CRESCENDO
It was once again a rainy day when the doctor arrived at their lodging. The mother gave him the warmest welcome and brought him to the drawing room, where the child sat. He smiled heartily through his whiskers and greeted the girl. “Miss Adams! I gather you are well?”
“Very well, sir,” Marie replied. Ellen kept silent.
The doctor nodded as he sat down next to her. “Very well indeed.” He made a subtle gesture to set his briefcase aside and out of sight from the girl. But her keen eyes nevertheless caught a glimpse, and furthermore, allowed her to discern his profession.
“And how is your schooling coming along?” continued the doctor, now with his hands on his lap. But it seemed the civilities did not reach Marie, for she was not interested in such conversations.
“Am I ill, doctor?”
His smile wavered for but a moment. “Nothing to fear, my dear. Just a check up, to make sure all is well.”
“I don’t quite believe it,” Ellen finally spoke, chiding the man. The doctor regarded this outcry with caution.
“Your mother has concerns for your health, after all. A climate such as this is prime grounds for a young lady your age to catch a fever.”
“She already has a fever. Can’t you see?” the girl continued.
“Oh?” inquired the doctor. “If I may, then, measure your temperature?”
“Measure hers, not mine,” Ellen retorted. But the girl made no gesture. The doctor, with much confusion, did so, with the mother watching anxiously by their side. He was methodical in his procedures, checking the girl by forehead and by thermometer. He then checked her eyes, her ears, and then her temperature once more. With a curious nod, he addressed the mother.
“I see nothing wrong with her madam; save for the conditions you have mentioned to me before.”
“Then it is not of fever?”
The doctor shook his head. “Miss Adams is quite healthy. I’m sure of that.”
She shook her head along with him. “Is there no explanation for her condition, then? Already, once, I believe you have seen what I have described to you.”
“I’m afraid I cannot, and it behooves me to inform you that my colleagues are much more knowledgeable than I, but have unfortunately left for overseas.”
“I know clearly what’s wrong with her,” said Ellen, in which the two turned their attention back to the girl. “She is clearly mad. Maddened by the wretched weather.”
The mother sighed, and the doctor considered this response for a few moments. “If you could, please, my dear, explain further what you mean by this?”
“Don’t bother,” said Marie. “For she does not think before she speaks.”
Ellen did not heed. “Simply that. Preposterous, isn’t it?” Her question was met with silence, as the two observers sat stone still. Only the sound of the rain that thrashed the windows and the metronome of the old grandfather clock could be heard.
“No?” Ellen continued. “Well I believe so. And you better believe I believe so, as God knows how much time I have to put up with her nonsense. Listen! she makes no comment upon my proclamations!”
“Because they simply aren’t worth of comment,” Marie quipped. “And they know that just as well.”
“And how are you so sure? Do you proclaim, all of a sudden, to be a mind reader.”
“There are things you can infer without the need for speech.”
The two of them bantered like this for quite some time. Longer, perhaps, than they’ve ever bantered aloud. The poor mother and bewildered doctor did nothing but watch; the tray of prepared refreshments cooled with their negligence. The clock eventually struck, and the doctor seemingly woke up.
“Dear me, I must apologize that I have other duties to attend to soon.”
The mother shook her head and sighed once more “I suppose there was nothing that could be done—”
“For a body of my own,” interrupted Ellen, continuing her feud with Marie. “So that I can afford the freedom to roam without you!”
“You’ll get yourself killed, that’s all you’ll do,” shot back Marie. “That won’t do.”
The doctor took one last look at the girl, and convulsed as if he had seen the devil’s work. He left the scene with as much confusion as the mother had bore for these several years. He now had—with him—a bemusing story to tell, but who would ever believe it?
End.