Don't Cry Now Part 31

"Fine," Bonnie replied automatically.

"I see you've done something different with your hair."

"I see you've mastered the art of understatement."

The doctor laughed.

"Do you like it?" Bonnie asked, aware she was testing, although she wasn't sure what.

"More important," he said, "do you?"

"I asked you first."

"It has potential."

"To do what?"

Again he laughed, a nice sound, easy, one that was comfortable with itself. "To grow into something a little more flattering," he answered.

This time it was Bonnie who laughed. "Thank you for your honesty."

"Was there a reason you cut your hair?" he asked.

"Does there have to be?"

"There usually is."

Bonnie shrugged. "It was looking a little lifeless," she began, then stopped, the word conjuring up images of Elsa Langer. How strange that she'd died just after Bonnie had discovered she was alive. "I haven't been feeling quite up to par," she continued. "It's why I decided to see you again."

"What is it you think I can do for you?"

"I'm not sure. But somebody has to do something. I don't think I can stand feeling this way much longer."

"How is it you feel exactly?"

"Rotten," Bonnie told him simply. "I'm nauseated all the time, I throw up, everything hurts...."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"I'm seeing you."

"I meant a medical doctor."

"I know what you meant."

"I know you did."

She smiled. "No, I haven't."

"Why is that?"

"Because my symptoms are obviously psychosomatic."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"Doctor Greenspoon," Bonnie began, "you said it yourself the last time I was here. I'm a woman in torment. I believe those were your exact words, and, much as I hate to admit it, you were right. A lot has happened in my life recently, not much of it pleasant. I'm dealing with a lot of s.h.i.t, Dr. Greenspoon, if you'll pardon the vernacular, and obviously I'm not coping very well. This flu, or whatever it is, is just my body's way of reacting to all the stress."

"That may very well be," Dr. Greenspoon said. "But I still think you should get it checked out. How long have you been feeling this way?"

"On and off for about ten days, maybe more," Bonnie told him.

"That's too long. You need to see a doctor, rule out the possibility of infection, or more serious illness...."

"I'm not running a fever," Bonnie said, impatiently. "What will a doctor do except tell me to drink lots of fluids and stay in bed?"

"Why don't you find out?"

"Because I don't have the time or the energy to subject myself to a lot of useless tests. Especially when I know that these symptoms are all in my head."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I never get sick."

"So you said the last time you were here. Do you interpret getting sick as a sign of weakness?"

"What? No. Of course not. I just don't have the time to get sick."

"And other people do?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Are you saying that you think sickness is something you can control?"

"Are you saying it isn't?"

"I guess I think it all depends," the doctor told her. "Some things are a question of mind over matter, and I'm certainly not going to suggest that one's att.i.tude doesn't play a role in one's physical well-being. But that doesn't mean a good att.i.tude is going to prevent cancer, or that a lousy att.i.tude is going to bring on certain death. My father-in-law is eighty-four years old. Ever since I can remember, he's been complaining about his back, his neck, his arthritis. He's been convinced for twenty years now that he's dying, that he'll never see another birthday, another new year, another summer. He has the worst att.i.tude I've ever seen, and you want to know what? He'll live forever, long after the rest of us with our unbounding optimism and sunny dispositions have packed it in.

"People get sick, Bonnie. There are some things that are out of our control. As a society, we don't like to accept that. It makes us feel insecure. So, as a result, we have a lot of desperately ill people feeling guilty because they think that if only they'd had a more positive outlook, they wouldn't have gotten sick, and that's baloney. It's just another example of society blaming the victim, as far as I'm concerned. We think that as long as what happens is the victim's fault, then it won't happen to us.

"The human body is not infallible. It's p.r.o.ne to all sorts of infections and viruses, and our susceptibility can depend on any number of different factors, including diet, exercise, general conditioning, and stress. But mostly, good health depends on good genes. And a lot of plain dumb luck." He smiled. "Of course, there could be a simpler explanation for the way you're feeling."

"And what is that?"

"Is there a chance you could be pregnant?"

"What?"

"Is there a chance you could be pregnant?" he repeated, although they both knew she'd heard him the first time.

"No," Bonnie scoffed. "Not a chance in the world. I'm on the pill." Hadn't she told him that the last time she was here?

"The pill isn't one hundred percent foolproof. Isn't it possible, what with everything that's happened in the last little while, that you might have forgotten to take it for a day or two?"

"No, it isn't possible. I take it every day without fail. I never forget."

"You sound very sure."

"I am very sure. I decided a long time ago that I only wanted one child. I'm very careful to make sure there are no accidents."

"That's very interesting. Why is that?"

"Why is what?"

"Why did you decide you only wanted one child?"

"You don't think the world is overcrowded enough?"

"Is that why you did it?"

"You don't think that's a good enough reason?"

"It's a perfectly admirable reason. But is it your reason?"

"I don't understand."

"If you're so adamant about wanting only one child, I'm curious as to why you haven't had a tubal ligation."

The remark caught Bonnie off guard. A slight trickle of perspiration broke out along the top of her forehead. "I'm not a fan of unnecessary surgery," she said.

"Could there be another reason?"

"Such as?"

"You'd have to tell me. You have a brother, if I remember correctly."

Bonnie found herself holding her breath, waiting for Dr. Greenspoon to continue.

"Older or younger?" he asked.

"Younger, by six years."

"That's a long time."

"My mother suffered several miscarriages in between."

"I see. So, your brother must have been very special to her."

"Yes, he was."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"How did that make me feel?" Bonnie repeated, dully. "I really don't remember. It's a long time ago. I was only a child."

"A child who'd had her mother's undivided attention for six years. I imagine it was quite a shock to suddenly have to share her with someone else."

"Are you suggesting I was jealous of my brother?" Bonnie asked. Was he really resorting to this oldest of psychiatric cliches?

"I think it would be only natural."

"I loved having a brother, Dr. Greenspoon. Nick was the sweetest baby in the world."

"Then why are you so adamant about having only one child yourself?"

"My husband already has two children from his first marriage," she reminded him. "Besides, some people are only suited to have one child. They know deep down that there isn't room in their hearts for more than one. They know they couldn't love both children equally, that one would end up getting short shrift."

"Is that how you feel?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"No. You said some people."

Bonnie bit down on her bottom lip. "Just an expression."

"Tell me about your family." Dr. Greenspoon leaned back into the sofa and unb.u.t.toned his jacket.

"I've been married for five years," Bonnie said, relaxing a little now that they were on more comfortable terrain. "I have a daughter, Amanda."

"Your family of origin," he corrected. "Your parents."

Bonnie immediately stiffened. She cleared her throat, leaned back, then forward, crossed then uncrossed her legs, tugged at her hair. "My mother is dead," she said, her voice so low that Dr. Greenspoon had to lean forward again to hear her. "My father lives in Easton."

"How long ago did your mother die?" Dr. Greenspoon asked.

"Almost four years ago. She died a few months before Amanda was born."

"That must have been very hard for you, losing your mother just as you were becoming one yourself."

Bonnie shrugged.

"Was her death sudden?"

Bonnie said nothing.

"Is that a difficult question, Bonnie?" Dr. Greenspoon asked, curiosity bringing his eyebrows together at the bridge of his nose.

"She'd been sick a long time," Bonnie answered after another long pause. "But it was still sudden."

"You weren't expecting her to die?"