“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.
Who Are You?
New York City
December 19, 1974
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.”