DESMOND Chapter One
By Greg McCann
Chapter One
1958
It's another morning.
Wendy Roberts is wide awake in the morning glow. She lies on her back staring at the ceiling, her eyes unblinking before the early light that streams in through the partially opened blinds of the Master Bedroom. Dust motes rise and tumble against the beams of light that cascade above Wendy's wide awake, staring face. Wide awake and waiting…. Forgotten dreams, that old world of sleep, forgotten... Waiting to think. Waiting and afraid, dreading the first thoughts, but not really thinking, not just yet.
She has gotten better at this – making her mind blank, just staring upwards, her blond hair spilling out onto the pillow beneath her as she lays flat on her back, hands gripping the covers pulled up to her neck. She can stay this way for several minutes, watching the room slowly brighten into the day. Clinging to the non thought of the blank memory lost era from which she has emerged, she floats within a vacuum point that turns ever deeper, inside and inside. But then, an eventual single word has to emerge, as always, from within these inner thoughtless depths, and now it begins to echo, over and over, rising to a peak that sustains and stretches across the landscape of her mind, and then, slowly, gradually the word begins to recede away. Wendy has to let this word fade, lying here like this, she has to wait for the echoes to recede and for the word to stop saying what it says, over and over. And eventually it does, drying up like a water stain in the sun, and now she can begin to think clearly for the rest of the day.
Now Wendy is able to rise to her elbows and look over to her husband, laying in the bed next to her. Desmond remains asleep, a breathing lump curled up beneath the covers. As Wendy regards Desmond she feels that familiar anxiety tightening in her chest, nothing like how'd she feel if she hadn't lain awake and stared at the ceiling for fifteen minutes, but there just the same. She frowns against the feeling, pushes it down. Then she rises from the bed, takes a deep breath, and wills her expression into a bright smile.
"Good Morning Desmond! Rise and shine!"
Wendy walks smartly around the base of the bed. Desmond begins to stir beneath the covers. She lowers her voice ever so slightly, having learned from experience the push and pull of these morning exercises with Desmond.
"C'mon Honey. Time to get up!"
Desmond snuffles and pulls the covers down from his face. He blinks dazedly and lifts his head, hair plastered against his pillow wrinkled cheek.
Desmond looks around himself with the wide, lazy eyed expression of someone whose mind has ceased to function in the manner of an ordinary adult. His mouth widens into a blank and drooling smile as he sort of looks over at his wife.
Wendy pulls a wheelchair out from the corner and wheels it over to the bed. She can feel herself settling into the routine and realizes that this is becoming normal to her, now. This is their life together.
"How are you this morning, dear?" Wendy says, undoing the straps of Desmond's wheelchair. Desmond looks around the room, his smile fixed. Predictably, he remains laying on his side.
Wendy straightens up, with her hands on her hips. "Okay Honey. It's time to get out of bed now…"
Desmond remains unmoving, except for his eyes that roam around the room like loose billiard balls. Wendy sighs and reaches forward, hooking Desmond’s arm and lifting him gently up into a sitting position.
Wendy’s hand sinks into the flesh of Desmond’s arm. Beneath his pyjamas Desmond is all soft and round like a marshmallow. Wendy stands up and looks down at her husband, and a shadow of a stray memory crosses her mind. Then she reaches forward and continues to coax Desmond into his chair.
Being across the house, the Robert's kitchen is relatively less bright than the bedroom that overlooks the backyard. Plus their neighbour's tall fence directly outside their window has obscured the light even further, so that Wendy has to turn on the kitchen light as she and Desmond have their breakfast.
Wendy looks through the window at the fence and shakes her head. The things people do when they know they can get away with it. She remembers the old couple that used to live there, with their garden of flowers that she could smell in the morning through the open windows in spring. But, then they'd moved away, and now… She doesn't even know these new people, can't even remember their names at the moment, or when she had even met them. The fence people.
For not the first time, Wendy reflects on how distant all of the neighbours have grown from herself and Desmond. There was a time when they all knew each other, spent time together as friends. But then most of the neighbourhood has changed in the past few years, people moving away, new people moving in. It seems only the Thomas's across the street are still around. Of all the people.
Wendy turns her attention back to Desmond. He sits before his bowl of cereal, which remains untouched. Wendy leans forward and picks up Desmond's spoon, begins to coax the cereal into his mouth.
"So Jimmy called…" Wendy chimes as she lifts another spoonful of soggy bran to Desmond's face, "He says the third edition of "Million Eyes" is selling out!"
Wendy reaches forward and dabs some milk from the corner of Desmond’s lips. Desmond chews his cereal with numbing slowness.
Wendy smiles. "Seems you're still the breadwinner around here…"
The bathroom has it's own sort of booming silence, which Wendy tries to cover up with more one sided conversation. She talks and scrubs Desmond’s back with a sponge as he sits in the bathtub, surrounded by warm water and bubbles.
"Later today we can go out back and look at the geraniums; they’re in full bloom... And we can watch the sundial for a while…"
Desmond seems to brighten a little at the mention of this. Wendy stops scrubbing and looks at him for a moment.
"Desmond? Do you remember the sundial?"
She stares intently at her husband in the bath. There is the sound of water dripping, bubbles echoing beneath the surface. Desmond’s eyes drift around, sometimes looking at Wendy, sometimes not.
"The sundial that you made for me?"
The brightness in Desmond’s eyes diminishes. He looks down at the water. Wendy slowly lifts the sponge over Desmond’s head and squeezes, sending soapy water over his hair and down across his face, soaking his unblinking eyes.
Wendy has lifted the blinds of the master bedroom, and the sun shines freely in the room as she pulls Desmond from his wheelchair onto the bed. He starts to fall onto his side but she reaches out a practised hand to steady him. Like a lot of the time, she is in Auto Mode, relying on muscle memory to get her through her tasks. In a way she is like Desmond, a lot of the time…
Wendy lifts Desmond’s arms straight up. She then pulls Desmond’s pyjama top off of his upraised arms.
Wendy pulls Desmond’s pyjama bottoms off. She then reaches for the clothes that are laid out next to him on the bed.
Wendy buttons up Desmond’s shirt for him.
Wendy puts Desmond’s pants on. He flops around sideways on the bed as she pulls the pants up to his waist.
Wendy lifts Desmond back into his wheelchair. She then sits down on the bed, still in her nightgown.
Soon after, Desmond sits staring blankly in his chair while over his shoulder the door to the bathroom sits open. Steam rises in the bathroom as Wendy takes her shower.
Wendy dresses herself. She stands before the bedroom mirror and fixes her hair, then does her makeup, taking her time now that she has completed most of the morning chores. She smiles into the mirror at Desmond who sits behind her in his wheelchair.
Wendy puts Desmond’s shoes on and ties them for him.
And now Wendy is pushing Desmond’s wheelchair through the hallway towards the front door. The floorboards creak beneath Desmond's wheels. Point in fact, most of the house is hardwood floors now. As well as making it easier for Desmond's wheelchair to be pushed, it is also much easier to clean than carpets would be, especially with the likelihood of spills these days. Much more efficient. In spite of this, Wendy misses her carpets, misses the comfort and sense of home that they conveyed to her. And they absorbed the sound – now everything echoes. Now the house feels cold and empty, like an abandoned cathedral .
On the walls of the hallway are several framed photographs, pictures of family and friends. Wendy features in several of the pictures. And in many of the pictures there is a man- a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and a calm reassuring manner about him. In some pictures he can be seen standing amongst a group of professionals, academics... He is shaking the hands of major politicians and businessmen at important functions. And in many photographs he is with Wendy, as a couple, basking in each other’s arms.
Wendy ignores the pictures as they pass by. The man in these photographs bears no resemblance to the round, soft, drooling simpleton that Wendy pushes slowly towards the front door. She marches steadily past the pictures, her eyes set resolutely forward. It's time to go out and meet the world.
It's a Saturday morning in this quaint, upscale community. Neighbours greet each other on the sidewalks as cars pass by on the roadway. The men wear chinos and Gaberdine shirts, and all of the women wear dresses and have their hair piled high. Children play in the front yards of the prosperous homes that dot the street, and giant Oaks stretch up and over like giant patriarchal hands protecting everyone from the sky above.
Several heads turn at the approach of a single car - a large silver Buick.
Wendy drives the Buick past the neighbours, ignoring their looks, keeping her face locked onto the road. Desmond is strapped to the passenger seat beside her. He looks around at the street and the people with an expression of quiet wonderment.
As the Buick passes by a young woman watches the car intently. Wendy recognizes her out of the corner of her eye - it's Caroline Thomas, their neighbour from directly across the street - but Wendy makes no move to acknowledge Caroline, just keeps her eyes on her driving. Caroline is a tall statuesque brunette dressed in high heels and a tight black skirt and suit jacket. Beside Caroline is her husband Mitch. Mitch is even taller than his wife - broad shoulders, a jaw of granite and a greying crewcut.
The couple stares into the car directly at Desmond - Caroline gazing absently, Mitch glaring with barely concealed contempt.
Desmond looks straight back and waves a floppy hand at Caroline. Caroline snaps her eyes suddenly away and struggles to regain her composure. Mitch’s glare softens into grudging pity.
Wendy drives on and smiles over at her husband.
"Still the ladies' man, I see…"
Desmond grins, head rolling aimlessly on his shoulders.
Wendy can't stand this office. It's only her second time visiting, and maybe she isn't being fair, but there it is. She hates this place.
She sits upright on the couch with her hands clutching her purse over her knees, which are pressed tightly together. Her shoulders hunch as she gazes at the floor. Hardwood floors.
After a moment she can no longer help herself - Wendy's eyes begin to cast about the room. Only her second time here, but nothing at all new to look at. Its just a typical office, rosewood and teak panelling, leather furniture, plaques on the wall… A big oak desk. And sitting behind the big oak desk is Doctor Alan, scribbling a few final notes on his big old leather desk blotter, making Wendy wait.
Alan is a bespectacled and bald man in his mid thirties. He wears a dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, no tie. A modern man. Progressive, some would say.
She wonders to herself if the good doctor is a queer. Oh sure, he keeps a picture of his wife and kids on his desk, but still... Something about his trim efficiency, his fastidiousness, seemed almost womanly to Wendy. He seems downright matriarchal, like one of the nuns at the boarding school she'd attended as a young girl. She starts to smile at the thought of Doctor Alan wearing a nun's habit, but then feels guilty from this, which then makes her think of Desmond.
Wendy looks over her shoulder towards the office door. Alan casts a knowing eye her way.
"You don’t need to worry."
Wendy looks sharply back at Alan.
"I do worry. I always worry when I’m not near him."
Alan finishes his notes and rises from his desk. He saunters casually over to the plush chair facing the couch. Wendy looks back down at the floor.
"He’ll be fine with Marie in the reception area." Alan says, "She has experience dealing with-"
Wendy’s eyes snap up suddenly.
"Dealing with what, Doctor?"
Alan stands next to the chair, tapping a finger against it's top, thinking. "Dealing with... special needs."
Wendy snorts derisively and leans back. She lifts her purse from her lap and sets it on the couch next to her.
"“Special Needs”! You should trademark that phrase, Doc. You’ll probably make a lot of money off of it."
Alan smiles and settles into his chair. He crosses his legs and sets his notebook on his knee. Wendy reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She pops a cigarette and settles back, crossing her own legs as well. She gazes at Alan expectantly. He looks back at her impassively.
"Well, Doctor?" Wendy coaxes, "Aren’t you going to offer a lady a light?"
"You know how I feel about smoking. And I don’t know what you expect to use as an ashtray."
Wendy eyes a potted plant standing at the end of the couch. She reaches into her purse and comes up with a pack of matches, then slides down to the edge of the couch and lights up. Alan's eyes track Wendy as she moves slightly out of his line of sight.
Wendy shakes the match out and drops it into the pot. "It’s not like I can smoke around him, not with what the Hospital people are telling me about his health…"
She takes a deep drag and closes her eyes. Alan waits patiently for Wendy to settle herself.
Wendy looks up from her cigarette.
"Well, Doctor?"
Alan maintains an impassive expression. "I don’t suppose you’re ready to call me by my name, Wendy?"
Wendy chuckles and flicks an ash into the planter. "You are a Doctor, aren’t you?" She leans back and motions with the cigarette across the room. "Got all these diplomas on the wall…"
Alan shifts in his chair and flips open his notebook.
"Alright then. So where would you like to start?"
Wendy stares back at Alan, her expression blank.
Now it's Alan's turn to coax. "You could start at the beginning if you like…"
"No." Wendy takes a deep breath. "I'll start with the experiment. After I found him. After it all went wrong."
https://www.minds.com/blog/view/646456526206148613
Written by Greg McCann. ©Greg McCann.