Читать книгу To Die in Spring - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 11

Tuesday, April 3, 1979

Rebecca had barely started her second week in the new building. The scent of fresh paint lingered in the air and some of her former patients, arriving for appointments, commented on the elegance of her new office. Mr. and Mrs. DaCosta were also impressed, sitting tentatively on the edge of the nubbly new chairs while Rebecca described the surgical procedure of vasectomy. She was reassuring them that it was relatively foolproof and that, no, the likelihood was that they would have no more children, when voices rose in some commotion outside the examining room. A plaintive accented voice arrived muffled through the closed door.

“You don’t understa... I must see Doctor ... life or death....”

Rebecca recognized Mrs. Kochinsky’s accent but was surprised at her level of distress. What had set off her alarm bells to come running into the office the day before her regular weekly session? She had never shown up without an appointment, though she was often upset when she came. Iris would have to deal with it.

Rebecca spent ten more minutes with the DaCostas then led them back down the short hallway to the waiting-room where she spotted Mrs. Kochinsky, grey-pale, dressed more casually than usual. She was rocking back and forth on the edge of the couch. When she saw Rebecca, she jumped to her feet. Her anxiety touched Rebecca but didn’t alarm her when she took it in the context of the woman’s usual mental state. Beside Mrs. Kochinsky sat a young woman whose little girl had turned her back on the old lady and lay tightly curled in her mother’s arms.

Iris handed Rebecca Mrs. Kochinsky’s file and whispered in her ear, “She’s ready to explode. I haven’t seen her this bad.”

The other patients, who had been waiting longer, sat stone-faced as Rebecca led Mrs. Kochinsky down the hall.

Wearing a beige trenchcoat over polyester pants, the older woman stood in the centre of the examining room wringing her hands. She nearly wept out her words, her chest heaving with exertion.

“I’m sorry — I know this not my day for appointment. But I see him. The man... He follow me here. I’m sure he there outside.”

She stepped to the window that looked out onto D’ Arcy Street. Pushing aside the vertical blind, she peered down, her face white with terror. “There. There in car, man sitting.” Her finger poked the air triumphantly.

Rebecca moved toward the window and glanced out at one of the quietest spots in downtown Toronto. The facade of an alternative high school was camouflaged by mature spruce trees. In front, across the one-way street, sat a young man in a run-down silver Chevy. “How old was the man you recognized?” she asked.

Mrs. Kochinsky’s hand flew up in exasperation. “I don’t know. Maybe fifty, maybe sixty. What difference?”

“Look at the man in the car.”

Mrs. Kochinsky bent her head toward the window again. “He’s no more than twenty,” said Rebecca. “There’s a high school across the street. He’s probably waiting for someone.”

The older woman continued to look through the blinds. “Could be anywhere. There. Cars on other street. What about there?” She pointed out the corner of the window in the direction of Beverley Street. Rebecca peered sideways toward the front of the medical building. Cars were parked on both sides of the street at meters. She had picked the corner of Beverley and D’ Arcy for her new office because of its tranquillity and saw nothing out the window to make her regret that decision.

“Was he the same man who frightened you last week?”

Mrs. Kochinsky’s hand flew up again, this time to entreat the ceiling. Her dark eyes flashed impatience. “You don’t understand! They always send different man. But this it! This man... This man last one.”

Rebecca was concerned about Mrs. Kochinsky’s growing propensity for panic.

“Where did you first see him?”

She jerked open the flap of her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here! Here is it!” She waved a photocopy of a picture in front of Rebecca’s face.

“What is it?” Rebecca asked, trying to focus on the moving page. “May I see it?”

Mrs. Kochinsky handed her the sheet, which Rebecca glanced at, puzzled. She commented on the obvious. “It looks like a duck.” Before she could examine it further, Mrs. Kochinsky grabbed it back and replaced it in her purse.

“You don’t believe me,” said Mrs. Kochinsky, hurt.

The image of the duck walking along a sidewalk appeared to have been copied from a news photo. Rebecca worried that her patient had lost what grip on reality she may have had.

“Can you tell me what he was doing when you saw him?” she asked.

“Waiting for me. He knew I come. I run here and he follow me. You have call police.”

Rebecca placed a concerned hand on her arm. “Please sit down.” When they were both seated, Rebecca said, “I can see how upset you are. Help me understand what happened before you came here. I know how difficult it is for you to leave your area. Why were you downtown?”

“My cousin from United States coming ... he ask me for shop so I look around.”

“But why didn’t you shop close to home, on Eglinton? Why did you come downtown?”

Mrs. Kochinsky looked confused. “But shop downtown. I have to.”

It was Rebecca’s turn to be confused, but she went on. “Did he touch you?”

“He come at me. But I ran.” She wrung feverish hands together and leaned toward Rebecca with stark expectation. “Oh Doctor, he almost get me!”

The Greta Garbo face, the greying brown hair soft on her cheek, fought with the words. It was like a cartoon with the wrong caption. A mistake. She should have been a grandmother at home enjoying her family. Instead, she sat perched on the end of her seat, hands clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white. Deep sighs heaved periodically from her chest.

Rebecca tried to elicit cogent details that might interest the police but Mrs. Kochinsky seemed capable of relating only vague descriptions and indeterminate locations. Though she was more upset than usual, Rebecca had to put it in perspective. At last week’s session, it was someone who had followed Mrs. Kochinsky off the bus when she was coming for her appointment. Rebecca had attributed the anxiety to the unfamiliar first trip down to the new office. Maybe this was the level of anxiety the poor woman was operating on now. How was Rebecca to know, as last week was the first time she’d seen her in eight weeks.

Maybe she would call Dr. Romanov again and get clearer details of Mrs. Kochinsky’s behaviour during the time he was covering for Rebecca. She watched her patient now as she sat talking, her trenchcoat crumpled around her. This unscheduled visit worried Rebecca; she wondered if she could expect Mrs. Kochinsky to drop in anytime. At least she was calmer and seemed to have more control of herself.

“Feeling better now?” Rebecca asked.

Mrs. Kochinsky gave a wan smile.

“You can rest in here till you feel you’re all right to leave,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rebecca closed the door and headed for Iris’ desk. “Mrs. Kochinsky is taking a short rest,” she said behind the partition. “Keep an eye on her and let me know when she leaves.”

Iris handed her the next patient’s file.