Helene could not help but notice the attractive middle-aged woman with her large shopping bag. She was wearing white socks with expensive-looking sandals and an equally unusual array of colors: red with orange and purple. Somehow she had managed to pull it all together – an artist, probably thought Helene. After a lifetime analyzing patients Helene could not break her habit of lightning appraisals. She prided herself on being able to reconstruct a person's history from something as seemingly inconsequential as a watch fob or a piece of jewelry. As if to confirm Helene's assumption, the woman put up her hand and touched one of her gold earrings as though to reassure herself that it was still there. The gesture reminded Helene of an artist she had treated during her early days with Freud in Vienna.
The woman continued along the sand-blown Provincetown street at a steady pace, her colorful dress whipping in the breeze. At 84, Helene could, though somewhat short of breath, still keep up with this woman who was probably only in her early fifties. The thought gave her a certain amount of self-satisfaction, which she immediately suppressed as unprofessional. She had given up all but a few special patients in 1963, five years ago, but old habits died hard.
The woman stopped in front of the steps of the gray shingled house right next to the vacation cottage Helene had rented for a few weeks that summer. It had been relaxing to be away from Cambridge for a while, to be someplace where she wasn’t regarded as an institution. She had hoped her son or one of her grandsons would come and join her, but that hadn’t happened. Something about the slightly melancholy expression of the woman’s face made Helene surmise that she wasn’t going home to a family, either.
She was wondering whether the eccentrically dressed lady would prove to be an interesting neighbor when the woman tripped, spilling the contents of her bag – some pieces of colored fabric, two oranges and a jar of instant coffee – across the weathered steps. Helene hurried over and crouched next to her. She was groaning and holding her leg.
“I think something’s broken,” she said, biting her lip. “Oh my god, it hurts.” Her leg seemed bent in an unnatural position.
“You’ll be all right,” Helene assured her, in her light Polish accent. “Stay just as you are. Don’t move and I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Please stay with me.”
“I’m just going to the next house, there.” She pointed at the green-shuttered house next door with the blue hydrangea blooming wildly in front of it. Then she gently removed the woman’s hand from her arm. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Ignoring her own arthritic joints, she straightened and a few minutes later was back with a cup of water and the news that an ambulance was on the way. Meanwhile, the woman had edged into a half-sitting position and was leaning on one elbow, looking dazed.
“Would you like a drink?” Helene asked sitting down next to her. The woman nodded and held the cup carefully to her mouth. The early morning fog had blown off and the day was bright and warm; soon it would be hot, and the woman sipped it gratefully.
“Are you feeling any better?” Helene asked, after a moment.
“The water helped. I don’t feel so faint now but it hurts like hell.”
“It shouldn’t be long now,” Helene said, glancing at her watch.
“I don’t know what happened. Clumsy of me,” the woman said. Then, wincing at the pain, she added, “My daughter will be angry. She didn’t want me to come down here alone. I probably should have stayed in New York. I should have listened.”
“Please, don’t distress yourself. Try to breathe more slowly. I’m sure she’ll understand.” But the woman had covered her eyes with her hands. “I know, I know how children can be,” Helene went on. “Breathe in now,” she said, touching the woman’s arm. “Breathe out.”