The Corrections

“I’m Mrs. Lambert,” she said. “Enid Lambert in B11. I was hoping you could help me.”

“I hope so, too. What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m having some trouble.”

“Mental trouble? Emotional trouble?”

“Well, it’s my husband—”

“Excuse me. Stop? Stop?” Dr. Hibbard ducked a little and smiled impishly. “You say you’re having the trouble?”

His smile was adorability itself. It took hostage that part of Enid that melted at the sight of seal pups and kittens, and it refused to release her until, somewhat grudgingly, she’d smiled back. “My trouble,” she said, “is my husband and my children—”

“Sorry again, Edith. Time out?” Dr. Hibbard ducked very low, put his hands on his head, and peered up from between his arms. “We need to be clear: you are the one having trouble?”

“No. I’m fine. But everyone else in my—”

“Are you anxious?”

“Yes, but—”

“Not sleeping?”

“Exactly. You see, my husband—”

“Edith? You said Edith?”

“Enid. Lambert. L-A-M-B—”

“Enith, what’s four times seven with three taken away?”

“What? Oh. Well, twenty-five.”

“And, what day of the week is it today?”

“Today is Monday.”

“And, what historic Rhode Island resort town did we visit yesterday?”

“Newport.”

“And, are you currently taking medication for depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, epilepsy, parkinsonism, or any other psychiatric or neurologic disorder?”

“No.”

Dr. Hibbard nodded and sat up straight, rolled open a deep drawer in the console behind him, and withdrew a handful of rattling plastic-and-foil packages. He counted off eight of them and set them on his desk in front of Enid. They had an expensive sheen she didn’t like the looks of.

“This is an excellent new medication that will help you enormously,” Hibbard recited in a monotone. He winked at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Have we misunderstood each other? I believe you said, ‘I am having trouble.’ And mentioned anxiety and sleep disturbance?”

“Yes, but what I meant was that my husband—”

“Husband, right. Or wife. It’s often the less inhibited spouse that comes to see me. In fact a crippling fear of asking for Aslan is the condition for which Aslan is most commonly indicated. The drug exerts a remarkable blocking effect on ‘deep’ or ‘morbid’ shame.” Hibbard’s smile was like a fresh dent in soft fruit. He had a puppy’s lush eyelashes, a head that invited stroking. “This interests you?” he said. “I have your full attention?”

Enid lowered her eyes and wondered if people ever died of sleep loss. Taking her silence for assent, Hibbard continued: “We think of a classic CNS depressant such as alcohol as suppressing ‘shame’ or ‘inhibitions.’ But the ‘shameful’ admission that a person spills under the influence of three martinis doesn’t lose its shamefulness in the spilling; witness the deep remorse that follows when the martinis have worn off. What’s happening on the molecular level, Edna, when you drink those martinis, is that the ethanol interferes with the reception of excess Factor 28A, i. e., the ‘deep’ or ‘morbid’ shame factor. But the 28A is not metabolized or properly reabsorbed at the receptor site. It’s kept in temporary unstable storage at the transmitter site. So when the ethanol wears off, the receptor is flooded with 28A. Fear of humiliation and the craving for humiliation are closely linked: psychologists know it, Russian novelists know it. And this turns out to be not only ‘true’ but really true. True at the molecular level. Anyway, Aslan’s effect on the chemistry of shame is entirely different from a martini’s. We’re talking complete annihilation of the 28A molecules. Aslan’s a fierce predator.”

Evidently it was Enid’s turn to speak now, but she’d missed a cue somewhere. “Doctor,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I haven’t slept and I’m a little confused.”

The doctor frowned adorably. “Confused? Or confused?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve told me you are ‘having trouble.’ You’re carrying one hundred fifty U. S. dollars in cash or traveler’s checks. Based on your clinical responses I’ve diagnosed subclinical dysthymia with no observable dementia, and I’m providing you, free of charge, with eight SampLpaks of Aslan ‘Cruiser,’ each containing three thirty-milligram capsules, so that you may comfortably enjoy the remainder of your cruise and afterward follow the recommended thirty-twenty-ten step-down program. However, Elinor, I must warn you right away that if you are confused, as opposed to merely confused, it may compel me to alter my diagnosis, which may well jeopardize your access to the Aslan.”

Here Hibbard raised his eyebrows and whistled a few bars of a melody that his faux-disingenuous smile robbed the tune of.

“I’m not confused,” Enid said. “My husband is confused.”