Welcome to the World, Baby Girl! (21 page)

“No.”

“I see. He tends to be short on small talk.” She pushed a plate of candy toward her.

“Yes, I know,” Dena said. “No, thank you.”

“Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you feel about my being black?”

Dena, who could lie like a dog, was caught off guard. “I’m surprised, that’s all. You didn’t sound black on the phone.” Dena realized that was the wrong thing to say but it was too late. “How do I feel about it? I couldn’t care less. I’m the one who should be worried. I’m the patient … does it bother you that I’m white? If so, tell me and I’ll be happy to leave.”

Dr. Diggers was opening the ever-present notepad and did not answer.

“Look,” Dena said, “if this is some sort of test, I don’t care what color you are but you might as well know I don’t want to be here. But I promised my doctor I would—so here I am.”

“I see.”

“I just want to start off being honest.”

“It’s a good start,” Diggers said. “And by the way, it was not a test but you passed.”

“If it did bother people that you were black, would they tell you?”

“No, not really, but I can get a pretty good idea if it is a problem by the way they answer.”

“So it is a test!”

Dr. Diggers laughed. “Yes, I guess you’re right; it is a test of sorts. Have a seat.”

“Is the candy a test, too?”

“Ah, now you’ve caught me again.”

Dena finally sat down.

“I have a few notes from Gerry but if you don’t mind, I’d like to find out some basic information. And by the way, I have seen you on television and I think you do a wonderful job.”

Dena liked that. “Oh, thank you.”

“Now, Gerry mentioned you seem to be having some biological effects from stress.”

“What?”

“Stomach problems.”

“Oh, yes. But I tried to tell him it’s from my job. But I don’t think he gets it. He doesn’t know what television is.”

“I see. And Dr. Halling is your physician?”

Dena nodded and looked across the room. It was a nice room with light beige carpeting and windows that went all the way across the front. She was glad to see a wall filled with diploma after diploma.

“How long have you had physical problems?”

“With my stomach?”

“Yes, or any other.”

“Oh, a long time. Since I was about maybe fifteen or sixteen. You’re not going to hypnotize me, are you?”

“Not today.”

“Oh, well, I’m a little nervous about it, that’s all.”

“Now, Miss Nordstrom, tell me a little bit about your history.”

“Well, I started in local television in Dallas when—”

Dr. Diggers stopped her. “No, I mean your family history.”

“What?”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “My father was killed in the war … and my mother’s dead.”

“How old were you when your mother died?”

“Ah, fourteen or fifteen, I think; it’s hard to remember.”

“Hard to remember her death or how old you were?”

“Both. She was sick for a long time and I was in boarding school.”

“I see … and what was it?”

“Sacred Heart Academy; it was a Catholic boarding school.”

“No, what was her illness?”

“Oh. Tuberculosis.”

“I see.” Suddenly Dr. Diggers remembered something from Gerry’s notes. “Wasn’t somebody in your family hit by a car?”

“Yes, she was, on her way to the hospital for treatment. She got hit by a car. Actually, a car hit her bus. Anyhow, the reason I’m here is I am having terrible trouble sleeping. I wondered if maybe—”

“Do you have living relatives?”

“One or two distant relatives. On my father’s side. A distant cousin and an aunt, I think—but I don’t see them much.”

“On your mother’s side?”

Dena leaned over to look at her pad. “Are you writing this down so if I go completely insane you can call them?”

Dr. Diggers laughed. “No, just making a few notes for myself. And on your mother’s side?”

“No.”

She looked up. “No?”

“No. All dead.”

“I see.” The doctor made a note:
patient agitated, kicking foot.

Later that evening, when Elizabeth Diggers had finished her dinner and had put the dishes in the sink for the housekeeper in the morning, the phone rang. She wheeled over to the wall phone. “I wondered how long it would be before you called.”

“Well, did you see my girl today?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well?”

There was a pause. “Mercy, son, you are either the bravest man I ever knew or the dumbest.”

He chuckled.

“Are you sure you want to take all that on?”

“No, but I don’t have much of a choice. I am absolutely so crazy about that woman that I can’t see straight.”

“I’ll do my best to help her, Gerry, you know that, but at this point I’m not even sure if she will come back.”

“Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”

“Yes, she is a good-looking woman but—”

“And smart.”

“Oh, yes, and smart. Next thing you’ll be asking is what she wore.”

“What did she have on?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh, you do, too. You just enjoy torturing me. But, really, isn’t she just a classic natural beauty?”

“Yes, Gerry, she puts the moon and the stars to shame. Does this girl have any idea how you feel?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. And now is certainly not the time to tell her. She has enough problems, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely. You’ve got it bad and that ain’t good. I think you need to put some distance between you two and see how you feel down the line.”

“I can tell you right now, Elizabeth, I’m not going to change. It’s just a matter of giving her some time. So, I’ll only ask one more thing and then I promise—from now on I’m out of the picture, OK? What do you think—was I off on my evaluation?”

“Not much; I think you pretty much pegged it. Shut down. Definitely symptoms of some sort of severe rejection trauma.”

“Yeah. It could be around her mother’s death; she wouldn’t let me get near that. But it’s in your hands now.”

“Well, OK, buddy. Now that you’ve passed the torch on to me, and I do mean that in the real sense, I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks.”

“But in the meantime—it could be a long meantime—I suggest you see other people.”

“Oh, really? So, what are you doing this Saturday night?”

“What I always do, boogie till I drop.”

He laughed.

“Good night, Romeo.”

She had tried to keep it professional but after she hung up, she let her heart go out to him. She knew that being in love all by yourself was the loneliest, most painful experience known to man—or woman—and there was nothing she could do to help him.

Dr. Diggers was somewhat surprised when Dena showed up for her second appointment. She strolled in five minutes late and flopped down in a chair.

Dr. Diggers smiled at her. “Back for me to have another crack at you?”

“Yes,” Dena said, with little enthusiasm.

“Then I will proceed with the torture.”

“You might as well. What are we supposed to talk about today?”

“Well, I would like to continue to try and get to know you a little better, find out at least about your background. Where are you from?”

“Where are you from?” Dena asked.

“Chicago. And you?”

“Me? I’m not from any place in particular.”

“Strange. That’s not my experience.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has been my experience that everybody has to be from some place.”

“I was born in San Francisco, but we moved around a lot.”

“What is your heritage?”

“My what?”

“Your heritage. Where do you come from … your roots?”

“My roots? Like the book. You mean my ancestors?”

“Yes, what was their nationality?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My father was Swedish … or Norwegian or something like that.”

“And your mother?”

“Just plain old American, I guess; she never said. Her maiden name was Chapman so I guess she’s what?—English? I don’t know.”

Dr. Diggers was always astonished at how so few people cared about their heritage. “Aren’t you curious to find out more?”

“Not really. I’m an American; that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Well, then. How would you describe yourself … other than as an American?”

“What?”

“How would you describe yourself?”

Dena was puzzled. “I’m a person on television.”

“No, you personally. In other words, if your job ended tomorrow, who would you be?”

“I don’t know … I would still be me. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“OK, let’s play a little game. I want you to give me three answers to this question. Who are you?”

“I’m Dena Nordstrom, I’m blond … and …” She was having a hard time. “And I’m five foot seven. Is this another test?”

“No, it just helps give me a little better idea of your self-image. It gives me an idea about what we have to work on.”

“And did I pass or fail? I’d like to know.”

Dr. Diggers put down her pen. “It’s not a question of that. But think about how you answered. All three answers describe your image.”

“What was I supposed to say? What else is there?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything specifically. Some people say, I’m a wife, I’m a mother, I’m a daughter. In all three answers you did not connect yourself with a personal relationship—and that usually indicates you may have an identity problem. And some of our work here will be to find out why. See what I mean?”

Dena felt alarmed. Identity problem?

“It is just something to think about down the line. Right now let’s talk about your immediate problems. You say you’re not sleeping well.”

“No, I’m not. But let’s go back to the other thing. Again, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but that test or whatever it was is dead wrong. I know exactly who I am. I always knew exactly what I wanted and what I wanted to be. I already told Dr. O’Malley that once.”

“As I said, it’s not a test,” Diggers said. “It’s just a question.”

That night, when Dr. Diggers was going over her notes, she remembered the first time she had been asked, Who are you? Her answers had come immediately and without difficulty. I’m female, I’m black, I’m crippled. She wondered, after all these years if, asked again, her answers would still be the same and in that order. Dr. Diggers turned out the lights in her office and rolled down the long hall to her kitchen, where her dinner was waiting.

That night Dena picked up the phone and called her friend.

“Sookie, it’s Dena.”

“Well, hey! How are you?”

“Are you busy?”

“Nooo. I wasn’t doing a thing except flipping through my
Southern Living Cookbook
trying to figure out what in the world I can serve two hundred people. I could just put Earle Poole in a paper sack and throw him in the river. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing; why are you mad at Earle?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Every year, around Christmas, I have a little holiday luncheon for all my close girlfriends around here. Just us, nothing big … just fifteen or sixteen of us. So I handed the invitations to Earle and told him to have Melba down at the office Xerox them and send them out
and she sent it to everybody on our Christmas card list, including all of Earle’s patients. So Lord knows how many people will be showing up here next week.”