The Other Side of Midnight

A nurse ushered Catherine in to his private office and Doctor Nikodes indicated a chair. "Sit down, Mrs. Douglas."

Catherine took a seat, nervous and tense, trying to stop her body from trembling.

"What seems to be your problem?"

She started to answer and then stopped helplessly. Oh, God, she thought, where can I begin? "I need help," she said, finally. Her voice was dry and scratchy, and she ached for a drink.

The doctor was leaning back in his chair watching her. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight." She watched his face as she said it. He tried to conceal the look of shock, but she caught it and in some perverse way was pleased by it "You're an American?"

"Yes."

"Are you living in Athens?"

She nodded.

"How long have you lived here?"

"A thousand years. We moved here before the Peloponnesian War."

The doctor smiled. "I feel that way sometimes too." He offered Catherine a cigarette. She reached for it, trying to control the trembling of her fingers. If Doctor Nikodes noticed, he said nothing. He lit it for her. "What kind of help do you need, Mrs. Douglas?"

Catherine looked at him helplessly. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."

"Do you feel ill?"

"I am ill. I think I must be very ill. I've become so ugly." She knew she was not crying and yet she felt tears running down her cheeks.

"Do you drink, Mrs. Douglas?" the doctor asked gently.

Catherine stared at him in panic, feeling cornered, attacked. "Sometimes."

"How much?"

She took a deep breath. "Not much. It--it depends."

"Have you had a drink today?" he asked.

"No."

He sat there studying her. "You're not really ugly, you know," he said gently. "You're overweight, your body is bloated and you haven't been taking care of your skin or your hair. Underneath that facade there's a very attractive young woman."

She burst into tears, and he sat there letting her cry herself out. Dimly over her racking sobs Catherine heard the buzzer on his desk ring several times, but the doctor ignored it. The spasm of sobbing finally subsided. Catherine pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "C--can you help me?"

"That depends entirely on you," Doctor Nikodes replied. "We don't really know what your problem is yet."

"Take a look at me," Catherine responded. He shook his head. "That's not a problem, Mrs. Douglas, that's a symptom. Forgive me for being blunt, but if I am to help you, we must be totally honest with each other. When an attractive young woman lets herself go as you have, there must be a very strong reason. Is your husband alive?" "Holidays and weekends." He studied her. "Do you live with him?" "When he's home." "What is his work?"

"He's Constantin Demiris' personal pilot." She saw the reaction on the doctor's face, but whether he was reacting to the name of Demiris or whether he knew something about Larry, she could not tell. "Have you heard of my husband?" she asked.

"No." But he could have been lying. "Do you love your husband, Mrs. Douglas?"

Catherine opened her mouth to answer and then stopped. She knew that what she was going to say was very important, not only to the doctor, but to herself. Yes, she loved her husband and yes, she hated him, and yes, at times she felt such a rage toward him that she knew she was capable of killing him, and yes, at times she was so overwhelmed by a tenderness for him that she knew she would gladly die for him and what was the word that could say all that? Perhaps it was love. "Yes," she said.

"Does he love you?"

Catherine thought of the other women in Larry's life and his unfaithfulness and she thought of the awful stranger in the mirror last night and she could not blame Larry for not wanting her. But who was to say which came first? Did the woman in the mirror create his infidelity, or did his infidelity create the woman in the mirror? She became aware that her cheeks were wet with tears again.