The first voicemail came on a Tuesday morning while I was getting ready for work. That artificially cheerful automated voice that every medical office uses now, reminding me about my appointment with Dr. Henley for Thursday at 2:15 PM.
I deleted it without thinking much about it. Wrong numbers happen all the time, especially with automated systems. But something nagged at me as I drove to work. Dr. Henley. I knew that name.
It wasn't until I was sitting in traffic that it hit me. Dr. Patricia Henley had been my pediatrician when I was a kid. I couldn't have been older than nine the last time Mom took me to see her. The office was on Mellor Street, in one of those converted Victorian houses that small towns love to turn into medical practices. I remembered the waiting room clearly—those animal-print chairs that were probably supposed to be fun for kids but just looked dated, and the fish tank with three goldfish that never seemed to get any bigger.
Photo: Mellor Street, via rimh2.domainstatic.com.au
But Dr. Henley had to be retired by now. Hell, she'd seemed ancient to me as a kid, and that was nearly thirty years ago.
The second call came the next week. Same cheerful voice, same appointment time, but now it was for the following Tuesday. This time I listened to the whole message. "This is a reminder that you have an appointment with Dr. Patricia Henley on Tuesday, October 15th at 2:15 PM. Please bring your insurance card and arrive fifteen minutes early for check-in."
I looked up the number when I got home. It was disconnected. Had been for years, according to the phone company.
That weekend, I drove past the old office on Mellor Street. I hadn't been down that road in probably a decade. The Victorian house was still there, but it looked abandoned. Paint peeling, windows dark, a small "For Sale" sign that looked like it had been there long enough to weather multiple seasons.
But as I slowed down to get a better look, I could swear I saw a light on in what used to be the waiting room.
The third call came right on schedule. This time, though, something was different. After the standard appointment reminder, there was a pause, and then a different voice came on. Older, warmer. "And honey, don't forget to bring that reading log your teacher assigned. We'll want to see how you're doing with those chapter books."
I nearly drove off the road. That was my mother's voice. My mother, who'd been dead for six years. And the reading log—I remembered that. Third grade, Mrs. Patterson's class. Mom had been so proud when I'd finally started reading above grade level.
I called in sick to work the next day and drove back to Mellor Street. This time I parked and walked up to the front door. The "For Sale" sign was gone. In the window, I could see those same animal-print chairs, arranged exactly as I remembered them. The fish tank was there too, and I could make out the shapes of three goldfish swimming lazy circles.
There was a clipboard on the reception desk.
I tried the door handle, expecting it to be locked, but it turned easily. The waiting room smelled exactly the same—that mixture of disinfectant and the vanilla air freshener they always used. The magazines in the rack were all from 1994. Highlights, Ranger Rick, a few issues of Good Housekeeping with cover stories about holiday recipes and back-to-school fashion.
The clipboard had my name on it. Not my current name—I'd gotten married and changed it five years ago. This was my childhood name, written in my mother's careful cursive. Below it, in the same handwriting: "Annual checkup. Concerns: still having those nightmares about the basement."
I'd never told anyone about those nightmares. Not even Mom.
I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, the same measured pace I remembered from childhood visits. Dr. Henley always walked like that, never hurried, never rushed. Professional.
"I'll be right with you, dear," came a voice from the back office. "Just getting your file ready."
I left the clipboard where I found it and walked back to my car as calmly as I could manage. My hands were shaking as I started the engine.
The appointment reminder for next week came yesterday. Same time, same cheerful voice. But this time, after the standard message, my mother's voice came on again.
"And remember, sweetheart, some check-ups are more important than others. Some things need to be looked at before they get worse."
I've been having those basement nightmares again. They stopped when I was twelve, right around the time we moved out of the old house. But they're back now, and they're exactly the same as they were when I was nine years old.
The appointment is tomorrow at 2:15. I keep telling myself I'm not going to go.
But I think I am.
