The Doctor's Wife

       What Clarence Smith sees as he helps his wife into the front seat of the buggy after church is a woman who in the sight of God is his lawfully wedded wife and owes him love, honor, and obedience. Other people, with nothing at stake, see that there is a look of sadness about her, as if she lives too much in the past or perhaps expects more of life than is reasonable. –William Maxwell, “So Long, See You Tomorrow.”

***

            He’d not been outside until now, but all day he had seen the rain through the windows and had dreaded walking home. As he walked, he stared dully at his feet, and by the time he got home, the bottoms of his scrubs were soaked. He walked up the steps of his little house and brushed the water from his coat and hair before stepping inside. He heard her voice in the kitchen as he turned and climbed the stairs to their small bedroom. The room was dark and cold. He took off his wet scrubs, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. He had been awake now for over 30 hours, and still, sleep would not come. He should probably shower—it would be warm.

In medical school he’d heard the statistics, and now that he was in the thick of it, he understood. Something about hospitals made you want to kill yourself. 400 doctors a year—why not make it 401? 11% of residents did it. It seemed like that number should be higher. The expectations were so high, the amount of sleep so low. The stress of it got to even the most capable of doctors. He had all the right knowledge. Medical school had at least prepared him for that. It would be simple, quick. But he knew he wouldn’t do it. Not now, anyway. He had been forced to get private loans with astronomical interest rates as he had been a foreign national when he had first come to medical school and he couldn’t leave her with his debts. She had no way to pay them.

He heard his wife on the stairs and turned towards the wall and pretended to be asleep. He knew he was being unfair to her. She hadn’t seen him in three days. To her the world was good and fair and they would “get through this.” But the world he saw every day was far from “good and fair.” He heard her open the door and he wished he had stayed at the hospital. He wished she would leave, but he knew she wouldn’t as she climbed into bed beside him.

***

It was early in the morning. His head was resting in her lap and she stared down at his face. It was peaceful. One would almost think he was dead. She ran her fingers through his thick, curly hair and could smell old styling gel—he had been too tired to shower. The gel had a sweet smell, but it wasn’t overpowering. It would be on her clothes for a while. Her other hand rested on his chest and she could feel his heartbeat. Its pattern had slowed to the point where she could hardly feel it. His breaths were deep and steady. He was asleep. She smiled and continued to stroke his hair. She used to fear the only time she would ever see him this peaceful would be in his casket. He had somewhere to be, but she didn’t wake him. She didn’t know when he would sleep again.

***

He always said he would take her downtown, but he rarely got a day off. Today, they had planned to go to Pike Place Market, but it was raining and the new library was closed so they went to the Seattle Art Museum and it was free. She had been to it before, but not with him. She wondered how he would interpret the art as they found their way into the impressionist collection. The rooms were dark and crowded. The rain and free tickets had driven everyone inside.

They found a Manet painting of a well-dressed man—the plaque said his name was George Moore—sitting on a chair on a path in a garden, the ivy wrapped around the trellis that walled in the man who stared ahead. The man was hunched with sad eyes and no mouth, his hands useless—voicelessly isolated from the outside world.

He saw her staring at the painting and felt he should explain it to her and she nodded and smiled and furrowed her eyebrows at all the right times, but still, he believed she would never understand.

***

            She squinted into the mirror and applied another layer of mascara to her spidery eyelashes. Eminem played angrily through her headphones as she straightened and looked into the transformed face. Out of habit, she tiptoed into the bedroom and then changed into clothes that flattered her figure. She frowned at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall as she let down her long, blonde hair. She turned away from the mirror and glanced at the empty bed. He hadn’t been home since yesterday morning.

            At work that day, she was given the excellence in teaching award. Her students loved her, they told her. She was patient and kind and she made everyone feel loved and understood. She always knew how to bring out a student’s voice. They felt lucky to have her. With her quiet smile, she accepted the award, but she didn’t put it up in her office.

            That evening, when she got home, she went into the bathroom and removed a makeup wipe from its package. As she cleaned off her outer face, she gazed critically at the slight bump on her nose from when she had broken it, at her pale winter skin, and at the wrinkles that now lightly lined her face. She turned away, twisted her hair into a bun, and changed into an oversized sweatshirt and shorts before sinking down onto the bedroom floor. Their golden retriever lay down beside her and she tiredly sank against him. She closed her eyes and whispered into the golden fur, “Everyone thinks he’s perfect too.”

***

They sat next to each other as they worked, but neither spoke. An unfinished puzzle from last Christmas lay on the coffee table. The house was quiet except for the soft scratching and clicking sounds of their writing and typing and the bubbling of the filter in the fish tank. She wished he would talk to her. His voice was quiet and kind. It had been a long time since they had talked. She missed the way he used to hold her as he would tell her his hopes and fears. She stopped grading and watched him as he typed out his charts. His hands were long-fingered and delicate, muscular and precise—well suited for his profession. It had been a long time since they had held hers. At least she could sit by him.

***

            He stepped into the room. It was dark so he let his eyes adjust and then looked around. It was the middle of the week so the shades covered the stained glass windows to keep the wood from fading. He had grown up in this place with its lofty ceilings and carpeted floors. He had been happy here. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the familiar smells and cast a glance over his past and present. He remembered the dissonant music and the clear voice that had always lulled him to sleep. It had been a long time since he had been here. He walked down the aisle that still seemed as long to him now as it had when he was a child and sat down on one of the hard wooden pews.

            He was educated and well-read now. He knew biology and philosophy and could recite Whitman, Dickinson, and Poe long into the night, or argue with anyone the ethics of Mill or the integration of Milton into the Biblical narrative. He could cure disease, dispel pain, and restore life. He held the title of Doctor. To many, he knew everything. He was a thinking and perceptive man. Surely, he could find peace within himself under any circumstances. Perhaps he could find it here.

            He used to think this was the most sacred place on earth. It was supposed to be God’s house. But now, he reconsidered what he found sacred. He thought about his wife—her optimism. He had never understood it, but her smile made him feel at ease. He hadn’t seen it in a while.

“Sir, the church is closed now. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.” He opened his eyes and saw the man with the clear voice from his youth, but the man did not recognize him. He was not old but had aged too much. He nodded and stood up. It had been pointless to come. As he walked home he realized he was hungry, but didn’t expect there to be dinner.

***

            He talked to her and she listened, mechanically saying yes. She noticed his look of concern, but she ignored it. He was wrapped up in his own world. He offered her a hug, but she rejected it. She suspected that he still loved her, but didn’t know how long it would last. She had made him dinner, but before she could tell him, his pager beeped. Another person needed his attention. He left and she watched the fish swim, bright and shining in the low light, and they danced and begged for food and somewhere, hidden behind the bright, fake plants, the black one was dead. She noticed it was missing and found it, scooped it up, and buried it outside, and then put a plate of food in the fridge. He would be hungry later.