Jerramunga

Fiction by Carl Tait

Sometimes, the injuries are more interesting than the people. The dullest person on Earth might have a spectacular fracture you’ll remember forever. More often, though, the injury and the person are of equal interest, and that interest is zero.

Why did I become a doctor? On boring days, I can’t remember. On the rare occasions when I’m happy, the answer comes more readily: to help people. That might sound glib, but when I say it, I mean it. Sadly, I don’t say it as often as I’d like.

Some days at the clinic, I wish for something unusual to happen. But you know what they say: “Be careful what you wish for because wishing is stupid, childish nonsense, and you’ll always be disappointed.” Well, maybe they don’t say that, but I do. And I was wrong. I got my wish.

Bailey Thompson looked like many of the dullards I see every day. Sixtyish, with unkempt hair, and carelessly dressed in a stained button-down shirt tucked into aging chinos. He was sporting an impatient and irritated expression, which I found disappointing. It looked like he wanted a quick fixer-upper so he could get back to his tedious life.

The problem was obvious. The man had an enormous bloody scrape on his right arm. I tried to imagine a scenario in which he had received the injury in fascinating circumstances, but gave up and simply asked him.

“That looks painful, Mr. Thompson. How did this happen?”

“I scraped it.”

“Did you slip, or fall over something, or …”

“Why are you asking? Does it change how you’ll treat it?”

“It might. If you fell and hit your arm on a hard surface, then X-rays would be a good idea.”

“No X-rays.” Bailey vetoed this notion as if I had suggested open-heart surgery.

“So you didn’t fall.”

“I didn’t say that. But no broken bones. Just patch me up so I can leave this hellhole.”

I shrugged. “All right. Let me clean the wound and take a closer look.”

I proceeded to do exactly that. My patient might have been strange, but he was stoic. He stared at me with the same calmly annoyed look the whole time I was working.

As I fastened the final bandage in place, Bailey spoke up. His voice was low and urgent.

“I know what’s going through your mind. You think I forgot to say ‘Jerramunga’ when I crossed the street.”

I looked at him with my most neutral expression. “I can assure you that did not occur to me.”

“Of course it did. You don’t have to deny it. But thank you for not asking.”

“You’re welcome.” I put a checkmark next to “interesting day” in my mind and filed the story away for future use at cocktail parties.

Bailey left without another word.

The rest of the day was devoid of interest. Ms. Monkwell’s unpleasant nine-year-old son was in again with an imaginary earache. He provided some mild humor when he momentarily forgot which ear was supposed to be hurting. His mother looked at me in desperation, and I offered a rueful smile.

At five o’clock sharp, I locked my office door, running my finger across the engraved RUSSELL HENDRICKS, M.D. on the nameplate. I was still me; the tactile sensation of the etched letters provided reassurance.

I passed Ramona at the front desk on the way out and gave her what I hoped was a cheerful wave.

“Good night, Dr. Hendricks,” she said. “Some bunch of patients today, wasn’t it?”

“Mmmmmm.”

Ramona chuckled. “One guy wrote us a thank-you note. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he insisted.”

“Was that Mr. Thompson, by any chance?”

“Thompson, yes. I saved the note because it was kind of sweet.” She retrieved a tan sheet of paper from her desk and handed it to me.

Thank you for the kind and skillful services, it said. The doctor treated me professionally, and I am most appreciative.

Underneath the odd tribute was the careful signature of Bailey Thompson.

I shrugged. “Well, you take what you can get. Maybe he’ll send us a fruit basket in the morning.”

Ramona gave me a wry smile as I left.

My apartment wasn’t far from the clinic. Being able to walk to work was a nice perk, but it gave me less time than most people for commute-time thinking—probably not a bad thing. The more I thought, the less happy I was. I’d become stuck in a monotonous pattern of treating tiresome adults and malingering children.

I was mulling over my dissatisfaction while crossing the final street on my journey home. There were no cars in sight as I walked across the empty road.

Whoosh.

That’s all it was—a whoosh. But not a gust of wind; it was the kind of whoosh you feel when a car rushes past at high speed.

I looked again—nothing in either direction. I shrugged and walked on.

I forgot to say Jerramunga, I thought. It was supposed to be funny, but I didn’t laugh.

* * *

Bailey Thompson returned to the clinic the next day and insisted on seeing me. He did not bring a fruit basket. In my office, he held out his bandaged arm.

“Take a look, doc. It still hurts.”

“I wouldn’t expect the pain to fade completely in just a day,” I said, carefully unwrapping the bandage. When the arm was exposed, I couldn’t hide my grimace. The wound itself was healing well, but there was a good amount of swelling.

I touched his forearm gently at the most swollen point. “Does that hurt?”

Bailey yelped. “Of course it hurts! Why do you think I came back?”

I shook my head. “There may be a fracture here. We really need to take X-rays.”

“No way. You know they don’t like that.”

“Who?”

Bailey looked at me with exasperation. “Who do you think? And they’ll start asking questions about the accident and whether I said ‘Jerramunga’ while crossing the street.”

“Why would you say that word?” I had intended to phrase the question more diplomatically, but my curiosity got ahead of me.

“Why else? So I won’t get hit. Duh.”

“You think the word protects you?”

“Well, whenever I say it before crossing, I get to the other side with no problem. What more proof do you need?”

“So how did you get this injury?”

“Connect the dots, doc. Connect the dots. Don’t make me admit it. We could both get in a lot of trouble.”

Crazy old guy, I thought. A silly ritual he’d developed to make himself feel safer.

I shook my head. “Mr. Thompson, I can’t force you to get an X-ray, but I strongly advise it. If you refuse, the best I can suggest is ice packs, immobilization, rest, and analgesics for the pain.”

“Sounds all right. I’m retired, so I can rest all I like. I just need to buy some underwear on the way home.”

I knew I would regret it, but asked anyway. “Why is that?”

Bailey’s face grew slightly red. “I know you’re supposed to have fifteen pairs, but a couple of mine have gotten ratty, and I don’t know if they still count.”

“Why fifteen pairs?”

The surprise on his face was genuine. “You have two arms and two legs, right?”

“Most people do, yes.”

“Well, do the math. I thought you doctors were supposed to be smart.”

The conversation had progressed from amusingly weird to downright creepy. I felt obligated to make a suggestion.

“Mr. Thompson, would you like to talk to someone about these rituals of yours?”

“I am talking to someone. You.”

That was my cue to give up.

“All right. If the pain gets worse, feel free to come back, and maybe we can take those X-rays.”

“Not a chance. But I promise I’ll leave a nice thank-you note at the desk.”

* * *

My afternoon was pleasantly boring, without a single patient who saw the world through a warped, murky lens. There was even a child with a bona fide case of strep throat. Ordinary yet glorious.

Ramona waved me over as I was leaving for the day. With a grin, she handed me a sheet of paper bearing several lines in immaculate handwriting. Bailey’s second thank-you note was even more effusive than the first, ascribing powers to me that bordered on the supernatural. I hadn’t realized that a treatment plan of ice packs and aspirin qualified for the Nobel Prize in Medicine, but apparently, I was incorrect.

I walked home, musing over Bailey’s strange behavior. Was he a danger to himself or others? I didn’t think so. His odd fantasies appeared to be harmless, other than his aversion to X-rays. With luck, his arm would heal without deformity.

At the next corner, I waited next to a young woman staring at her phone. I hoped she wouldn’t wander into traffic while laughing at a video of a dancing dog.

The woman took a step forward and spoke quietly. Her voice was barely audible, but what she said was chilling.

“Jerramunga.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Excuse me, what did you say?”

She looked at me in surprise. “Nothing.”

“But you did; I heard you.”

Her look became a glare. “Well, just what you always say. Nothing else.” She turned away and walked briskly into the street.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, following as quickly as I could.

That whoosh again. This time, it didn’t pass by.

Blackness poured over me.

* * *

I opened my eyes to a bright light and the face of an attractive young woman peering down into mine. Was I dead? Was this an angel? Was there really a heaven after all, in spite of my heathen cynicism? If so, why was I here instead of the other place?

The angel spoke. “Russell Hendricks? Can you hear me?”

Not an angel. Her voice was too strident. Or maybe I was in the other place after all.

“Russell?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can hear you. I hurt all over. Where am I?”

“Midgebrook Hospital. An ambulance brought you in. I’m Dr. Anderson. Can you give me your full legal name and address?”

I recited them, and the doctor nodded. “Checks out with the driver’s license they found in your wallet. What do you remember?”

“I was talking with a stranger. Then we crossed the street, and everything went dark.” I felt it best to omit the details of our unconventional conversation.

The door of the room opened, and the doctor looked up.

“He’s awake and coherent,” she said, stepping aside.

A tall man took her place and looked down at me. He was considerably older and less attractive than his colleague. His exuberant nasal hair did not improve his appearance.

“Hello, Russell. I’m Dr. Philips. You don’t seem to be seriously injured, though you do have a number of bruises.”

I shifted a little, and the pain made me wish I hadn’t.

“As you know, I’m required to ask you a few questions about the incident.”

“Okay.”

“The first is a formality. I have to verify that you said ‘Jerramunga’ before crossing the street.”

I stared at him.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he added. “I’m sure I know the answer, but you have to confirm you said it, or I must discontinue treatment and file a report.”

“Yes, I said it.”

I wasn’t a good liar, but the truth seemed inadvisable.

Dr. Philips nodded. “And you own at least fifteen pairs of underwear, correct?”

“Who doesn’t?”

Hey, that was better, I thought. Dodging questions was easier than lying.

“Good,” the doctor said. “The best I can recommend for you is rest and sneezing.”

“Could you repeat that?”

“Rest and sneezing. You can get sneezing powder at any drugstore. Nothing better for getting rid of aches.”

I couldn’t even nod.

“That should do it,” said Dr. Philips, scribbling some notes onto a pad. “I spell my name P-H-I-L-I-P-S, should you choose to mention me in your thank-you note.”

“‘Thank you for the kind and skillful services,’” I said, quoting Bailey’s letter.

The doctor smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

* * *

I don’t know how I made it home without screaming. A cab drove me to my apartment while I sat in the back and tried to turn off my brain. Once home, I retreated to the soft cocoon of my bed. It was my anchor in reality, far removed from therapeutic sneezing, underwear bonanzas, and medical thank-you notes.

The next morning, everything was hazy and distant. My body ached frightfully, so I knew the accident had been real. The hospital memories were too concrete to be imaginary, but I was less sure about the conversations. Could I have pieced together Bailey’s rantings with tidbits from my own imagination to create the discussion with Dr. Philips? Was the doctor even real, or was he a composite memory of the people who had treated me?

I didn’t know. I hoped that returning to my usual dull routine would provide stability. I dressed stiffly, carefully selecting the cleanest underwear from my meager collection. When I arrived at the clinic, Ramona’s cheerful smile gave me a dose of normalcy.

Never have I been so happy with boredom. Ms. Monkwell’s awful son was back again, this time with a vague complaint of pain in his arm. I considered telling him it was leprosy, but my returning good cheer led to me saying it might be a muscle spasm. The boy’s surprised expression suggested wonder that his ruse had been successful. I gave him a disapproving look to let him know it had not.

My final patient was Bailey Thompson. When I saw him, my precariously rebuilt reality threatened to collapse.

Bailey had shaved half of his head. No, not one side, which could have been a fashion statement. He’d shaved the front half, from his forehead to the midpoint of his scalp. It looked like he had fallen face-down into a hair-cutting machine and had extricated himself before being completely shorn.

“Hey, doc!” he said, with more enthusiasm than he had previously exhibited. “Look at my arm! I had to come back and thank you in person.”

He pulled off the bandage. The wound was healing nicely and the swelling had receded.

I managed a smile. “I’m glad to see how much better your arm looks. Did you get the haircut to celebrate?”

Bailey looked puzzled. “You know they insist you shave off the front, but I guess you bald guys don’t have to worry about that.”

“No, indeed,” I said.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta run,” said Bailey. “The sky was already turning green when I came in.”

Either my hearing or my sanity was failing, and I wasn’t sure which.

“What?”

“I said I can’t stay because it’s getting late. See you later. Or maybe never.” He left with a joyous laugh.

A few minutes later, I turned out the lights in my office and prepared to go home. I gave my usual farewell wave to Ramona at the front desk.

“You’re looking awfully tired today, Dr. Hendricks.”

“Not one of my favorite days.”

“I’ve had plenty of those,” said Ramona. “But then I look at a sunset like this and feel better.” She gestured to the waiting room window behind me, and I turned.

The darkening sky was emerald green.

I stared for a moment in disbelief and turned back to Ramona. The front half of her hair had been shaved off. She noticed my stare.

“Oh, do you think it’s cut far enough back? They’re so particular about it, and you know what happens if you get into trouble.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

I fled.

* * *

On the pavement outside, I fell to my knees and wept. I had come unmoored from reality, or reality had taken a vacation and left me behind. I was lost.

A loud whoosh penetrated my despair. I lifted my head and looked into the street. The road was empty, but the whoosh continued, zooming around the corner to my left.

The sound came to an abrupt halt. I heard a door being opened and closed, followed by the click of shoes on concrete. The steps were heading in my direction. I looked toward the street corner and waited to see what new aberration would present itself.

It was a woman. She was dressed in an elegant white suit and gloves, which would have looked more stylish if the front half of her hair had been intact. She smiled as she walked toward me, and I shuddered. Her gait was all wrong, like something out of an early silent movie: jerky, mechanical, puppet-like.

What’s that phrase? Uncanny valley. Not robotic, not human. In the trough between Danger Will Robinson and the hyper-realistic androids of science fiction. More disturbing than any slime-dripping movie monster.

“Hello,” the woman said. She waved a gloved hand in a tremulous arc, like a hallucinatory version of Jackie Kennedy. “I see you’ve been having some trouble.”

“Yeah,” I croaked.

“It’s often difficult at first,” she said. “The rituals of your culture are complex and quite different from ours. When we blend all these practices together, the results can be disconcerting.”

“You don’t say.”

The woman gave me a patronizing smile.

“In most cases, we can induce individuals to adopt new patterns of behavior, with some effort, but you are uncommonly strong-willed. You should take that as a compliment.”

“Okay. Do I need to write you a thank-you note?”

She laughed; a rattle of ice cubes. “Goodness, no. I’m simply trying to help. I promise you things will get easier.”

“When?”

“Soon. Soon and forever. Open your mind, and it will be much easier. Let me help you stand up.” She extended a hand, the white glove immaculate. I reached up to take it.

“Oh, my,” she said, taking a step backward. Her face was twisted with revulsion. “Your hands.”

I looked down. My hands looked the same as they always had.

“Go to the Adjustment Center tomorrow,” the woman said. “I’m afraid it will be awful for you. All ten at once. Nothing to be done, though. It’s amazing you’re still alive.”

Her own hands were shaking. She pulled off her gloves and reached into her handbag. I heard the metallic snap of a box being opened. The woman pulled out a mint and popped it into her mouth.

I studied her fingers. In the dying sunlight, the bare nail beds looked like old, wrinkled prunes.