment, she had broken through the walls she put up around her, and was free. I felt a twinge of sadness burst through me as she did this. I think, perhaps, I’m envious of her. In a profession like mine, I can never truly say what I feel. I’m constantly running from myself, but can never quite escape. Eventually, everything catches up to me, and I’m again trapped in my own prison. Poor Sara. I see her in a prison cell next to mine, and she’s crying for her father. The key is in my hand, but I can’t reach her door to unlock it. She’s no longer crying, but is angry now. She’s saying I put her in here. I try to tell her that she doesn’t understand, that it wasn’t my fault. But deep down I know she’s right. Nothing can bring closure between us. We are separated by a wall that goes on to eternity. I begin to feel my eyes well up with tears. Pull yourself together. Do your own psychoanalysis at home, not on the job. Remember, blank slate. You don’t want any transference between you and Clara.

She sees my mouth struggle to answer her, and perhaps notices the water under my eyes. I notice on her face that she feels shame for having acted out.

            “I’m sorry, doctor. I just- I feel like I’m talking to a computer.” She says somberly.

            My lips form shapes, but no sound comes out. What is wrong with me? Is that all it took to stump me? A temper-tantrum? I must be getting old. But I see her expectant face waiting for some sort of comforting response. I have to think of something quick. This is what I’m paid for isn’t it? I can’t let her down. I gather up all the strength inside of me and spew out the first few words that enter my mind. “It’s okay. It isn’t unusual for someone grieving to respond this way to their first experience with therapy. Perhaps we should call it quits for now and you can go home to rest. We can resume next week.”

            I watch her open her mouth as if to say something, but she closes it and lets out a rather loud grunt. “Alright then. Thank you doctor.” And with that she stands up and walks towards the door. As she turns around to bid me her final farewell, I stare down at my desk sullenly, not able to stare into her beautiful damning eyes.

 

The End

Author's Note

What works best in this story? What needs more attention?

Reviews

[KTizzle]

Okay first things first, I'll go over technical issues. You tend to switch tenses a bit. For example, the paragraph that starts off like this, "The noise woke me up abruptly..." is full of past tense and then the very next paragraph is full of present tense. I felt that was important to point out seeing as you go through past and present events. It's important to distinguish between the two. Speaking of distinguishing between past and present, I wish there was more transition into when the narrator goes into the past. Sometimes I find myself thrust into the past and having to wonder what time frame I am in.

I think there could be more description in certain places. For example, where the narrator met Clara, I felt there should have been more things to notice about her body language that would make the narrator appear more professional. Also, by giving more detail to her body language would make the ending where it says, "her beautiful eyes damning him" more powerful. Speaking of beautiful eyes, perhaps describe the color of her eyes. Are they blue like a mirror, reflecting the narrator in an interesting way? Are they green, giving a murky reflection of the narrator, which gives the audience a better view into the mind of the narrator. Are they brown, glassy like a mirror, but uninterruptible?

One thing content wise, I thought it would have been interesting to read the narrator's feelings through his body language as well when he was in the doctor's office. I felt that would have been more powerful because it would more show the narrator's inability to deal with the death of his daughter. One last thing, why not have the doctor talk about some psychological jumbo at the doctor's office and then he sees Clara having the outburst he wished he could have had instead of composing himself if that makes sense.

Btw, I am not trying to tell you how to run your story. Write it however you like! These are just my opinions.

Now, what I'm going to talk about what I loved about it. Content wise, I loved the storytelling. I kept reading all the way through. I also loved the idea behind this. Often times, we arm ourselves with knowledge in order to protect ourselves from suffering, but it does not. Pain is something that must be experienced and coped with. That is inescapable even for a doctor. I liked that the narrator was a psychologist too because I felt it better reiterated that point. Plus psychologists have this stigma about them seeming to know everything. This story shows the difference between head knowledge of a traumatic event and experience through it. I also loved the ending.

Nice read!

Thanks for posting! Have a great day!

[PortraitsOfTheHeart]

Thank you so much for the criticism! Too address your first critique about switching tenses, I wasn't at all unaware of this. However, I disagree with you about it switching tenses. If you read it closely, you will realize that in this instance the narrator is referring to an event which has already occurred (the pager beeping), and therefore should be in past tense. Still, this was the first time I have written in present tense, so I could be wrong, and I could definitely work on it reading more smoothly.

As to explaining the narrators body language, I decided not to, as it doesn't fit well with it being in first-person. Since the narrator is the main character, he can't very well observe his own body language with great detail.

All your other critiques I agree with though, and I will definitely take them into account for later writings. Again, thank you!

[KTizzle]

Yeah I can understand that and I did read over it again, but that should be in present tense. So it should read, "my secretary declares through my pager. The noise wakes me up abruptly and puts me in a state of confusion, causing me to knock over the lamp on my desk" so that it agrees with the next few sentences that shift into present tense. I say this because one can show something happening without suddenly shifting to the past tense. Rewording it to the present still shows that the pager beeped if that makes sense.

You are right in that the narrator's body cannot be explored too much, but there is body language that the reader can feel with the narrator such as him clenching his fists, his shoulders stiffening, suddenly becoming aware of his feet, or skin tightening somewhere, or the unique parts of his body tightening. If he were less responsive, it's reasonable for him to focus on how his body is reacting.

Glad I could help!

[PortraitsOfTheHeart]

Makes sense! Revised the error with the tenses. Thank you!

[Agyani]

Hi

Most of the things I wanted to say about your story have already been brought to your notice by Livana. So I will merely touch upon the things I want to point out.

The tense switching bit is indeed a rather consistent issue here. I know you are going back and forth in time, but your words should be able to support that flow, not inhibit or muddle it up.

A bit of detailing here and a bit of expressing there would bring the reader closer to your narrative. When you are narrating you should ensure that the reader hears the voice as you hear it yourself. It can help bridge the gap of understanding considerably and form a connection between their mind and your writing. Even I learned this from someone here at the Cafe. When you think about it and re-read your story, you will know what I'm trying to say.

The story itself is rather moving. I've always felt that those who have some mental fortitude and are unable to overcome a certain distressing memory or emotion usually try to cope by helping others. I felt your story to be in that direction to a certain extent. His profession as a psychotherapist demands the protagonist to help others, but maybe that's the only way he can get his closure too, or the closest thing possible to a closure. Anyway, I liked your story, it was told in a kind and personal manner, and I would like you to keep posting stuff here. :)

[Gerald Cox]

I enjoy the circular nature of the story. One thing that stood out, though, is that the narrator's internal dialogue and description of evens are very self-referential. Was this a conscious decision?

[PortraitsOfTheHeart]

I think so. It would have been more difficult to show his ending realization without it.