Fictional story set in Geelong
from w
I wrote this after an incident with a woman who had
somehow got out of the psychiatric centre in Geelong and was walking along Ryrie
Streetnear the park and seemed disorientated. She said she was intent upon
going to her home 15 k away but had no money. We gave her a lift, a cup of tea,
a bus fare. I met her three months later when she knocked on our door to
say thank you and she was magically altered into a cultured well-dressed woman.
I wrote this after an incident with a woman who had
somehow got out of the psychiatric centre in Geelong and was walking along Ryrie
Streetnear the park and seemed disorientated. She said she was intent upon
going to her home 15 k away but had no money. We gave her a lift, a cup of tea,
a bus fare. I met her three months later when she knocked on our door to
say thank you and she was magically altered into a cultured well-dressed woman.
The Patient
‘Dr Stein?’ The voice was timid.
‘Me friend told me you could help with me aterlitus.’
She carried four supermarket bags apparently stuffed with
clothes and food because I am sure I could smell pizza and pepparoni. She
slouched into a chair.
I examined the woman’s knees and elbows but was hesitant to
ask her to undress because she wore
layers of t-shirts and cast off clothes. I asked her about her family but there
were none. She was probably diabetic too by the look of her skin. Her name:
Rebecca Byleskowsky. That was a guess I think from my receptionist. Address. No, she had none or she wouldn’t
tell me. No Social Security Card. ‘Lost it,’ she said. ‘Well, I might get
another one I suppose.’
Then it struck me that this bag-day who slept wherever she
could - by the look of her - would be excellent for the experiment with
the blue striped pills and the patches. I showed her how to place the patches
on her forehead every night. I did not tell her they were not really for her
‘aterlitus.’ I prescribed pills for the
slight inflammation but of course if she didn’t have a welfare card, how could
she afford the cost at the chemist!
She ambled from the surgery her sneakers slip-slopping on
the beige carpet.
------
The door opened. ‘Dr Stein?’
She looked the same but there was a little difference, not
in the voice but in her stance. When she sat down she crossed her legs with
elegance and I smiled at the incongruity as her clothes were still the same,
layer upon layer of sweatshirts,
cardigans and a blue skirt over dark green tracksuit pants, one yellow
sock, one pink sock and high heels. Well that was a shift. I gave her another
twelve pills and six patches.
The homing gene. The travel gene. The wicked gene. All put
into a blue and white pill. I wanted to know if humans can be reconstructed
just with chemicals. Would the bag lady
change?
With a cheerio, she was gone.
-----
The door opened.
‘Dr Stein, good morning.’
I knew the voice but could not place the tall attractive
woman who was well-dressed, made-up. She wore a black suit and gold
jewelry. I looked at the appointments
list. Rebecca Byleskowsky. I couldn’t believe it.
‘What’s happened to
you? I asked rather tactlessly.
But there was the same voice, a street voice.
Well, I’ve got meself a flat. I’ve got meself a job. And
those patches are makin’ me remember who I am.’
The bag lady had vanished. Here was a professional woman.
I ripped the gold-lettered nameplate from the door. I would
soon be elsewhere. I had taken the nomad pills.
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