Grievous – Part 4

On Monday morning, I peeked into Lenore’s office. She inhabited the sunroom behind the kitchen, and it suited her well. She displayed her oil paintings on the wall that used to be on the outside of the house. Each of our spaces seemed to be an extension of ourselves, creating an environment that felt more natural than a typical office or clinic. Gladys and Jake shared a wall between their south-facing offices behind the sitting room. We had known each other before we started the practice, but this building cemented us as partners, keeping peace and mediating personality conflicts.

Lenore was happy to get back with me as soon as she found the file for her “Gary something.” I didn’t expect her notes would shed light on Callum’s situation. She documented her cases in bullet points, quite unlike my own flowery narratives. However, I trusted her instincts, especially when it came to cases involving families. Her own daughter had been trying to conceive for years, and she was acutely tuned to patients in similar circumstances. I looked forward to seeing the results of her sessions with Gary.

There was nothing unique about my cases this day, all regular patients with typical needs. I tried to remain focused, but found my notes at the end of the day were more brief than usual. I was about to close the lid on the laptop and walk home, when I received the email from Lenore. She was just downstairs, but sometimes days would go by without the partners crossing paths. We usually saved our face-to-face business for Saturdays.

I did not immediately open the message. For some reason, its arrival triggered a memory of something I had neglected. Callum was a published author. I quickly performed a search for his name and discovered he had written two novels, both with excellent reviews.

I closed the lid on the laptop and left the house, walking toward downtown and my favorite bookstore. They only stocked the more recent novel, published a few months ago. The associate advised me it was not part of a series, so I wouldn’t need to read the other book first. By my calculations, they were both published after the loss of the baby and his wife’s move back to Italy. I recalled his claim that he felt guilty for putting all their savings into the care of the mother and birth of the child. Unable to conceive, his wife suggested adoption, and he had done the online research and located the birthmother, an Italian, like his wife. The loss had torn them apart and she had moved home to be with her family.

I purchased the book, as well as a sandwich and tea and found a comfortable chair near the fireplace. The book was not long, less than three hundred pages, and seemed it would be an easy read. I flipped to the biography on the inside flap. It described his education and awards and a little about his home here in the Pacific Northwest with his two dogs. There was no mention of family. The photograph, a self-portrait taken with a web-cam, was unusual but not surprising.

I quickly became absorbed in the story, a tale of an impoverished father and son building a boat together using scraps collected over decades. I forgot about Callum and my selfish quest to analyze my own diagnostic errors. I had not finished the book when the lights flashed to announce the closing of the store. As I walked home, I wondered why it was so hard for me to let go of my errors, and why this case, this brief connection with a stranger caused me to re-evaluate my skill as a practitioner. I brought the book onto the balcony and consumed it along with my evening coffee.