Anja

 A short story by Mary, M. Isaacs

   It was 3:15, Thursday afternoon.

   Franklin Pearce answered his ringing cell phone. The voice that greeted him was his wife’s, strained and agitated.

   “Frank, please come home! Something terrible…Anja’s having another of her attacks…get Dr. Hall, Frank, hurry!”

   “I’ll be right there.” Pearce ended the call and looked up an all-too-familiar contact, fuming at the few seconds’ delay. When Hall answered, his casual greeting only irritated Pearce, who was a bit brusque in consequence.

   “Hall, it’s happened again. Meet me at our home as fast as you can.” Slipping the phone into his pocket, he rushed out of his office.

   Matthew Hall frowned in consternation at the phone in his hand. Then, while pulling on his coat, he hastily called a taxi and scribbled a note to his wife. Within minutes, he was on his way the short distance to the Pearce apartment. He glanced at his watch; it was 3:30.

   Johanna Pearce stared at the clock on the wall, worry and anguish spread over her face. At that moment, her husband strode into the apartment. “Is the doctor coming?” she said, rushing up to him.

   ‘I’ve called him; he’ll be here soon. Where’s Anja?” Without waiting for her answer, he went almost instinctively to a chair in the far corner of the room. Slumped in it was a silent figure.

   The doorbell rang. Mrs. Pearce opened the door and Matthew Hall came into the living room. Silently, he walked to the chair and did a brief examination. He straightened up and addressed Mrs. Pearce.

   “How long has she been this way?” he asked.

   “Only a few minutes, doctor! We were just talking and then she suddenly collapsed! Will she be alright?” The woman wrung her hands in agony. Pearce and Hall exchanged quick glances.

   “It looks like the usual trouble,” Hall replied. “There’s nothing to be done but let her wake naturally. Otherwise, we might do her harm. I wouldn’t worry too much, Jo—Anja’s merely overtired; she needs more rest. Frank, help me carry her to her bed.”

   Between them they managed it. Mrs. Pearce fluttered about, plumping up the pillows, tucking in a quilt, and drawing the curtains. “I’ll make sure that she rests quietly for a few days, doctor.” Mustering a courageous smile, she thanked him and quickly returned to hovering over the bed.

   “I’ll go downstairs with you, Hall, and see you off,” Pearce said. “Back in a minute, Jo.”

   “Yes, dear,” she answered absently, and took Anja’s hand in her own.

   Pearce opened the apartment door, and the two men walked down the hall silently. They waited for the elevator, not looking at each other during the descent.

   Outside the apartment building, Hall took Pearce by the arm and left the apartment doorway. “I think we’d better have a drink. You look terrible.”

   “Do you blame me?” Pearce said sharply. There was more silence. The two men walked into the corner bar and sat down at an empty table.

   “What’ll you have?” Hall asked.

   “I don’t care.” Pearce closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “My God…” he muttered. Hall went to the bar to order. He returned with two drinks in his hand and handed one to Pearce, who downed it in one swallow. Hall eyed him over his own drink.

   Pearce began to talk. “Four years, Hall, four years. Four of the longest years any man has ever lived through. I don’t think I can handle any more of these attacks.”

   Hall reached out his hand and grabbed Pearce’s wrist. “Don’t give up now! She’s not dangerous—be thankful for that.”

   Pearce sobbed once, a quiet dry sound. Hall leaned closer and spoke with intensity. “At first you thought she wouldn’t recover, remember? But she did. She’s come through every attack just fine, and I believe she will continue to do so.” He sat back in his chair. “I don’t think they’ll become any more serious than they’ve always been.”

   Pearce bent over the table, both hands supporting his head. “I can’t bear the thought of her in an institution.” Hall spoke again, in a brisker tone. “That doesn’t have to happen. We just wait until the next attack...and cope with it.” He took another drink and waited tensely for Pearce’s reaction.

   After a pause, the man lifted his head. “I know you’re right, Hall. I don’t understand how I could break down like this.”

   “I can understand it.”

   Having finished their drinks, they walked out of the bar as the town clock struck four. “Do you want me to go back to the apartment with you?”

   “No, she’s probably out of it by now. Thanks, Hall. See you next time,” he said with a bitter half-smile.

   Hall gripped him on the shoulder and hailed a passing taxi to take him home. Pearce returned to his apartment building and took the elevator upstairs. He hesitated before his door and then entered quietly, looking around. Hearing his wife in the kitchen, he went into Anja’s bedroom and softly closed the door. Pearce walked over to the bed and looked down at the stiff figure lying there--the glassy eyes, the glazed hair, the chipped paint. He compared these to the photograph on the dresser: bright eyes, soft hair, smooth skin. With revulsion, he yanked off the quilt and then picked up the plaster figure. How I hate you, he thought. Roughly, Pearce stuffed the figure into the closet and closed the door with distaste. After folding and replacing the quilt at the end of the bed, he quietly returned to the living room, opened the front door, and then shut it loudly. His wife came in from the kitchen with a smile of surprise and kissed him on the cheek.

   “You’re home early, dear! I’ll try to hurry dinner,” she said, and then went back into the kitchen. Pearce’s eyes turned automatically to the clock on the wall.

    It was 4:15.

   It was Thursday afternoon.

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Mary M. Isaacs

copyright 2025

(from a forthcoming book)