After Dempsey learned about the artist, she avoided looking at the paintings. She considered them a rebuke, their insistence on the flourishing and the beautiful. The artist had chosen to bless when he’d been given an opportunity to curse. The paintings had a charity that the artist could have resisted. But he hadn’t. In Doctor Norstar’s office Dempsey would turn away from the paintings toward the airshaft window, where she could give her full attention to the gray brick wall five feet away.
After reviewing several pages and charts in the folder, Doctor Norstar began shuffling faster. Then she started again at the beginning, again increasing her speed the deeper she got into the file. Both movers went past now, carrying a metal cabinet. Doctor Norstar put her fist on the file. “Wait here a minute,” she said. “I need another folder. I hope they didn’t take it upstairs.” She put the folder on the table next to the couch again—the coffee table had already been removed—and went down the hall into her office. Dempsey saw her name on the tab sticking out of the file, “Coates, Dempsey.” She was tempted to take the folder, open it, and try to discover what all the fuss was about. It would tell her what was happening. She could prepare herself for what Doctor Norstar was about to say. It was, after all, her file.
Did the pages hold only facts or were there impressions as well? What did Doctor Norstar really think of her? “Patient looks lousy.” “Patient intelligent but uncooperative.” The folder would tell her and then she’d know. “Ms. Coates has strong hair; Ms. Coates has hands of construction worker.” Or did it say, “Dempsey?” “Dempsey out of denial. Dempsey into anger.” Perhaps the notes began with “patient,” then moved on to “Ms. Coates” and finally to “Dempsey.” The folder would allow her not only to trace her ups and downs but also to follow the pattern of the doctor’s experience regarding her, the patient, Dempsey Coates.
Just as Dempsey had convinced herself that Doctor Norstar wouldn’t mind if she checked her own file, that the doctor had, in fact, left it there deliberately so she could sneak a look, Doctor Norstar came out with the other folder. She sat down and opened it, turned two pages, then said,“ “Now.”The word, as intended, brought Dempsey up to the present. The past was dismissed; it was of no importance except as prelude to the moment about to take place. As preface, the word emphasized the gravity of what was about to be spoken.
“Drug abuser,” Doctor Norstar said quietly, looking at the page in front of her. “Heroin, less than six months’ addiction, pregnancy, impregnator unknown, drug abuse ended within first term of pregnancy, no assistance in withdrawal, male child in sixth month, two-pounds-three-ounces, lived six hours, cause of death—”
“I know all this,” Dempsey said. “If you want to make sure I’m Dempsey Coates, I admit it. I confess. I am Dempsey Coates. I did all those things. Now can we skip to today?”
Doctor Norstar, not looking up, pulled her upper lip in between her teeth, then released it so she could bite her lower lip. That, too, was then released. “This is for my benefit, this review, not for yours. I have more than one patient, although I do my best to conceal the fact. I need to repeat to myself the patient’s history specifically, going over it step by step whenever an important change takes place. That’s why I needed the folder. Try to understand.”
“All right. I understand,” Dempsey said. “Male child dead. Cause of death: AIDS congenitally contracted from mother, from Dempsey Coates, drug abuser, needle user—See? Now you know it all. So tell me, why am I here? Whatever you have to say, I’m ready. So just say it and let’s get it over with.”
The two movers went by, carrying, not without difficulty, Doctor Norstar’s desk. The doctor’s office would be empty by now. But the second painting—the blues and greens, the peaceful lure, had not gone by. Maybe it had been removed earlier, before she’d arrived.
“Let me ask you this,” Doctor Norstar said. She paused, thought a moment, then looked at Dempsey. “Have you been getting any… alternative treatment?”
“No. None.”
“Herbs, medicines from other countries not approved yet? Acupuncture even. Or meditation? Anything?”
“I don’t even take the medicine you’ve given me—”
“Oh?”
“But never mind. Please, please go on.”
“I’ll repeat the question. Have you been trying anything else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Dempsey, please!—”
“All right, all right. No. Why? Do you think I’m back on drugs?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“You’re not receiving any substance beyond food and drink?”
“I don’t pay much attention to diet, if that’s what you want to know. Pizza, an occasional cheeseburger, a particular fondness for strawberries.”
“All right, all right.” The doctor looked down again at the folder on her lap. “AIDS diagnosis after pneumonia, history of night sweats previous to diagnosis. MAI thought to be digestive problem, thrush—”
“I’m going mad, perhaps?” Dempsey said quietly.
“Just be patient, please. I have to review your history—for my own sake. I can’t just say what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, you can. Go ahead and say it.”
“Now just stop!”
Dempsey settled back onto the couch. “Well, whenever you’re ready.”
The doctor looked directly at her. “You’re cured,” she said.
Neither moved. They continued to look directly at each other. “I couldn’t mention even the possibility until I was sure,” the doctor said. “It would have been unfair, to say the least. It would have been the worst cruelty ever inflicted on a patient—if I’d made you hope and then… At first it was the T-cells, the count too high: it couldn’t be. I knew it couldn’t be. Then the test for antibodies: It was negative. Negative. It couldn’t be negative. It can’t go from positive to negative. But it did. The virus was there, I knew it was there. I had to find it. It was hiding, but it was there—someplace. PCR—that’s why I had it done—Polymerase Chain Reaction. Amplified DNA. The virus had to be there. Somewhere. Anywhere. Urine, saliva, spinal fluid. Where was it? Where had it gone? This is not a benign virus we’re talking about. It has disguises, it has tricks. It mocks, it deceives. But it’s always there, somewhere, waiting patiently: but for you, it’s not there. Not anymore. It’s gone. You’re cured.”
The word cured, like the first time she’d heard the word AIDS, reached Dempsey’s ear from a distant place. It had not yet become the word itself. She could hear it. She could even blink her eyes. She might even nod her head, acknowledging the sound itself: cure. But it still wasn’t a word.
Again the doctor said, “You’re cured.”
Dempsey nodded her head.
“The virus, it’s gone. It’s not there. We looked everywhere. It can’t hide that effectively. We would have found it somewhere. Dead? Escaped? Who knows? We know nothing. Nothing at all. Except that all traces are gone, vanished. Even the immune system has reconstructed itself. How could that possibly be? A cure, if we ever find one, might stop the virus, but the immune system—what will happen to that, we have no idea. But yours—”
“Cured?” Dempsey said the word, trying to give it some reality. “Cured?”