"I can't believe he did that," said Mrs. Jensen, shaking her head in disbelief.
"That young man sounds absolutely dreadful," gasped Mrs. Sweeney, taking a sip of her vintage sauvignon wine.
"And you say he has cold eyes? I hear only crazy, evil men have those," Mrs. Jensen hissed.
Mrs. Chesterton nodded. She enjoyed the support she found in her friends as she told them how truly awful Dr. Jonathan Crane was to her and how she would never ever return to him ever again. They were dining at her favorite restaurant, La Clariate, and were finishing off a delicious, prolonged luncheon of roasted quail in fresh rosemary with spring potatoes and buttered asparagus.
"Honestly, I don't know what possessed you to visit him to begin with, Genevieve," sighed Mrs. Jensen. "He does have a dubious reputation you know."
"Dubious, yes, but he did cure that one woman, who was it?" Mrs. Sweeney looked up at the ceiling, searching her memory. "It was good ol' Judith Mariwell of the Shalley Family. You remember."
"Oh, that's right," Mrs. Jensen gasped, with a smile. "He did manage to cure her. Waiter, more wine. Thank yooou!"
"What? He did?" Now Mrs. Chesterton really was curious. Judith Mariwell was something of a legend she only heard bits and pieces of now and then.
The waiter brought another round of wine and the dessert menu. The women suddenly were more interested in the double chocolate torte than in discussing old Judith.
"Tell me about Judith," Mrs. Chesterton insisted.
"Oh," Mrs. Sweeney said, peeking up from behind the menu. "Well, you know she was terrified of even stepping outside her door."
"Couldn't even drag her outside for anything, if I recall," Mrs. Jensen continued. "And the more they let her be the more terrified she became until she couldn't stand to look outdoors. She closed all the windows."
"She was a strange bird, that old Judith," interjected Mrs. Sweeney. "Genevieve, you really should get a dessert. I think it would make you feel better."
"I told you, I don't feel like dessert," Mrs. Chesterton snapped. "Now tell me, what happened to Judith."
"Well, then the Shalleys heard of this new upcoming young doctor," continued Mrs. Sweeney. "They were shocked when they saw him – he looked like a boy
"He still looks like a boy," said Mrs. Chesterton.
"A creepy boy, from what I hear," Mrs. Sweeney snickered. "Anyhow, even though he was young and weak looking he would take none of her sass, from what I heard."
"The Shalleys gave him carte blanche, anything to cure her of her fear – and he took it," said Mrs. Jensen.
"I heard he'd chloroform her in her sleep then when she woke up she'd be outside, tied to a chair," Mrs. Sweeney giggled. "Oh, the racket and the fuss she'd make!"
"But he'd refuse to take her back inside, not until she got used to being outdoors. Gradually she learned to enjoy being outside," said Mrs. Jensen.
"And – and is she cured," Mrs. Chesterton asked.
Mrs. Jensen shrugged, taking another sip of wine.
"From what I heard she takes walks every afternoon, as happy as a bird," Mrs. Jensen replied.
"But you know a creepy doctor is a creepy doctor as they say," said Mrs. Sweeney. "I say get as far away from him as possible. Yes, double chocolate torte with extra whipped cream. Don't skimp on it now."
The waiter took down the order for the desserts. He looked to Mrs. Chesterton who shook her head.
"Now I know she really is ill, she loooves the torte," said Mrs. Jensen. "Make it two."
"I told you I'm not hungry," snapped Mrs. Chesterton. "Sorry. I just want these panic attacks to go away."
"Well, dear. I recommend someone new if you don't like said creepy doctor." Mrs. Jensen retrieved from her Italian leather purse a doctor's card. "He's highly recommended."
Mrs. Chesterton took the card and looked at the title. Yet another "head doctor." Unlike Dr. Jonathan Crane, he met all Mrs. Chesterton's expectations when she came to call. There were no weird patients, no odd darkened rooms, no cold staring and no feelings of unease. His name was Dr. Henry Worthing, a man in his mid-50s who had been practicing psychology for almost 20 years and had a solid reputation, especially among the elite.
His office was in upscale Gotham City and none of the low-lives Mrs. Chesterton saw frequenting Dr. Crane's office came to call. And unlike many of Dr. Crane's sessions, Mrs. Chesterton was prompted to do most of the talking while Dr. Worthing did most – well all – of the listening. He asked almost no questions while Dr. Crane asked many (and often unsettling) questions. It would seem Dr. Worthing would be the perfect match and Dr. Crane would be an unpleasant experience long forgotten except for one thing – the panic attacks were getting more frequent, especially when she was alone in her own apartment at night.
As Mrs. Chesterton was suffering one such panic attack, in a twisted bout of logic, at least one thing she could give to Crane, he did have a personal touch – Dr. Worthing never made house calls. Mrs. Chesterton shoved aside her latest romance novel, "The Temptations of Tully Templeton," and desperately grasped her purse, frantically searching for the medication Dr. Crane gave her. It was sedative far stronger than Dr. Westmeyer ever would dare prescribe to her and she quickly popped one of the pills into her mouth.
Just a few minutes after she swallowed she felt her heart rate drop, but still felt an unnatural terror as she gazed around the darkened room, at the ornate ticking clock with ivory hands and at the gilded wallpaper. Odd shadows seemed to twist and move into hideous shapes in her peripheral vision and she began to curl up around a velvet cushion. She couldn't call on one of her friends. They were safe at home with their husbands and families. They couldn't be bothered and she was all alone.
Suddenly Mrs. Chesterton did something she thought she would never ever do. She began to rummage through her overstuffed purse, looking for Dr. Crane's card, hoping she didn't toss it in the trash when she received Dr. Worthing's card. Finally she found it, at the bottom her purse, next to the stale breath mints, rattling dimes and an unfamiliar key. She picked up the phone and called. Absently she gazed at the ornate ticking clock. Its ivory hands ticked to 1:30 a.m. The phone range once, twice, three times … then she heard that familiar voice:
"This is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm not in right now –"
She was almost relieved it was a recording; it would be too bizarre to have him answer her in the dead of night from his office, yet she half hoped he would be there waiting there, to care for her when she needed him the most. She was almost – disappointed. The recording beep sounded.
"Dr. Crane, I – I know it's been over a month since my last session. I have not been doing well. I'd like to see you again soon. I –"
Mrs. Chesterton suddenly didn't know what came over her. Her lip began to tremble as she was flooded with a painful mixture of fear and sorrow.
"I – I'm just so alone! I'm so afraid and so alone!"
She slammed the phone down before she started bawling into the receiver. She reached for a second sedative pill and swallowed it, hoping it would knock her out and drown out her misery for just short while. It did not disappoint her.
Bring! Bring!
Mrs. Chesterton opened her bleary eyes, her vision swimming.
Bring! Bring!
Mrs. Chesterton couldn't ever recall the doorbell being so loud or so obnoxious. She was tempted to just roll over and fall back to sleep on the couch, then one word crept into her hazy mind.
Crane.
With a labored grunt, she groggily pushed herself off the sofa and tried to steady her wobbly legs enough to make it to the door. If she had known the medication was this powerful, she wouldn't have dared take two. It took every effort of concentration to put one foot in front of the other and not fall on the carpet. When she finally reached the door and opened it, her vision was beginning to spin and the floor felt like it was tipping beneath her. As her legs failed her, two strong hands firmly caught her and she was gazing into those familiar, cool blue eyes.
"Mrs. Chesterton – you took those pills didn't you?"
"Y-yes, doctor. I – I took two."
"That's not good. Not good at all," Dr. Crane said matter-of-factly. "If I had known I would have come sooner."
In one swift motion Dr. Crane lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the couch. Even in her hazy mind she was somewhat surprised that a man who seemed to look so young and weak would be strong enough to pick up a woman such as herself (who certainly wasn't all that light) so easily. Gently he laid her on the couch and was about to turn away, but Mrs. Chesterton suddenly was so overjoyed with some company again that she reached up and wrapped her arms tightly around him sobbing gratefully.
Dr. Crane stiffened as though suddenly stunned. He had not been expecting her to do that and had grown accustomed to not being lovingly touched by anyone. For a brief moment a rush of memories and emotions came flooding back – to the last time he had been embraced. How loved he had felt then and a terrible ache was growing in his heart now that it was gone forever.
This is a patient, Dr. Crane and not just any patient – Patient C. in a very promising study. Remember that!
Dr. Crane quickly slipped out of her grasp.
"I'm glad you are happy to see me, Mrs. Chesterton, but I must keep my professional distance if I am to help you."
"Oh, yes. Oh, I'm sorry. Of course doctor."
Dr. Crane turned to his briefcase and snapped it open. He had been planning this for over a month. Scarecrow had promised his patient would return to him and so she had. But she was so highly medicated she would be no good in such a state. Dr. Crane gazed at Mrs. Chesterton on the couch. She was in her nightgown, her hair a mess and her makeup was smeared (she wore makeup to bed? – interesting) on her puffy face.
She's pathetic, not worthy of her life, her wealth, anything, hissed Scarecrow.
No, let me try something first, thought Dr. Crane. There is still promise for Patient C.
Scarecrow retreated; it was not playtime – yet.
Mrs. Chesterton looked up from her stupor and her eyes widened.
"Oh, please! Not more needles!"
"This is to help counter the effects of the medication – all that medication you were not supposed to take," said Dr. Crane chillingly.
Mrs. Chesterton nodded, then winced as the needle found a vein and soon the medication was coursing through her system.
"What was that," Mrs. Chesterton asked as she was rubbing her sore arm.
"Oh, I call it Solution 842A." Dr. Crane turned to her, a sly smile on his lips. "I made it myself."
"You patented it?"
"Oh, no. I made it myself. But I never submitted it to the government for approval – I don't need their approval. The main thing is it works."
Mrs. Chesterton suddenly had a sickening feeling that Dr. Crane's homemade concoction was now coursing through her body and she had no idea what was in it. But as minute after minute ticked away, her mind cleared and she began to feel better. She gazed at the young doctor with renewed admiration. He may look no older than 30, but he was a genius.
"I told you it worked," he said, with a smug grin. "Now on to your fears, these panic attacks have gotten so severe you nearly poisoned yourself with the medication I prescribed to you." He turned his cold blue eyes to her. "You know I don't like that."
"I – I'm sorry doctor."
"No, need for apologizes, Genevieve. I just want to help you."
She was so flustered she didn't realize Crane had for the first time just called her by her first name. He sat down on a velvet chair close to the sofa and gently held her hand in his. Although his hand was soft and smooth, it felt cool to the touch.
"Yes, I want to help you." He gazed at her with those piercing blue eyes. "That's all I've wanted to do was help you. Now tell me your fear – your darkest fear."
"I – no I can't," said Mrs. Chesterton, turning her face to the sofa.
For a brief moment she thought she felt his grip tighten on her hand, then it relaxed and gently massaged her hand.
"If you don't tell me, I can't help you," he said soothingly. "Now tell me. You are afraid – afraid of what, Genevieve?"
"I'm afraid of – of being alone."
"Yes, being alone. And why do you think that is? When did it start?"
"I – I think it began when my husband – Harold – he was gone on a lot on business trips – he left me alone a lot and I'd be waiting for him – waiting for him to get back."
"That made you nervous, didn't it," asked Crane.
"Yes, I was worried something would happen to him."
"And then you'd be alone for good," whispered Crane.
"I –"
Mrs. Chesterton turned her eyes from the couch and faced Crane and saw him gazing straight at her with those unnerving eyes, but there was something else she saw that frightened her for a moment – hunger. It was not a hunger of a man for a woman, but of a predator for a prey.
No, it couldn't be, she thought. You're imagining that. You must be.
"Please continue, Genevieve."
"I – I guess it got worse after he died. I never had any children, as much as I wanted them," she said.
"And now you must face that he isn't coming back," said Dr. Crane, sitting back in his chair. "Your loneliness is not uncommon – it actually is a normal part of the grieving process, Mrs. Chesterton. I've dealt with it often. Fear, panic, anger – these are all normal emotions associated with grief, but if felt intensely over prolonged periods, if they are not dealt with, they eventually may cripple leading a normal life."
Mrs. Chesterton gazed at the doctor. How come she had not heard this from Dr. Henry Worthing? Maybe Dr. Crane could help her when all others had failed. He had gained a reputation for helping those patients when countless talk therapies and mild sedatives had done nothing – but tying old Judith Mariwell to a chair and leaving her outdoors until she learned to enjoy it? What sort of "therapy" was that?
"Genevieve, can I help you. Will you let me help you?"
Dr. Crane gazed at her, both his hands clasping hers. She looked up at him and again could have sworn she saw a hunger dwelling within those chilling blue eyes.
Is she cured?
From what I heard she takes walks every afternoon, as happy as a bird.
"Yes, maybe you can help me, Dr. Crane," Mrs. Chesterton sighed. "Nobody else seems to be able to."
Genevieve Chesterton found herself in a third room wholly different from the other two rooms at Dr. Crane's office.
Did he have this whole floor all to himself, she wondered as he flicked on the lights in one of the darkened rooms.
This room was not like that awful sterile room she had been in before or his main office. It was reminiscent of the old-fashioned psychiatrist suites where patient comfort and doctor-patient intimacy were paramount. There was a fine plush leather chair nearby for Dr. Crane and a lovely reclining leather sofa for Mrs. Chesterton. There also was another leather chair just a few feet away if she didn't feel comfortable reclining.
"The choice is completely yours," said Dr. Crane, with a slight smile. "Whichever you are the most comfortable with."
Mrs. Chesterton didn't know how to reply, she had grown so used to Dr. Crane making decisions for her, telling her what was best in her treatment and now he was inviting her to make a choice – sofa or chair. She gazed into those icy blue eyes.
What decision does he want me to choose? He's been so good to me. He came when I was so alone and now this beautiful room, not that awful cold white room like before. I don't want to disappoint him.
"Do you have a recommendation, Dr. Crane?"
"Well, you've had quite a lot of stress and I'd recommend you relax. It's best for your therapy and your health. You know I only want the best for you, Genevieve." Slowly he removed from his vest coat pocket a gold pen and a small notepad. "I think it would be best to take the sofa."
"Yes doctor, of course."
Mrs. Chesterton turned her back to him and hesitantly put her weight onto to sofa. It noticeably creaked and the leather squeaked under her weight. She winced.
He's going to comment on how you are going to have to lose weight, Genevieve.
"Now tell me, Genevieve. We discussed your husband. But all fears are rooted much deeper. Tell me a bit more about your past. Your childhood is always a good place to start. Did you have come from a large family? Brothers? Sisters?"
Mrs. Chesterton gazed at the white tile ceiling and the dim soothing lights.
"No. I was an only child," she said.
"But I imagine you received much love as an only child, yes?"
"My father was away much. My mother was – was distant."
"So even as a child you felt an emptiness, an ache you longed to fill – and even then you were lonely."
"Yes," she said.
I know the feeling well, Dr. Crane thought, as he finished filling out his notes. I think I can cure you Genevieve Chesterton – or maybe not. It's all up to you now.
He closed his eyes counting down. 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1.
Riiiiiiiiing!
His secretary was on time down to the second. He knew he was right in hiring her for her exceptional punctuality. Swiftly he picked up the phone.
"Hello, Dr. Crane," said the secretary.
"Hello. My God, a suicide attempt?" gasped Dr. Crane.
"Dr. Crane, don't tell me we're doing this again," sighed the secretary.
"I'll be right there. Keep her confined and sedated," said Dr. Crane.
He hung up the phone and Mrs. Chesterton sat up from the couch, her hand to her breast in shock.
"Oh, no. A suicide attempt? One of your patients?"
"Yes, I guess I failed in her treatment," said Dr. Crane in feigned grief. "But I will help her the best I can now. I will not interrupt our appointment, however."
"No, no," gasped Mrs. Chesterton. "You simply must help that poor girl. A suicide attempt, poor soul!"
"I will just make a few quick calls just to make sure she's sedated and comfortable – enough so she won't injure herself further, then continue our session. Thank you, Genevieve, for understanding."
Dr. Crane gave her a reassuring squeeze of her hand and smiled at her. She patted his hand.
"You're a good man and a good doctor. You'll be able to help her," she said.
Dr. Crane turned and gave her a sly smile before he left the room and the door clicked shut.
2:42 – Patient C. seems to be quite comfortable. Resting on leather couch.
3:15 – Patient C. begins to exhibit boredom and restlessness. Left couch and looking at diploma.
Dr. Crane was sitting in a small darkened room watching on a tiny black and white screen Mrs. Chesterton. All the rooms had hidden cameras and he was especially fascinated by how Mrs. Chesterton would react to being alone again. He made sure her settings were as close as possible to her home environment, with the comfortable sofa, the nice chairs, the walls of books and the assortment of distractions about the office, whether it be the globe in the corner or the plastic replica of a brain on his desk. Okay, the brain replica wouldn't be something she'd find in her apartment. He'd have to make note of that in his study.
3:35 – Patient C. clearly becoming restless, pacing ensuing. Spending more time looking around the room at misc. objects.
3:50 – For first time Patient C. tries phone to call receptionist. Phone has been disconnected. Aggravation level for Patient C. heightened.
4:00 – Releasing air-borne dosage of fear-heightening Solution B721.
Normally he'd be a bit more patient, but he was getting bored at watching "Patient C." wandering around the room and not having a panic attack yet. Perhaps she was more "cured" than he had thought? Well, the solution would help incite the fear and help her face that fear.
At first Dr. Crane didn't see much difference in the behavior of Patient C. She still seemed to aimlessly pace about the room very frustrated and angry, but then she began to clutch at her chest and gasp, and next she frantically fumbled for her purse.
Good! Now the real show is about to begin, whispered Scarecrow.
4:05 – Patient C. takes Placebo for panic attack. Anxiety increasing. Patient C. begins screaming
4:07 – Patient C. still screaming, repeating, "Dr. Crane, come back, please! Please come back!"
4:09 – Patient C. trying the locked door – 12th unsuccessful attempt. Impaired judgement, now banging on the door and clawing the walls.
4:15 – Patient C. now screaming, "Please come back, I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone! Please!"
4:20 – Patient C. now possessed by Rage. Now throwing objects around the room. Throws globe on the floor. Smashes brain replica.
Damn! I loved that brain replica, thought Dr. Crane.
(Study note: Do not put anything of value in test subject room.)
Dr. Crane glanced up at the black at white monitor flickering in the cramped dark room he was in, then slowly removed his glasses.
You stupid, idiotic fool, hissed Scarecrow. You gave her too much of the solution.
Dr. Crane scratched onto his notepad:
4:25 – Patient C. collapses.
I wanted to hear more screams, hissed Scarecrow. I wanted to hear her cry! I wanted to see her tear into her face with her nails in panic!
"You've heard and seen someone once before tear into her face like that – no more," screamed Dr. Crane.
Scarecrow for once was silent.
Dr. Crane walked down the hallway from the pristine, clean ward to the older section of the Arkham Asylum, which was built 150 years ago. It was always cold in the winter and hot in the summer with the occasional dull, overhead flickering fluorescent light, the peeling paint and the old radiator heaters that should have been replaced when the new wing had been built.
Dr. Crane turned the corner and passed into a narrow corridor he knew all too well. It was dimly lit because two of the overhead fluorescent lights had burnt out the night before and the janitors (who often didn't like going into this ward) hadn't replaced it yet. Dr.
Crane approached the nurses' desk. He ignored the cheap black plastic pen attached to the desk with a thin vinyl wire and instead slipped out his own gold pen from his jacket pocket and signed off on two papers at the nurses' station. The nurse, who looked
thoroughly bored, watched as he meticulously signed the forms in total concentration.
"Admitting yet another patient, eh, Dr. Crane," she murmured, wearily.
"Yes, Miss Kelley," he replied. "Suicide attempt, I'm afraid."
"Pity," Miss Kelley sighed, then popped her strawberry-flavored gum.
As he finished signing the forms, Miss Kelley gazed at them. One thing she noticed that was unique about Dr. Crane, unlike all the other doctors, his signature was very neat and extremely legible, all the letters perfectly formed – a study in excellent penmanship. She also looked at the new patient on suicide watch: Genevieve A. Chesterton.
"I believe all my patients are well. And –"
"You know where to go, Dr. Crane. She's where she always is."
"Thank you, Miss Kelley."
As Dr. Crane passed each door he made a note to peer in through each small, wire-enforced window to make sure everything was in order.
Patient 201 – Appears calm and sedated. Patient 203 – Restless, needs to up medication. Patient 205 – Display of violent tendencies (beating the door), recommend restraint chair.
Dr. Crane continued to walk down the corridor until he reached Room 221. He paused for a moment before entering. The patient had her back facing him. It was a woman in her early forties, but her brunette hair, which had long since turned gray, hung lankly on her
shoulders. She was gazing out the small window at the rain droplets falling from the roof eaves on that dull, gray afternoon. It seemed she was completely oblivious of his presence.
He closed the door loudly enough for her to hear, but she did not move and it bothered him she no longer even acknowledged his presence. Surely she must have heard. He moved toward her and sat on the chair opposite her, gazing into her eyes. Her dull brown eyes were blank and lifeless, seeing past him – not seeing him at all. He studied her face, observing the haphazard scars upon her haggard and gaunt cheeks.
Dr. Crane had experienced many things from his patients – screaming, violent outbursts, hitting and cursing. He could handle all of those equally well, but what hurt Dr. Crane the most was not to be seen at all – to be ignored, to be forgotten. He looked to her hand resting on the armrest. The buckles of the heavy leather restraints had long been undone – she once was quite violent, but now never moved, never spoke, never acknowledged anyone, lost forever in her own mind.
Dr. Crane sighed and suddenly seemed very weary. Gently he took her frail hand into both his own and gazed into her blank eyes.
"Hello, mom," he whispered.