"Are you going to continue to write?" "I don't know." Her exhalation was like a sigh. "Oh, I expect so. I think the urge is still there. Only it's more of a mild desire than a compulsion."
"You can't just let it slip away."
"A lot of my poetry came from the part of me that was sick, Neal. It was cathartic art." She smiled: this had been another perennial dialogue of theirs. "I don't know whether I need to do that any more."
"When you come home you'll get back into it just like before."
The page lay discarded on the bed. "I won't be coming home, Neal. I'm going away."
"Away? Where?"
The words came out like gobbets of glue. Glop. Glop.
"To my aunt on the West Coast. She's agreed to put me up for a couple of months. I need a change and a rest."
"But you'll be back?"
"I don't know. I haven't decided."
"You have to come back. We have to pick it up."
Something that might have been pity crossed her face. "I'm sorry, Neal. There isn't going to be any going back."
"What do you mean? Why not?"
"Since the operation I see things in a different light. You must realize that. I couldn't go back to living with you."
"Why not?" he repeated. Frantic.
"The good times we had were really good, and I'll always remember you with affection for them. But the bad times were equally bad, and I couldn't go through it all again."
"But it'll be different now you've had the operation."
"No, Neal."
He waited, but the silence was too much. "What is it?"
"I just don't feel the same way about you any more."
The anxiety and sense of hopelessness which had been mounting in him ever since he had sat down at the bedside suddenly gave way to a rush of anger.
"You mean you don't need me any more," he said with venom. "You don't need me to play your neurotic games with. You don't need me as your crutch, to come running whenever you scream for help."
"Neal, there's no need for this."
"You've used me all along and now you're dropping me like a toy."
"It's not like that."
"You always were a bitch, Claire. A bloody selfish bitch."
She did not start throwing things. Instead, she was staring at him quite calmly.
"I wasn't all my fault," she said quietly. "You've always had a vicious tongue and a violent temper. That why I used to get so distraught."
"You were over-sensitive."
"Perhaps. But you were too thick-skinned. You would never admit that our quarrels were as much your fault as mine. They were, Neal. When the doctors were analysing my psychoprofile they discovered a lot about you by default. Our relationship was a classic neurotic bind."
"Are you trying to tell me that I'm as sick as you?" He could not bring himself to add the "were" which he knew the end of the sentence demanded.
"I'm saying that we fed off one another's bad habits. Whereas I inflicted pain on myself, you inflicted it on others. Me, mostly. Your psychoprofile shows definite aberrant traits."
"Aberrant? You really have become one of the faceless masses, haven't you? The Claire I knew rejoiced in her individuality, but now you're just a mouthpiece for the mind-benders."
"The Claire you knew showed manic-depressive tendencies and was barely able to cope with life. That's what all our conversations were ultimately about, Neal--the quality of life. We talked the subject to death, but we were really trying to rationalize our own insecurity. I've found a solution now."
A sudden weariness came over him, a weariness composed of defeat and resignation. He no longer wanted to argue.
He stood up, his legs a little wobbly. "You're right, Claire, there really would be no point in attempting to pick up the pieces. I don't know you.
They killed off the person I knew two days ago."
She wore an expression of implacable calmness. "I asked Malcolm if he'd look after you for a while. Until things calm down a little." "I don't need your charity," he said, and strode out of the room.
Malcolm fussed around him, showing concern and not a little embarrassment. He had obviously been aware of the likely outcome of his meeting with Claire but was nevertheless uncertain how to react. The doctor, lingering close by, kept his distance. Malcolm led Neal over to the bench and sat him down.
"I'm all right," he said, though he felt like hell. "It's just the shock of seeing her so ... so bloody pompous. It was like meeting a stranger."
"No," Malcolm said gently. "You recognized enough in her to realize that you still love her."
His thoughts came into focus. Well, did he? What, really, was the essence of his attraction for her? Was he in love with her personality? Her body? Her mind? All three? Why had he been so afraid of her having the operation? Because he recognized the possibility that it would change her feelings towards him? Were all his objections merely a cover for the fear that he might lose her admiration and affection, as, indeed, he had done? Was love, then, simply the need to be loved?
"Claire's worried about you," Malcolm said. "She doesn't want you to do anything foolish. She still cares a lot about you."
"But not enough."
"I don't know. Perhaps she's just afraid of repeating the same mistakes.
There could be a way out."
He already knew. "If I undergo psychosurgery." "You might get her back that way," Malcolm said. "I want to stress, though, that I'm completely neutral in this matter. The decision is entirely up to you."
"It really need only be minor modifications to your existing mental structure, you know."
The doctor was standing over him, smiling pleasantly, holding out a yellow form.
Neal took it from him and read it through. It was a provisional consent form subject to further tests, but it had been printed out in his name, and most of the relevant details of his personality profile and the recommended modifications had been made. Aggression tempering. Reduction in obsessive-compulsive thought patterns and behaviour. World-view more strongly based on facts rather than prejudices.
The assessment had been based on tests he'd had as an adolescent and on the additional information on his adult behaviour from public records and Claire's psychoprofile. He was surprised at the comprehensiveness and the bland sinister accuracy of much of it.
Malcolm's face was unreadable. Had Claire set it up? Was she offering this last, surreptitious chance to repair their relationship? Perhaps she had felt unable to make the suggestion directly and saw Malcolm as the perfect intermediary. Which, if it was true, meant that she did still care for him.
He looked up at the doctor.
"Would you like a pen?" the doctor asked.
(c) Christopher Evans 1980, 1997
This story first appeared in Extro No 3 Vol 2, 1980. This version slightly revised from the original.