You Don’t Look Like You

Natick, Massachusetts

July 2000

The dream is a cartoon, and the cartoon is a nightmare. When Amy wakes him up, the hotel alarm clock reads 12:51.

“I don’t want to do that again,” she says.

Mike lies there, blinking. “Okay.”

“If we take the train, the kids will sleep. And you can make better time back by yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, rolling over. “I don’t want to do that again.”

“Okay.”

Amy falls asleep right away. The next time Mike sees the clock, it reads 5:20, and he’s not sure whether their conversation was real or one of those hyperrealistic, though ultimately pointless, dreams.

###

Amy and Caleb seem rested the next day. Carrie is adapting just fine on her first trip away from home. That bodes well for what they face now: an entire morning—at least—of anxiety, uncertainty, and waiting.

Dr. Taupin’s pediatric neurology practice is housed in a large, clean-looking, if unimaginatively designed, three-story clinic.

“Is this the hospital?” Caleb asks as they pull into the parking lot.

“It’s not a hospital. It’s a clinic,” Mike says.

“What’s the difference?”

“You can go to a hospital for almost anything that’s wrong with you. A clinic just does one thing.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

Mike winces at his mistake and glances at Amy for help.

“Nothing is wrong with you, honey,” Amy says. “Everybody has to go to the doctor sometimes.”

In the lobby, they stand in front of an LCD directory. Behavioral Sciences—2B … Cafeteria—2C … MRI and Imaging—1C-E … Neurolinguistics—1A … Pediatrics—3D … Sleep Disorders—3A-B … Vascular Neurology—3C … Schaffer Institute—2E …

The last listing is unique in two ways: It is the only one not listed in alphabetical order, and it is accompanied by a logo: a crest composed of a double-wicked candle on a fulcrum.

Ding.

“Coming?” Amy, carrying the baby and holding Caleb by the hand, is standing at the elevator bank.

They check in, fill out the necessary paperwork, and settle into the waiting room. Mike watches Caleb playing with Oscar and Grover on the floor. They are having a discussion, voiced by Caleb, who bounces whichever doll is meant to be speaking.

GROVER: … that’s not what you said. You said he is here.
OSCAR: He is here. He wasn’t before. That’s what I said.
GROVER: What about her?
OSCAR: She’s not here. She’s a door. Heh, heh, heh.
GROVER: What’s so funny?
OSCAR: I said door. Sounds like—

“Mike!”

Mike bolts upright, turns to Amy, unsure how many times she’s said his name.

“Earth to Mike,” she says with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Will you please hand me the cover? She’s hungry.”

Mike reaches into the baby bag, hands it to her.

“I’m sorry I woke you up last night,” she says. “You couldn’t go back to sleep?”

Mike looks around. “I’m not sure.”

“We’re good here, babe. Go get some coffee.”

Mike is about to hit the down button when he notices a sign for the stairs just beyond the elevator bank. He descends the first flight, turns on the landing, and stops. At the bottom of the next flight is a figure. It is a woman. She’s wearing a hospital gown, and her head hangs low, unkempt hair hiding her face. She reaches a painfully thin, freckled arm toward the railing and takes a slow step up.

Mike starts down the stairs. When he reaches her, she stops and looks up. The woman’s eyes are sunken and haunted. Mike is uncomfortable and begins to maneuver around her as politely as possible.

“Mike?” she says, her voice raspy as though from disuse.

He recoils, confused. His mind gives a violent reel. “Doreen?”

If she’s upset that he hadn’t recognized her, if she’s self-conscious about how she looks or where she is, she shows neither. If she’s uncomfortable with the silence that follows, she does nothing to fill it.

“I’m sorry,” Mike blurts. He feels all those things on her behalf, with an undercurrent of deep foreboding. “I wasn’t sure … I didn’t recognize you at first. You don’t look—”

“Well?” she says with a smile, her eyes showing more life.

“—like you. I’m sorry,” he says again, but he doesn’t know why.

She takes Mike’s hand. Hers is cold and all bones, but her voice is clear. “Well?”

They are standing so close, Mike sees his reflection in her pupils, staring back at him.

“Yes?” he hears himself say, as if from far away.

“Are you coming?”

Her eyes are all he can see.

There is a noise from somewhere. Someone is calling her name. A nurse pokes her head into the stairwell, her starched uniform whisking against itself. “Doreen!”

Mike sees the recognition and vitality falling away from Doreen’s eyes.

“Sir?” the nurse says. “Sir, are you lost?”

The nurse’s tone demands his full attention. He notices the crest on her name badge.

“No, I’m here with my son,” he says. “He had a seizure. I was looking for the cafeteria—”

The nurse notices that he is still holding Doreen’s hand and does not attempt to hide her disapproval.

“I apologize if Miss Dorsey has been bothering you.” She removes Doreen’s hand from his and leads her back into the second-floor corridor. “The cafeteria is just to the left.”

Mike catches the stairwell door. “It’s fine. She’s a friend. Can you tell me …”

The nurse turns, glances in both directions, as if anxious to be out of the corridor. Doreen is limp and lifeless in her grip.

“Is she okay? We were close.”

“We don’t share information about our patients. I’m sure you understand.”

Mike watches them disappear around a corner, then makes his way to the cafeteria, where he buys two waxed paper cups of coffee. When he reenters Dr. Taupin’s waiting room, Amy is burping Carrie. The Book of Mysteries is on the seat next to her. Mike considers telling her about the encounter. Amy knows Doreen, after all, or knew her, back when they were all in school in Boston. Amy also knows that his and Doreen’s friendship had nearly spilled over into something more, briefly, just before they’d gotten together. Amy’s not the jealous type, but what good could come of it?

Caleb is on the other side of the room, paging through a worn picture book. Mike leans down to pick up Oscar and Grover.

“No, Dad,” Caleb says. “They are in time-out.”

“Uh-oh,” Mike says. “What did they do?”

Caleb returns to his book. Mike waits for a moment, then gives up and sits down. He can tell that Caleb isn’t reading the book; he’s thinking about something.

The door opens.

“Dr. Taupin will see you now.”

###

Once they are out of the waiting room, it’s all fairly standard, though not very reassuring. A nurse asks questions, jots notes, administers the usual physical examination. A technician arrives and takes Caleb to another room for a battery of tests and scans, with Mike in tow. He thinks the huge machines look menacing, but Caleb is fascinated and says they look like droids.

Hours later, Dr. Taupin, trim, professional, with soft, white hair, arrives in the examination room to tell them almost nothing. It will take some time to evaluate the results of the tests. He suggests that they schedule a follow-up appointment for next month, as if they live two blocks away.

Then, he makes an even less helpful suggestion.

“Have you considered getting a pet?” he says. He turns to Caleb before Mike or Amy can respond. “Would you like that? Would you like a pet to take care of?”

Yes, Caleb would like a pet. He is six.

Mike is annoyed, but Amy seems open to it.

“Do you think it would be good for him?” she says.

Mike motions the doctor into the corridor and waits for the door to close behind them.

“Are you suggesting an epilepsy dog? You haven’t even made a diagnosis yet.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Taupin says, raising his eyebrows at Mike’s contentiousness. “As you say, we’re not there yet. But if the symptoms are of a psychological, not physiological, nature, a pet can be a healthy and effective mitigation strategy.”

Dr. Taupin looks uncomfortable under the weight of Mike’s glare.

“If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to call my office. I’ll have the nurse give you my full contact info at checkout.”

He shakes Mike’s hand and starts to leave.

“One more thing,” Mike says. “What is the Schaffer Institute?”

Taupin gives a mirthless chuckle. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Mike makes no response.

“I understand how upsetting a seizure can be,” Taupin says, “but let’s look at the test results before we go down that road.”

“I just asked what it is. I ran into … one of the nurses. I was just wondering—”

“It’s a place for people who don’t believe in science,” Taupin says with affected patience. “There is still a great deal we don’t know about how the brain works, granted. But just because we can’t yet explain or define something, that doesn’t make it … preternatural.”

Mike makes a face.

“Yeah,” Taupin says. “Like I said. Let’s stick with actual science.” He claps Mike on the shoulder. “And don’t stress out about the pet thing. It can be something simple, like a hamster or a fish.”