Richard Mabry: Code Blue

The next house stood out from its plainer neighbors, its magnificent architecture set offby a striking landscape. A small red Cadillac stood in the driveway in front of the closed doors of a three-car garage. Whoever lived there certainly had money. When she saw "Collins" on the mailbox, Cathy decided that either Jacob was more successful than she thought, or his wife had pressured him into that expensive showplace. Cathy wondered idly who Jacob had married. She'd have to ask around.

The sunny day and mild temperatures combined to relax the muscles in Cathy's shoulders as she rolled slowly along the narrow road. She let her mind wander, putting faces with most of the homes, remembering happier times growing up here. She'd wanted for nothing. Ran with a clique of girls from upper-class families. She grimaced when she realized what a spoiled brat she must have been.

There it was around the next corner: a modest one-story house built of white Austin stone, surrounded by two acres of green grass and spreading oaks, bordered by a white-rail fence. There had been a time when she knew every inch of the property, knew the best trees to climb and the hiding places where no one could find her. She couldn't read the faded letters on the mailbox, but Cathy remembered when it said "Sewell" in shiny black letters. There was no sign of activity at the end of the gravel driveway. The doors to a detached, two-car garage were closed.

Cathy stopped at the entrance to the drive, her car's right wheels on the gravel shoulder of the road. She sat in silence for several minutes, her mind flitting back and forth like a hummingbird. Then, movement in the rearview mirror caught her eye as a black SUV raced over the hill. Cathy watched in horror. The vehicle veered to the right on a collision course with the rear of her little rental. She rammed the car into gear and screeched into the driveway, scattering crushed gravel in her wake. The SUV sped by with no signs of slowing, and she felt her car rock with the force of its passing. Was this the same SUV that had driven her offthe road once already? Was it more evidence of a plot against her, or was this another sign of paranoia?

Cathy shivered. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. Finally, she looked up the driveway at the house. This was no longer home. She knew where she had to go. It was time. Her decision made, she took a deep breath and eased her car out onto the road.

A half-mile later, Cathy pulled in under a metal arch and navigated down a patched and pothole-scarred narrow lane. She let the car creep along as she searched for familiar landmarks. The names were hard to read, but finally she saw it ahead. Cathy parked, locked the car, and followed a dirt path, beaten down by the tread of many generations of feet.

When she found the large granite slab, she dropped to her knees on the green grass in front of it. Despite the sun she felt on her back, the stone felt cold as she let her fingers trace the letters carved deep into it: SEWELL. Her shoulders shook. Finally, she sobbed, "Daddy, I miss you so much. And I'm so very sorry."

Cathy's expectations had stemmed from cartoons she'd seen in The New Yorker. She'd lie on a couch, pouring out her soul as she sniffled softly. The psychiatrist would stroke his pointed beard and murmur, "I see. Very interesting."

But there were no couches in this office. Instead, she sat in a padded leather armchair. A small, round coffee table holding a box of tissues separated her from Dr. Josh Samuels, who occupied a similar chair to her left, angled slightly so that they might have been host and guest on some TV talk show. Only the framed diplomas and certificates on the wall behind the littered desk gave any hint of what went on in this room, that and the faint aura of dread and apprehension that lingered in the air.

Josh-he'd corrected her the first time she called him Dr. Samuels-did have a beard, but not the pointed Van Dyke variety. Instead, his neatly trimmed full beard, black with a smattering of gray, stretched from ear to ear, forming a marked contrast to his shaved head. Cathy had never seen him wear a suit and doubted that he owned one. He wore a white dress shirt, its button-down collar open at the neck, with the sleeves folded back two neat turns. His khakis were starched and creased.

Halfway through today's session, during one of the pauses that Josh never seemed to find awkward, Cathy leaned forward and blurted out, "I went to the cemetery yesterday."

"And?"

"I cried. I talked with my folks. I told Daddy how sorry I was."

"About what?"

She wanted to tell Josh that if she knew the answers to all his questions she wouldn't be sitting here with the clock ticking away another fifty- minute hour. She wanted the psychiatrist to unlock the twisted dreams that made her wake up in a cold sweat. Most of all, she wanted to ask him if he thought she was crazy.

"I don't know. I suppose that, in some way, I feel responsible for their deaths."

Josh crossed one leg over the other, displaying worn white Reeboks and a hairy calf above tan crew socks. He laced his hands together over his knee and leaned forward. His expression invited comment.

"I've told you some of this," she said.

"Tell me the rest."

Several sips of water from the glass in front of her didn't ease the dryness in Cathy's throat.

"I was in my final year of medical school, home for Christmas vacation. They tried to hide it, but it was obvious that my folks weren't getting along. My mother dropped some hints that she thought my dad was unfaithful. I saw she'd become extremely distrustful. She was suspicious of him, of his time away from home, his contact with female patients. All my life, I'd thought that my father could do no wrong. But I loved and trusted my mother. I didn't know what to think. Finally, I couldn't take it any more. I told them I was going back to Dallas, and I didn't want to talk to them again until they worked it out."

"And?"

"Daddy called me in May, the day before I was scheduled to graduate from Southwestern Med School. I hadn't even sent them an invitation, but he had friends at the school, and he found out the details. He said Mom had been having some… he called them emotional issues, but he thought they were under control. They wanted to see me graduate."

The therapist focused his unblinking gaze like a laser beam.

Cathy felt as though there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. She took several deep breaths. "I was thrilled. Daddy said they'd see me after the ceremony."

Josh made a faint motion with his hand that Cathy knew meant, "Go on."

"The rain started after they left Dainger. The Highway Patrol said it came down in sheets, a typical Texas spring storm. Daddy had been delayed with a patient. He was afraid they'd miss the graduation, so he was driving too fast. He came around a curve, lost control, and the car skidded into a bridge abutment. He and Mom were killed instantly."

"And you're angry?"

"Yes!" she exploded. "At God, for letting it happen. At my parents for not having the perfect marriage I thought they should have. At Daddy, for putting his practice before his daughter so he had to hurry to make up lost time. And… and at myself, for making it such a big deal that he drove like that to keep his promise."

"And you feel guilty?"

She reached for a tissue. "Yes. The guilt of their deaths has been like a fifty- pound weight on my shoulders ever since."

"Do you really think the accident was your fault?"

Cathy wanted to bolt. How should she know? Wasn't that what she paid this frustrating man to help her find out?

"Think about it." Josh leaned forward, and his posture spoke encouragement. "Think it through."

Cathy closed her eyes for a moment. She dredged up scenes she'd imagined from that horrible night, pictures she'd visualized so many times she could no longer tell fantasy from reality. The images ran through her head like a late-night, black-and-white movie. She swallowed hard. "Maybe not."