Free Deficiency by Andrew Neiderman

he said.
    When he turned around, she was gone and she had closed the door. Suddenly, he had another memory flash. He was locked in a room just like this and he was pounding on the door only his hands and his arms were all bandaged, and the window… he spun around to look through this one again, to be sure it was uncovered. The window in his memory was painted black so that no light would come through.
    Who am I? he wondered with a new intensity. Was it because he was in a house that had such character and he sensed family? The ghosts of all the children, the parents, and the grandparents who had lived here still lingered in the walls, reminding him in ways he didn't want to be reminded that he had no one and was no one.
    But the frustration passed through him quickly, like some muscle spasm. He could breathe freely again. It was all right. Everything was all right.
    He returned to the window to gaze over the hamlet and way off, toward the end of the street, in the direction from which he had come, he saw beautiful, young Kristin walking home from work, walking toward him, coming closer and closer like the promise of light that came with the first rays of morning.
    His old confidence returned.
    He was in the right place. For now, as always, he was in the right place at the right time.
    Invigorated, he began to unpack.
     
FOUR
     
    Hyman adjusted their schedules so that Terri could attend Paige Thorndyke's funeral.
    "Although," he told her, "during all the years I've lived here, Terri, I think I could count on my fingers how many of my patients' funerals I've attended. I know doctors who have never attended any. I suppose it's a touch of paranoia, something that comes with the territory. You sit there in church or synagogue and you feel the eyes of loved ones and you think they are wondering if you made a mistake or if there was something more you could have done. Ridiculous, I know, but nevertheless, you feel it. At least, I did. Still do.
    "And I don't blame them," he added. "We're always second-guessing, wondering if we should have seen that heart attack coming or that stroke. I've often revisited patient histories with just that question. Even after years and years of practicing medicine, I do it on occasion.
    "Of course in this case, you have nothing to second-guess. You never treated the woman for anything, and you had no opportunity to provide any medical diagnosis or prescribe any therapy," he concluded.
    "For what it's worth," she said, "Curt is on your side. He and I had a bit of a quarrel about it last night. He thinks I'm losing my critical objectivity."
    "A certain amount of aloofness is important. It helps you maintain the objectivity you need to do your best," Hyman told her. "I wouldn't even deliver my own children. Sent my wife to Crackenberg, who charged the full ticket, I might add. No professional courtesy. He was not what anyone would call a generous man. His was a funeral I attended, motivated by a bit of glee, I'm ashamed to say."
    Terri laughed, thanked him, and prepared to get to the church. It was a heavily attended service. Most of the hamlet had turned out, as well as people from Bradley's airline, the entire travel agency, and various relatives of the Thorndykes. The bizarre nature of Paige's death gave the funeral an unrealistic air, a sense that everyone was moving within the same nightmare. Terri could see it in the way people greeted each other, shook their heads in confusion, and stared at the grieving parents and Paige's brother Phil, all three of whom now looked stunned, gazing occasionally at the faces of the attendees as if they were looking to see if anyone could tell them why they were here. Bradley Thorndyke held his wife tightly, supported and guided her along, but to Terri it looked like he was really doing it to hold himself together as well or even more so.
    Phil Thorndyke held hands with an attractive brunette. They were comforting each other. Terri heard someone say her name was