noticed her hair almost touched the floor. “Actually, that’s not completely true. I have watched television, as Jimmy has told me so many times. He finds it very annoying that I can’t remember, because you see he was six when we left California and he remembers everything. But I was four, and no memories have come to me.” She paused and her voice became sad. “I suppose it was annoying.”
He knew she was worrying about her brother again. He told her Jimmy would be all right, to make her feel better, but also becausehe believed it. Even Phillips said the Zoloft seemed to be working. Whatever had happened to cause the breakdown—and it wasn’t hard to guess, given the places Jimmy had been living, that it probably had something to do with drugs—once Dorothea took him home, he could get healthy and figure out what he wanted to do next. Maybe he would avoid cities completely and just paint. He had real talent, even if his style ran a little to the macabre.
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled. Her smiles were so genuine, they were nearly impossible to resist.
He smiled back, but then he looked away and picked up the remote. “Let’s see what we can find.”
It was eleven-thirty when they started watching television and two a.m. when he finally turned off the set, telling her they really needed to go to sleep. The entire time Dorothea’s eyes barely left the screen, even during commercials. She didn’t ask any questions either. He glanced at her occasionally, wondering what she was making of all this. He’d never been more aware of how crude television had become, with all the Viagra ads and toilet humor and sexual innuendos. Too bad she couldn’t have started like he had with The Brady Bunch and “relief equals Rolaids.”
“You must be tired,” he said.
“Oh, I am. I’ve never stayed up this long in my life. And I mean never ever.”
“How does it feel?”
“Great!” she said. “This was tremendously fun.” “I don’t know if I should be proud of myself,” he said. “I’ve turned a person who would talk about the meaning of the word ‘theory’ and casually mention Einstein into someone who can watch an hour of Jay Leno and an hour and a half of an Adam Sandler movie.” He shrugged off his own comment, but he did feel a little guilty.
“Yes,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, you should be proud of yourself.” She stood up, and hewatched her hair fall down her back. “That’s what Father told Jimmy and me and I think he would say the same thing to you. As long as you’re trying your best, you have nothing else to worry about.”
His own parents had said something similar when he was in medical school and overwhelmed by the work. Of course they were extremely disappointed when he gave up his practice and even more so when he told them about the cab. They said he was only driving the cab because of the car accident, and he knew they might be right; he even vaguely remembered a psych lecture on “repetition compulsion” after trauma. But he also knew it didn’t make any difference. How could it matter why he was driving the cab when nothing made any difference anymore?
“And what if I’m not trying my best?” he said quietly.
“Then you will tomorrow.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. She smiled. “Tomorrow is another day.”
He knew she was probably quoting the book Gone With the Wind, but after she went into the bedroom, and he’d turned off the lamp and lain down on the couch, he found himself thinking about the movie. He’d watched it because it was one of those films Ellen had always wanted to watch. He couldn’t say whether his wife would have liked it, but he knew she would have wanted to discuss the differences between Scarlett and Melanie and what they should and shouldn’t have done. It was something he always thought was cute: the way Ellen talked about characters in movies and books as if they were real people.
When he found himself wondering if Dorothea
He knew she was worrying about her brother again. He told her Jimmy would be all right, to make her feel better, but also becausehe believed it. Even Phillips said the Zoloft seemed to be working. Whatever had happened to cause the breakdown—and it wasn’t hard to guess, given the places Jimmy had been living, that it probably had something to do with drugs—once Dorothea took him home, he could get healthy and figure out what he wanted to do next. Maybe he would avoid cities completely and just paint. He had real talent, even if his style ran a little to the macabre.
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled. Her smiles were so genuine, they were nearly impossible to resist.
He smiled back, but then he looked away and picked up the remote. “Let’s see what we can find.”
It was eleven-thirty when they started watching television and two a.m. when he finally turned off the set, telling her they really needed to go to sleep. The entire time Dorothea’s eyes barely left the screen, even during commercials. She didn’t ask any questions either. He glanced at her occasionally, wondering what she was making of all this. He’d never been more aware of how crude television had become, with all the Viagra ads and toilet humor and sexual innuendos. Too bad she couldn’t have started like he had with The Brady Bunch and “relief equals Rolaids.”
“You must be tired,” he said.
“Oh, I am. I’ve never stayed up this long in my life. And I mean never ever.”
“How does it feel?”
“Great!” she said. “This was tremendously fun.” “I don’t know if I should be proud of myself,” he said. “I’ve turned a person who would talk about the meaning of the word ‘theory’ and casually mention Einstein into someone who can watch an hour of Jay Leno and an hour and a half of an Adam Sandler movie.” He shrugged off his own comment, but he did feel a little guilty.
“Yes,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, you should be proud of yourself.” She stood up, and hewatched her hair fall down her back. “That’s what Father told Jimmy and me and I think he would say the same thing to you. As long as you’re trying your best, you have nothing else to worry about.”
His own parents had said something similar when he was in medical school and overwhelmed by the work. Of course they were extremely disappointed when he gave up his practice and even more so when he told them about the cab. They said he was only driving the cab because of the car accident, and he knew they might be right; he even vaguely remembered a psych lecture on “repetition compulsion” after trauma. But he also knew it didn’t make any difference. How could it matter why he was driving the cab when nothing made any difference anymore?
“And what if I’m not trying my best?” he said quietly.
“Then you will tomorrow.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. She smiled. “Tomorrow is another day.”
He knew she was probably quoting the book Gone With the Wind, but after she went into the bedroom, and he’d turned off the lamp and lain down on the couch, he found himself thinking about the movie. He’d watched it because it was one of those films Ellen had always wanted to watch. He couldn’t say whether his wife would have liked it, but he knew she would have wanted to discuss the differences between Scarlett and Melanie and what they should and shouldn’t have done. It was something he always thought was cute: the way Ellen talked about characters in movies and books as if they were real people.
When he found himself wondering if Dorothea
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