Part 2 (2/2)

”No anger yet?” she asked, finis.h.i.+ng the last of her croissant. I had broken off half of mine. The second half lay on a napkin on the little table next to the recliner. A book lay on the table. There was always a book for patients to look at in case Ann had an emergency phone call or an urgent trip to the rest room. The current book was a little one with short paragraphs by William Bennett.

”Lewis?”

”No anger,” I said.

”You are not ready to hate the man who killed your wife?”

”Could have been a woman.”

”Person,” said Ann, accepting the remaining half of my chocolate croissant I handed to her.

”No anger. Nothing I can do with anger.”

”But you can try to hide in your depression?”

”I try. It's hard work. You don't make it easier.”

”That's why you come to me. Trying to feel nothing,” she said, taking a small bite of the croissant to make it last. ”Like a religion. Nirvana. Except without a G.o.d.”

”Something like that,” I said.

”Sleep?”

”I'm down to about fourteen hours a day,” I said.

”Progress. Like an Atkins diet for depression,” she said. ”Lose a little more solitude and isolation each day. Adele, her baby, Flo, Ames, Sally.”

”And Dave and you,” I finished.

”All people you care about.”

I turned my eyes away and shook my head.

”Things happen. People happen. I've been thinking about saving some money and buying a car.”

”So you can run away again?”

”Yes.”

”But you stay and come to me.”

It wasn't a question.

”There's a lot to be said for it, but depression has its downside,” I said.

”Why do you like Mildred Pierce so much?” she asked, now working on her coffee. ”My husband and I watched it last night.”

”You like it?”

”Yes. I have seen it before. What do you like about it?”

”I don't know. What do I like about it?”

”Maybe that bad things happen to Mildred, lots of bad things, but she keeps going. She never gives up.”

”Her husband leaves her,” I said. ”One daughter dies. The other daughter betrays Mildred with her new husband, the husband who...She keeps going.”

”But you do not.”

”I do not, but maybe I have to.”

”Abrupt change of subject,” she said, wiping her hands with the paper napkin. ”During the Civil War many people in the North still had slaves. There's a new book about it.”

I nodded.

”On the other hand,” she went on, tossing the crumpled napkin into her half-full wastebasket, ”there were many Southerners, prominent Southerners, who fought and even died in the war, who did not believe in slavery and never had any slaves or freed the ones they had before the first shot was fired.”

”I didn't know that,” I said. ”You going to tell me that I'm a slave to my depression, to my refusal to give up my wife's death? That I have to take off the shackles and start to live free?”

She smiled.

”No,” she said. ”I was simply making a reference to something that came to mind, but you've done a good job of finding something personal in it.”

”Maybe I should be a shrink?”

”G.o.d, no. You think you're depressed now?”

”You're not depressed.”

”I keep busy,” she said. ”I have my moments, but I am not chronically depressed. A little occasional depression is normal.”

She shook her head and went on, ”You are beginning to depress me,” she said. ”Most of us have suffered terrible losses.”

”The Cubs have them every year,” I said.

”Your baseball cap,” she said, pointing at the cap still on my head. ”It's a hopeful sign.”

”My cap?”

”You wear it to mask your baldness,” she said. ”You have some vanity, some will to feel that others view you with approval.”

”My head burns if I don't wear it,” I said.

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