A Dent in One's Pride

[Your-Friday-Filet]

(Well, I've decided to start writing again. I've had time to develop these particular characters a great deal... I just wonder how I'm going to convey the timeline just yet. TW: Discusses surgery, mental illness)

Chapter 1: The evening of Saturday, 12th May, 1945

A concerned man, of middling appearance, age, and height, paced around a waiting room in the old hospital. For all of its esteem, St. Mary’s had been decaying through the war years, as seemingly everything else had. Despite it all being done and over with, one could still feel guilty for being too lavish at this day and age, and the lighting was kept to a minimum with an oil lamp in upon a table in the corner.

He was the only one in that room on that day, and seemed freer than ever to express his anguish and anxiety. He looked down at that reliable Union Jack brooch on his suit, slightly adjusting it as he paused his march.

Just then, a creek was heard in the corner as a figure slowly opened the old mahogany door on one end. “Mr. Robert Dent?” she inquired, squinting into the comparatively poorly-lit room from the considerably brighter rooms ahead.

“Yes, that’s me,” he rushed up to the door in a most dignified manner, curtly nodding to the young, brown-haired woman.

She nodded back, looking down at a clipboard she was holding. “Doctor Smith will see you right away.”

Robert headed with the receptionist down a corridor, clenching his right fist in his suit pocket. She soon stopped before a door, and knocked. “Doctor Smith, I have Robert out here,” she said, with such a low amount of conviction that Robert was half-surprised that the Doctor actually heard her.

The door flew open from the other side, and he was met by a shorter, stouter gentleman than Robert, with a bald head and tired, overworked eyes. The two men greeted each other as the receptionist headed back to the corridor, but their gaze quickly shifted to a woman in the doctor’s office who lay quite lamely over a low-hanging sofa, her hands over her face.

“Edith…” Robert’s voice finally gave to sentimentality, reaching out to grab her hand tenderly, lifting it from her face. Seeing that she had fallen asleep, he turned back over to the doctor, who was sorting through his various files. “What do you want us to do about my daughter, Doctor?”

The man grabbed the paperwork as he sighed, rubbing his eye with one hand in the dim lamp that lit the room. His eyes drifted in between the curtains, and the view of a dark, sordid alleyway kept his attention. “There certainly isn’t much that can be done…” he mumbled just audibly enough so Robert could hear him. “A few of my colleagues have come up with one... experimental solution, but it may cost you.”

Robert looked disappointed at such ominous words. “We really can’t afford anything else, she has a baby, you know. A two-year-old.”

“Yes, she told me,” Doctor Smith replied quietly as his eyes finally drifted over to meet Robert’s, and they truly saw just how tired each other were. “Your son was in the war, right?”

Robert’s eyebrows furrowed at the doctor’s change in tone. “I don’t exactly see what that has to deal with this, but… yes. He was.”

“Then you’ll know about the sacrifices we have to make with our children, sometimes, when there is a fitting reason,” the Doctor finally looked over at Edith, joining Robert as they looked at the poor state of her.

“Please,” Robert said meekly, looking at her daughter’s closed eyes. “At this point, we’ll have to do anything and everything we can.”

“If she consents to it,” the Doctor began, looking back up at Robert. “I can have the surgeons cut her corpus callosum,” before Robert could question, he cut him off. “A large bundle of nerves connecting both hemispheres of the brain.”

The man looked aghast. “I- I don’t quite see what purpose that would have,” he then lowered his voice, as if not to disturb his sleeping daughter. “Would she survive?”

“Yes,” the man replied steadfastly. “And its purpose is rather ingenious… by isolating both hemispheres,” he started, moving over to a large diagram of the human brain on his wall, pointing to a picture that displayed a bird’s eye view of it. “The seizures cannot fully enter either hemisphere, thus mitigating them, in the same vein of an insulator for electricity.”

“You sounded… hesitant about it earlier,” Robert inquired.

“Well,” the man said, lowering his hand from the diagram as he looked around the room, surreptitiously trying to avoid eye contact. “They say, there are some unintended side-effects.”

“As there always are…” the man huffed, throwing his hands in the air.

“Mr. Dent,” the doctor replied, looking down at his files. “This severance would not allow her two hemispheres to communicate. While she wouldn’t die, or be considered by any means unhealthier, she would… certainly react differently to external stimuli.”

“What do you mean by-” but before he could finish, Doctor Smith offered a stack of papers to the bereaved father, who grabbed them with some force as he read through. He squinted to read properly in such a dim setting, managing to get a rough picture of what was to be read. "I... see," Robert quietly walked over by the lamp, taking a chair as he began reading the rest of the papers to the end.

Robert then slammed the papers back onto the table, scowling as he turned to look out of the window, just as Doctor Smith had done. The cold, brutalist sight of an alleyway in London didn't do him much good, as his thoughts drifted back to the only girl he had raised...

It felt so long ago now, but he reflected on when Edith first developed the seizures as a child, she couldn't have been any more than 10. His wife Grace had left for a wool fair somewhere in the South, and it was Robert's responsibility to look after her that hot, summer's day. Back home in Lancashire, summers rarely got that hot, and he had kicked the door open to let in the cool air. He had been listening to the radio and reading the newspaper all day, and the boys were playing footie with each other outdoors. But as he went to make lunch for them all, he suddenly realized Edith was gone. Robert went with his sons Bert, James, and young Teddie to go looking for her, and James eventually found her having a seizure in an alleyway. Teddie started crying, and Robert had to carry both of them back home in that hellish weather after the children's grievances had subsided.

The doctor had returned to his work, almost concluding his writing of a medical dissertation in a file by the time Robert spoke up again. He rested his fist under his mouth to hold back a faint quiver in his voice.

"Oh God, Doctor..." his eyes welled up. "We... we just have to go through with this, we must..." he fought back tears, but both of their heads quickly turned at the sound of Edith beginning to wake up.

 

[Your-Friday-Filet]

Chapter 2: 12th May, 1945 cont.

Edith stared intently at the dim, fluttering lamplight, straining her eyes as it flickered wildly for a moment. Her father, Robert, had just finished explaining their predicament, and ended up squarely facing the wall on the other side of the room, as if seeking refuge in the privacy of the shadows. Doctor Smith had seemingly no desire for the ensuing domestic drama, trying almost too hard to find some paperwork to attend to at his desk, his eyes dark from the trite recklessness customary of his profession.

"You have no idea what it's like," Edith muttered after a while, gritting her jaw as she spoke. She didn't even dare look in the direction of her father, whose composure was slumped from his meager conviction.

Robert heavily sighed with a contemplative tone, pretending to take interest in the medical jargon plastered along the walls as he traced it with his forehand. The Doctor had taken to whistling an upbeat tone, perhaps a sailor's hymn. He did so with a faint tone, enough to seem industrious and out of the conversation, while still, by human nature, curious to hear how the situation would resolve.

Edith suddenly stood up from the sofa, shaking her half-asleep left foot as she hoped to bring an ounce of vitality into the room. Her previous idleness had now been entirely reversed onto the two men, and she coughed in order to gesticulate any sort of response from them.

At last, the Doctor spoke up, deathly tired of being able to hear his heartbeat through his ears. "I wasn't a fan of the idea, you know..." his tone was pretentiously childing, with his eyes still fixated upon his papers. "But, it would provide an excellent look into how such procedures actually affect people in the long term."

Edith groaned and Robert shot a look at the Doctor. "Don't say it like that!" he shook his head. "From everything I just read, it wouldn't do her much of any harm," he turned to face the man. "The surgery is designed to prevent any more of these horrendous seizure attacks from happening to my daughter again," Robert put stringent emphasis on each word, enunciating with hand movements, he suddenly relinquished his assaulting composure and stepped back into his previous posture. He muttered to himself, "I can't have a crazy daughter, you know..."

"Crazy?" Edith snapped, rushing up towards her old man with a great deal of ferocity. "You just talked about me like I wasn't even here, and then you call me crazy?" her nose wrinkled out of sheer appalment, staring right at the man who raised her, who nonetheless kept his gaze firmly on the Doctor.

Robert sighed, turning over slightly to her. His eyes did carry some sentimentality to them, but it was completely eviscerated by his run-on mouth. He tried to clear his throat as he made eye contact with Edith, flinching slightly following her outburst. "Those aren't my words, dear... it's... just what people say..." he mumbled sporadically.

She exhaled as well, rubbing her temples and breathing in slowly, the enraged expression slowly, begrudgingly leaving her face. "I should just hope a man would express some human emotion for once..." she whispered, partially to herself, and partially to her father. She then rubbed her eyes, putting her hands over her head as she took a moment to think, with Robert anxiously tapping at his sides. Seizures were the worst thing in her life, after all, and she refrained to truly revisit every memory of her frequent visits to the hospital, especially recently. Her boyfriend, Carl, had left her before their son Marvin was even born, citing the repeated seizures as one of his qualms. It was a miracle that her baby turned out healthy, the doctors said. She was still young, yes she was, and she had many years left, too many to be worried about such things as medication, epilepsy, and being sent to a madhouse.

Not before long, she threw her hands up in the air, as her father had done previously. "Fine!" she said, straightening her clothes. "I'll do it!" she slightly laughed, repeating more firmly. "I'll do it," and she put a hand on her dear old dad's face, with a smile of contentment she had not worn in years. Her father tried to reciprocate the smile, but faltered, knowing full well that his daughter would never be the same again.

 

[Your-Friday-Filet]

Chapter 3: The day of Tuesday, 25th December, 1945

It had only been some months since the surgery, and Edith Dent showed a remarkable transformation. Her parents' old, terraced house was nestled on a hopelessly grim street in south Lancashire, but never seemed more alive then in the last few weeks. She made quite a ruckus in the kitchen with her mother, as the two laughed together while managing to make some Christmas crackers for their expected entourage. It was only mid-morning by the time Robert whisked open the door, shutting it quickly to ward off the especially frostbitten winter breeze that sought to engulf the house.

He fumbled to get his heavy jacket and gloves off in the front room, nevertheless smiling as he heard the revelry from inside. He looked at a picture of Edith and her brothers from their childhood, when they could still afford to go on that summertime vacation to Southport. A date was written in chalk near the bottom. "1933..." he mumbled to himself, getting the last of his winter gear off. "Only 12 years ago..." his eyes drifted up at the father who stood behind the children, a wide smile, small gait, and a great deal of affection for both his children and his wife, who stood next to him. This made his smile falter, and he eased his thoughts by quickly advancing to the brighter and less reflective kitchen.

Robert was met with a kiss from his wife, Grace, who quickly withdrew due to his still-cold cheek. In spite of that, her eyes did look quite worried in spite of the frivolity she was enjoying with Edith. Looking over to his daughter, he waved her hello, but was met with nothing except a gesture from her left hand. Her ability to coordinate her hands was seemingly all gone, but she laughed heartily over her mistakes, promptly destroying a tube and looking over to her mom. She looked to surprise to see her father, but still quite happy.

"Oh- dad, where did you come from?" she smiled, hugging her father. "I wish you an uncommonly good Christmas!"

Robert stifled a laugh, embracing her daughter in return.

Seeking to break the sudden silence, Grace put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Shall we get to making more crackers, then?" she said, her smile being potent enough to resolve any doubt in one's decision. She nodded in return and they began preparing more cardboard tubes. Grace looked back over at her husband. "And don't worry, we're making one for you, so why don't you hobble over to the drawing room?"

Robert snickered and shook his head, taking an old newspaper as he sauntered into the living room, or, per their Edwardian terminology, the 'drawing room'. It was disrespectfully small to the boisterous family, who had reorganized the easy-chairs and sofas in a half-crescent around their obtrusive Christmas tree, the fireplace constituting the remaining portion of the room. Naturally taking the chair closest to the fireplace, and the one with an eye on the street, Robert plopped down and began reading away.

One by one, the rest of the family arrived for the Christmas festivities. First to come was the ever-punctual James, his wife Caroline, and their four children. As they flew open the door, the scent of the fresh, sea breeze of their home entered with them. James's rough skin had been hardened by his years working up in Preston at the shipyard, but he nonetheless retained a tender heart, carrying both 4-year-old Edward and 2-year-old Mary in his arms. Caroline was an ever-faithful house maiden, in the Victorian sense of the word, and seemed to know about everything in all manner of sewing, baking, and cleaning. Eying up the Christmas meal Grace had been silently cooking in the kitchen, she held the 8-month-old Laurence and held the hand of their 5-year-old Alice.

The two quickly relinquished their four oldest to the welcoming arms of their grandmother, who greeted them with a great deal of serendipity and bestowed them each a bit of candy. Finally, she took young Laurence in her arms and gave him a hat she had managed to knit especially for the baby's rather large head, which they all hoped would mean a sign of intelligence, in spite of how much he liked to recklessly flail it about.

"How's my Edith, then?" James inquired, walking over to his younger sister, who still couldn't seem to figure out how to wrap one of the crackers on the other end of the narrow kitchen countertops.

She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes for a moment, before widening her eyes. "Oh, Jimmy, it's you!" she hugged her brother, who was still clad with the gruff work clothes of a dockworker, and whom didn't seem to know how to return the embrace. "I haven't seen you since..."

"Since my birthday in March..." he laughed slightly, but had a grim expression. "I am dreadfully sorry, we should try to see our family more often."

"What nonsense!" Grace called from the living room in which everyone else had egressed. "This is one of the busiest times of your life, we can hardly blame you for it! If anything, we should be the ones leaving you alone!"

James only smiled, and looked down. He checked the back of his pantleg, half-surprised to not see Marvin latching onto it. "Where's your nipper gone off to then?"

"Oh, he went to uncle Teddie's, actually," Edith suddenly realized, looking down as well as she rubbed the back of her neck. "We sent him there yesterday, when he came here to fix our pipes or something like that, Marvin takes such a liking to him..."

"Ah, Uncle Teddie!" James smiled at the thought of those two words. "I think Marvin will get along grandly with Edward, the two are around the same age, I remember..."

"Indeed, indeed," Edith replied, a forlorn expression befitting a mother deprived time with her child. She then ushered James into the living room, where the family festivities were just beginning. Grace was entertaining Caroline with her memories of motherhood, with Laurence on her lap, while Alice and Edward were antagonizing each other and Mary was utterly transfixed by the fireplace. Grandpa Robert still sat in the easy-chair in the corner, consumed by his newspaper and his fervent anticipation for the next group to arrive.

James quickly went to grab Mary, while Aunt Edith went to play peacemaker with the two eldest. Sitting down on the sofa with Mary, and almost immediately bored with the tales her mother was divulging, he rocked his knee and began readjusting to the house he grew up in, the one Edith was still living in. The Christmas tree was rather full this year, but did look properly silly in such a small enclosed space, with the higher branches slightly bent from the oppressive ceiling. He was rather disheartened by the fact his own father didn't even bat an eye at him, but refrained from confronting him on what was supposed to be a joyous day.

Instead, he took Mary with him as he made an egress from the slightly claustrophobic room, finding the radio set in the kitchen and laughing to himself.

Mary pointed to the foreign object worryingly. "Wah da?" she said, looking up to her father.

He chuckled to himself, having recently just been able to understand his daughter's formative vocabulary. "It's a radio... ray-dee-oh... they didn't use to have one, until I moved out, of course..." and he promptly turned it on, with the news immediately coming on, his face lighting up at the sound of the King's voice.

"Everyone! It's the King's Christmas speech! Come listen!" he bellowed towards the drawing room, with a sudden cacophony of stomps into the kitchen as everyone, even Robert, gathered around.

"To win the victory, much that was of great price has been given up... and much has been ravaged and destroyed by the hand of war, but things that have been saved are beyond price," and the King's restrained voice and impractically pretentious accent echoed faintly throughout the house.

"Who's the King?" asked Edward, in such an abrasively loud tone Caroline covered his mouth for a moment.

Robert laughed heartily, continuing to listen to the speech with one ear. "King George the Sixth, of course! He led the Empire through the war... your uncle Bert served king and country for him!"

This managed to keep Edward silent as he recalled the stories he had been taught about his uncle, who had come back with his hands replaced with metal clamps following their untimely departure in combat. He shivered at the thought, thinking the King was the one who caused his uncle to have undergone such a severe injury, becoming properly afraid of the man.

It was only a few moments later when another creek was heard at the door, subjecting the family once again to the cold wrath of a snow-laden gust.