Teaching the Dog to Read by Jonathan Carroll Page B

then mentally chose which of her professional personas to present—firm but pleasant with a soupcon of professional know-it-all arrogance thrown in. “I’m Doctor Mukherjee,” she said in an assertive voice while looking at the clipboard she carried, as if searching for some detail there. “And you are?”
    “Lena Schabort. I’m his fiancée.”
    “I see.” The doctor slid a pair of thick blue eyeglasses out of her left breast pocket and put them on. Taking the chart off the hook at the foot of the patient’s bed, she examined the information there while carefully keeping her face blank. Then she looked at the numbers on the machine next to the bed and wrote several things on the chart. After a while it was only pretense because she was really only waiting for Lena to bombard her with questions which was what loved ones of the critically ill almost always did. Was there hope? Would they survive? Could anything more be done? Can they hear us? Do they know we’re here? Dr. Rani Mukherjee had heard all these questions so many times over the years in voices that ranged from the petrified to the outraged. As a result she had developed a litany of automatic, highly technical responses that in most cases calmed but did not specifically encourage the questioners. She did not believe in creating false hope.
    From the information on this man’s chart, things did not look good for him and she was prepared to say exactly that if his fiancée wanted to know the truth. If the woman asked if he would recover, the doctor would say something along the lines of it’s too soon to tell—What’s happened to him is extremely serious and though he’s stable for now, there’s little else we can do until—
    “Doctor?”
    Here it comes.
    “Yes?”
    “Are you her?”
    Certainly not expecting this , the doctor paused and frowned. “Excuse me?”
    “Are you her?”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
    Instead of clarifying the question, Lena held up her latest drawing of Tony. Doctor Mukherjee looked at it, saw it was done with great skill and was obviously of the patient, but beyond that she had no idea what this woman was talking about. Was she acting this oddly out of grief? Or perhaps she had gone quietly mad because of her fiancée’s dire condition. Or maybe was she a plain old weirdo.
    To the doctor’s growing dismay, Lena repeated the gnomic question and added another “Are you her? Is this drawing enough?”
    On new unsure ground now the doctor asked carefully “Would you like something to calm you down? We can arrange for—”
    Lena said no and put the drawing back in her lap. “I’m fine. I thought you were someone else. Sorry if I confused you.”
    “You’re sure you wouldn’t like something—”
    “No Doctor, really—I’m good.”
    “Do you have any questions?”
    “No.”
    “ None ? No concerns about—”
    Lena looked disinterested, as if the conversation was already over and she was being nice answering the question. “Nope, I’m fine. I’ll sit here and keep him company.”
    Now it was the doctor who spoke uncertainly “All right. But if you do want anything, the nurse’s station is down the hall.”
    “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
    Dr. Mukherjee was glad to get out of there but on her way down the hall she stopped one of the duty nurses and told her to keep an eye on the woman in 17 because she might be a little… off . The nurse said she would and the doctor continued on her rounds.
     

     
    Two hours later Lena went down to the snack bar in the hospital lobby for an egg salad sandwich and bottle of mineral water. Opening the door to Tony’s room again with food in hand, she was jolted to see a heavyset man sitting in her chair by the side of the bed. His large head was covered with the transparent reddish fuzz of a short crew cut, small ears, big mouth and wide nose… On first glance he reminded her of a professional wrestler or night club bouncer. Thick hands folded