Isabel Burning

~ a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi ~-3

The doctor’s moods were extreme at times, though not difficult to predict. If I found him in his study, then it was usually best to refrain from any playful remarks or casual gestures. In this room he was cold and withdrawn. Conversely, any humming or whistling on his part could be taken as my cue to incite frivolous banter and silliness. I laughed more in those moments than I had in the better part of twenty years, and although I would have vehemently denied it at the time, an outside party—had there been such an entity in our world—would have surely seen our antics as the obvious flirtations that they were.

*

The winter sun was pale and ineffective, leaving the darkness to linger on almost painfully. I slept lightly in the Grace house, always feeling the eyes of the gods and goddesses on my body. It was difficult to sleep and dream in purity—as though I’d just come from the convent—with Bacchus keeping vigil over my bed, and I wondered if the placement was intentional. Many nights I would wander through the halls and out to the ivy-smothered courtyard beyond the kitchen. I felt so small in his house and even smaller under Dr Grace’s sky. We were so far away from the rest of the world. Only by looking to the south on the darkest nights could I see the dim orange haze of the town rising above the trees beyond the black silhouette of the house. Sitting on a marble bench near a dormant fountain of angels, I would retreat from the motionless eyes of the painted deities inside only to find myself caught in the gaze of another collection of gods above.

There were closer eyes as well, not so distant as the heavens, that watched me on those nights from a large, dimly lit window at the opposite end of the courtyard. They were the same eyes that closed briefly each night under a woven display of fire and blood; eyes that grew increasingly tired of the second rate stars above us.

I suppose I had little room to protest, as I was becoming a bit of a voyeur myself. After my chores were done each day I would read from the doctor’s library or examine the artefacts that interested me. It was the cross-cultural imagery that fascinated me the most. Religions formed of unlikely unions. Tribal icons fused with so-called civilised symbols of faith.

One painting in particular commanded my attention every time I passed by. It was small and wildly coloured, the way a child sees things—only in crayon hues. The piece featured an astonishingly beautiful and peculiar woman in blue robes, and it took me a bit of research to decipher her title and purpose. I would learn later that she was part Virgin Mary and part Erzulie, Mary’s Voudoun counterpart. She had a star at her shoulder for Stella Maris and stood under the triple moon of Diana. For a collaged goddess, she was remarkable. She was every Mother. She was very old. It gave me chills to stand before her.

When I grew weary of those objects, I turned my attention to the doctor, as he fascinated me even more than his collections. A tiny burst of heat and electricity shot through me as I caught myself staring a little too long into his study one afternoon. I wasn’t hidden, but the doctor was lost in his papers and I realised I was in no danger of being discovered. I watched him work so feverishly; the rapid pace in which he wrote left me curious and weary.

He worked this way each day, disappearing for lengthy periods of time into his provisional laboratory. Like Bluebeard’s tragically curious wife, I had my forbidden room. At the doctor’s request and my discretion, I kept away from the lab. Even the study, which I was permitted to enter, left me uneasy. I made a point of only visiting that room if necessary. More often than not I would linger in the doorway only long enough to get whatever it was I came for, usually just to ask if he was hungry. As I said before, Dr Grace was less kind then, never giving me more than a one or two word response.

So from the living room I found I could see him, or more truthfully watch him, working at his desk, far enough away so as not to be intrusive. His lips would move every few pages and he would roll his chair to and from a nearby bookshelf, searching for information. I kept waiting for him to breathe, but he was far too busy to be troubled. Again I noticed how small and meek he appeared, worn down and distant. It was so strange to see him this way when at other times he appeared so tall, well sculpted, and aware.

Men like Dr Grace are not impetuous, they carefully choose their passions. They do not waste precious time on dead end causes or flights of fancy. Any good doctor knows life is far too short for that. I wanted to ask him what he meant that night he spoke of Africa. I wanted to know what provoked such intense behaviours in him these days. I yearned to know what he knew, this secret he guarded so carefully. That he would not share was killing me.

*

(March)

As weeks passed, Dr Grace grew ever reclusive, no longer bothering to return the few calls that still came. He said that just before my arrival he announced his impending retirement from the practice. There were more than enough competent physicians at his office now, he reasoned, and things would run smoothly enough without him. Within the month he officially withdrew from patient care. He made no mention to his colleagues of his unofficial return to research.

Rarely did he come to the dining room for meals any more and on those exceptional occasions he only picked at the food I prepared. One evening, after losing my patience and thus forgetting my place, I chided him on his poor eating habits. With visible irritation, he produced a few bottles of dietary supplements from a drawer and slammed them on the desktop.

“All right then,” I said. “So you have vitamins. You can’t survive on those.”

“I have been known to eat on occasion. Just because you aren’t there to witness it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Are you over my shoulder every moment of the day? I participate in plenty of activities that you don’t bear witness to, and for that matter, I hired you to assist me with this house, not to be my nanny.”

I suppose it was by accident, though I don’t believe in accidents any more, that I saw the small opened case in the corner of the drawer, nearly hidden by his papers. Inside was an antique syringe. I tried to turn my eyes from it before he noticed, though by the look on his face I was certain he’d seen. I doubt my troubled expression did a proper job of hiding anything, either.

“I get what I need,” he said. “Now may I continue with my work, Nurse?”

The needle made me burn deep inside. Never would it have entered my mind that Dr Grace could be an addict. I’d heard it said somewhere that drug abuse was commonplace among doctors and chemists, but this knowledge did not lessen the sorrow I immediately felt.

“Forgive me for being concerned,” I whispered and left the room.

“Let us remember which of us is the doctor here,” he called after me without looking up.

I was certain there was a small trace of guilt in his voice and a few hot tears rolled down my face so quickly that they left no trail.

*

Late into the night, as I settled into my bed, there was a soft knock at my door, followed by an even softer apology. I wanted to answer him but couldn’t find the words. We were bickering so much these days, and over what? He owed me nothing; I was not his wife nor mother, but still it felt so unnatural for me not to care. He was a junkie and from the looks of it, beginning to lose control. Isn’t that what they’d taught us in school? It begins with experimentation, which becomes a growing dependency and then spirals down to the inevitable demise.

I was growing weary of my concern being met only by sarcasm and quick verbal slaps in the face. Why couldn’t he see that I only wanted to make sure that he was well? Perhaps that was his real reason for employing me, after all? Perhaps he was a man too proud to overtly ask for help. Perhaps I should make a promise to myself, and to Dr Grace, that I would care for him and aid him in working through his addiction. This would be my new mission. Not to be confused, of course, with my primary mission of saving him from painful isolation.

But at some point in the night, I stumbled to the lavatory, wherein I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Despite the glaring white light or that hazy film sleep brings to your eyes, I saw myself clearly for the first time in years. I saw my declaration of righteousness and my smug certainty of the situation. I saw the conceit and the self-serving motivations. Then I saw the insecurity, the need to feel useful, the need to have purpose. It was incredibly ugly.

Who do you think you are? When did you become a saviour? I fought the urge to turn away from my own face. You have no idea about the reality of this situation. He might have been addicted for twenty years for all you know. Why would he turn to you for help? Or he might not actually be addicted to anything at all and if you weren’t such a self-centred little prig, you’d realise that and keep to what you’re good at—scrubbing toilets and sweeping floors.

I whispered soft obscenities to the girl in the mirror and went back to bed.

*

The next night as I prepared to eat my dinner alone—the perfectly miserable end to a perfectly miserable day—Dr Grace appeared in the doorway of the dining room. I had not spoken to him at all that day due to my frustration and anger. I was embarrassed by my thoughts and decided to stay quiet, for fear that I might say something stupid. “I thought I might join you tonight…if there’s anything left…to eat, I mean.” He kept his hands in his pockets like a little boy.

I let him stand there for a few moments while I stared at my plate, eventually replying that there was. The silent space between our words was painful. He started to the kitchen to fix a plate, but I rose from the table and gently pushed past him. “I’ve got it,” I said, looking at the floor. “Go on. It’ll just be a moment.”

He remarked, with a smile, that I made for a wonderfully embittered housewife. I wanted to return the smile, but in my head a million words rushed through like wind. How long have you been an addict what are you shooting into your veins why would you do this to yourself what about your career what about the people that love you what about me?

The questions came to a sudden halt. This had nothing to do with me. I had tried so hard not to think about myself. Instead, “I would have filed for a divorce by now,” was all I said.

“It’s said that the good ones are always taken for granted,” he replied.

After dinner we had one of our talks and some very old cognac to ease our troubles and all was somewhat right in the world once again.