“Honey, are you okay in there? Do you want me to go get your fella for you?” She saw a beautiful pair of pumps at the door of her stall.
“No, no.” She tried to sound upbeat but was still crying. “I’m okay. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Okay, well, if you—”
“Mags, honey, are you in there?” Frank threw open the bathroom door and ran to the locked stall.
“I’m so sorry, Frank,” she wailed.
“Mags, just come out, please. Come out. Let me help you.” He reached his hand under the door, which made her cry even harder.
“I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care. C’mon, honey. Tell me what is going on.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Of course you can. And I think these nice ladies would like to get rid of me, so please, darling . . . open the door.”
Slowly Margaret cracked opened the stall door. Frank stood in front of the round ottoman in the center of the lounge, while the bathroom attendant kept a careful watch on him. As did the women reapplying their makeup. Margaret saw her reflection in the mirror as she walked toward him, her lipstick smeared from blowing her nose, black lines of mascara running from her eyes, her cheeks red and splotchy.
He opened his arms to her. “What is going on, Mags?”
“Something is wrong with me, Frank.”
“Okay. Okay.” He stroked her head. “Let’s get you home. And then we will figure out how I can help. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ruth saw the sun flash off the windshield as Robert’s car made its way past the budding trees and toward the front door. There was a time that her first instinct would have been to run outside and greet him, but he had been traveling so much lately that she now treated his return from long trips as if they were any other day at the office. She knew to give him the space to reacclimate to being at home, to get his voluminous files sorted and his equipment unpacked, and that he preferred to do that alone.
But when nearly two hours had passed, she decided she had waited long enough. She wanted to hear about the trip! He had been enlisted by a group of regional hospitals to perform and teach them lobotomy, and she loved hearing about how much Robert’s ice pick procedure helped overcrowded and underfunded hospitals in other parts of the country. Plus, he had visited old patients along the way, and she was eager to get updates on their statuses. So she made two cups of tea and carried them from the kitchen, across the stone path, to Robert’s office.
“Ruth!” Robert turned, smiling distractedly at her as she entered the carriage house. He sat on the floor, surrounded by piles of papers and photographs. Ruth was taken aback by their sheer volume. “Have you been waiting for me, dear? I’m so sorry, I was just trying to get myself organized.”
“I was waiting, yes. I missed you! Oh, my goodness, are all those from this trip?”
“Yes! It’s remarkable really. Once I get the doctors trained, my lobotomies run like automobiles in a Henry Ford factory.” His face lit up with pride as he stroked his goatee. “Guess how many procedures we performed?”
“Let me think.” She stalled, trying to calculate a number that would seem both reasonable and impressive. “You were there for fourteen days—”
“Actually twelve, two were spent on the road visiting other patients. Ah, I must tell you about dear Mr. Barney; he’s doing so well! You should have seen how he smiled and ran to me when I got out of the car. Gave me a giant hug. He’s a bit juvenile after the procedure, likes to play in the mud and that sort of thing, but Mrs. Barney is so happy. Freed from his psychotic episodes, she is able to live quite peacefully. Remember how nervous and beaten down she was when he came to Emeraldine?”