Memories of Midnight

Sorry. What a weak word, what a stupid word.

"How would you like us to handle the funeral arrangements, Miss Alexander?"

So death was not the end. No, there were arrangements to be made. Coffins and burial plots, and flowers, and relatives to be notified. Catherine wanted to scream.

"Miss Alexander?"

Catherine looked up. "I’ll notify Kirk’s family."

"Thank you."

The trip back to London was a mourning. She had come up to the mountains with Kirk filled with eager hope, thinking that it was, perhaps, a new beginning, a door to a new life.

Kirk had been so gentle and so patient. I should have made love with him, Catherine thought. But in the end, would it really have mattered? What did anything matter? I’m under some kind of curse. I destroy everyone who comes near me.

When Catherine returned to London, she was too depressed to go back to work. She stayed in the flat, refusing to see anyone or talk to anyone. Anna, the housekeeper, prepared meals for her and took them to Catherine’s room, but the trays were returned untouched.

"You must eat something, Miss Alexander."

But the thought of food made Catherine ill.

The next day Catherine was feeling worse. She felt as though her chest were filled with iron. She found it difficult to breathe.

I can’t go on like this, Catherine thought. I have to do something.

She discussed it with Evelyn Kaye.

"I keep blaming myself for what happened."

"That doesn’t make sense, Catherine."

"I know it doesn’t, but I can’t help it. I feel responsible. I need someone to talk to. Maybe if I saw a psychiatrist…"

"I know one who’s awfully good," Evelyn said. "As a matter of fact, he sees Wim from time to time. His name is Alan Hamilton. I had a friend who was suicidal, and by the time Dr. Hamilton was through treating her, she was in great shape. Would you like to see him?"

What if he tells me I’m crazy? What if I am? "All right," Catherine said reluctantly.

"I’ll try to make the appointment for you. He’s pretty busy."

"Thanks, Evelyn. I appreciate it."

Catherine went into Wim’s office. He would want to know about Kirk, she thought.

"Wim – do you remember Kirk Reynolds? He was killed a few days ago in a skiing accident."

"Yeah? Westminster-oh-four-seven-one."

Catherine blinked. "What?" And she suddenly realized that Wim was reciting Kirk’s telephone number. Was that all people meant to Wim? A series of numbers? Didn’t he have any feelings for them? Was he really unable to love or hate or feel compassion?

Perhaps he’s better off than I am, Catherine thought. At least he’s spared the terrible pain that the rest of us can feel.

Evelyn arranged an appointment for Catherine with Dr. Hamilton for the following Friday. Evelyn thought of telephoning Constantin Demiris to tell him what she had done, but she decided it was too unimportant to bother him about.

Alan Hamilton’s office was on Wimpole Street. Catherine went there for her first appointment, apprehensive and angry. Apprehensive because she was fearful of what he might say about her, and angry with herself for having to rely on a stranger to help her with problems she felt she should have been able to solve herself.

The receptionist behind the glass window said, "Dr. Hamilton is ready for you, Miss Alexander."

But am I ready for him? Catherine wondered. She was filled with a sudden panic. What am I doing here? I’m not going to put myself in the hands of some quack who probably thinks he’s God.

Catherine said, "I – I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really need to see the doctor. I’ll be happy to pay for the appointment."

"Oh? Just a moment, please."

"But…"

The receptionist had disappeared into the doctor’s office.

A few moments later, the door to the office opened and Alan Hamilton came out. He was in his early forties, tall and blond, with bright blue eyes and an easy manner.

He looked at Catherine and smiled. "You’ve made my day," he said.

Catherine frowned. "What…?"

"I didn’t realize how good a doctor I really was. You just walked into my reception office, and you’re already feeling better. That must be some kind of record."

Catherine said defensively, "I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I don’t need any help."

"I’m delighted to hear that," Alan Hamilton said. "I wish all my patients felt that way. As long as you’re here, Miss Alexander, why don’t you come in for a moment? We’ll have a cup of coffee."

"Thank you, no. I don’t…"

"I promise you can drink it sitting up."

Catherine hesitated. "All right, just for a minute."

She followed him into his office. It was very simple, done in quiet, good taste, furnished more like a living room than an office. There were soothing prints hanging on the walls, and on a coffee table was a photograph of a beautiful woman with a young boy. All right, so he has a nice office and an attractive family. What does that prove?

"Please sit down," Dr. Hamilton said. "The coffee should be ready in a minute."

"I really shouldn’t be wasting your time, doctor. I’m…"

"Don’t worry about that." He sat in an easy chair, studying her. "You’ve been through a lot," he said sympathetically.

"What do you know about it?" Catherine snapped. Her tone was angrier than she had intended.

"I spoke with Evelyn. She told me what happened at St. Moritz. I’m sorry."

That damned word again. "Are you? If you’re such a wonderful doctor, maybe you can bring Kirk back to life." All the misery that had been pent up inside her broke, erupting in a torrent, and to her horror Catherine found that she was sobbing hysterically. "Leave me alone," she screamed. "Leave me alone."