By Blood (7 page)

I came back to myself. I heard truck engines idling in the street below, horns honking, a squeal of brakes, the airy breath of Dr. Schussler’s sound machine. I looked down at my watch: ten past eleven. I had not heard the church carillon chime the hour; the sound machine still whirred; the patient was not there. I looked across the street at the hotel: The man was gone. The window opposite was shut, the curtains drawn, no glow showing from within. From the roofline, the statue looked back at me: the naked man, the cloth about his loins.

I waited all through the day; the patient did not come. Then through the night. I returned the next day and waited, and then the next. And still the patient did not come.

All the while, I thought of her, and of the analyst who had enticed her into exploring the actual situation of her birth. And suddenly I thought the patient should flee, quit this therapy, return to the calming shadow of her mysterious origins. There she could imagine her parents to be anyone—brilliant mathematicians; fierce-minded analysts; dark-souled bisexuals, perhaps, who had passed on to her a woman’s love for women—ancestors who would understand implicitly the person she felt herself to be.

She should be more like Paul, I thought, reveling in the unknown possibilities of her future. Everyone has his own genetic fate written inside him—his own complement of mental predispositions, weaker organs waiting to fail, more or less likely routes upon which he will encounter death. But what good does it do to know it? Knowledge is not a relief. The burden is not lessened by the sense of its not being one’s own fault, not a failure of will, of intent, of virtue. One is just as subject to this fate, the fate of this body, its Furies.

The week was gone. The rain went on, intermittently now; the black-hooded man daily haunted the beach; the sound machine never ceased its empty breathing. I sat in the office in the dark of the raining days and nights, and did not look out the window, afraid that I might see again the apparition of the naked man, since apparition I believed him to have been, a conjuring out of the absurd black stew of my mind.

Another week, and I began to believe that I had conjured up Dr. Schussler as well, that the hiss that came from the adjoining office was merely a sound produced by my own ears; that I had even conjured up the patient, that there had never been an adopted lesbian woman struggling to understand herself on the other side of our common wall—how else could my mere wish that she flee make her disappear?

Only some compulsion brought me back, day by day, to sit at that desk in the office. For this, at least, I thanked my blood, all the ancestors who could not see a carpet without arranging the fringe, a sofa without aligning the cushions, a shoulder without picking lint. I watched the rain, avoided looking toward the windows of the Palace, pretended to work on my lectures, whose words now seemed worthless to my eyes. How much time had passed? I didn’t care. I merely sat. What day was it? I had no idea.

When suddenly, one mid-morning, the sound machine stopped.

I did not trust the silence. Had I dreamed it?

But there was Dr. Schussler’s German-accented voice clearly saying, Welcome back! How was the trip?

And then came the young, deep, watchful voice—so rich! so lovely!—for which my whole being had been yearning.

I don’t know how to begin, the patient said.

Perhaps, said Dr. Schussler, you might tell me about the trip—

The convention. Great. Granger spoke, the god of econometrics. A speech about time series data, stationary and nonstationary series—oh, it’s too complicated to explain. But it made me wish I’d studied with him at U.C. San Diego instead of going to Wharton.

The patient paused.

And from there we went to our prospective client. The Brighton Fund. Which went well. Very well, actually. They were impressed with our models and immediately subscribed.

Wonderful! You must be so pleased, after all the arguments about …

The function on the third derivative.

The doctor laughed. Yes, that was it.

The patient shifted about her chair, then fell silent.

And there is something else? asked the therapist.

The patient took a breath, released it. A lot more happened on this trip.

Yes?

Well … since our business was finished so quickly, I decided not to come back right away. I … went to see my family.

The doctor hummed but said nothing.

You know how rarely I see them, said the patient. I talk to them on the phone maybe three times a year. Like I’ve told you. When they call, I figure someone must have died. So I don’t know what got into me. All I know is, I was free, not far away, and I went.

And? asked the doctor when the patient did not immediately go on.

And I asked my mother about my adoption.

Oh, my!

(Dr. Schussler must have jumped in her seat; her chair produced a squall of creaking leather; I myself could barely hold still.)

The patient said nothing more for several seconds.

And? the doctor prompted once more.

I can’t tell you what a bitch my mother was, said the patient.

It was Sunday evening, said the voice I loved, a windy day, she went on. The patient was sitting with her mother in a room they called the den, a small addition whose walls were pierced on three sides by windows (“pierced by windows”: my patient’s lovely phrase). The trees had begun to turn. Fingers of drying leaves kept scratching at the window glass (“fingers of leaves”: also the patient’s beautiful words). Her mother sat on a recliner that faced the television; the patient across from her on a small sofa. Between them was a glass coffee table covered with delicate glass figurines and ceramics: a ballerina, an old woman selling balloons, a clown, a breaching whale, an owl, a rose, a ballet slipper.

Her mother had just come into the room and was still fussing with her skirt, trying not to wrinkle it as she settled into her recliner. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she said to her daughter:

You know, you’ll get me a glass of ice water.

It was her future imperative tense, the patient explained to Dr. Schussler. My mother foresees something that will occur in the future, and you have no choice but to enact it.

Her mother had come home from the beauty salon, where they had created for her a hard, round, fiercely yellow helmet that was supposed to be beautiful hair.

What do you think of it? asked her mother, gently patting her helmet with one hand as she received her daughter’s proffered ice water with the other.

Not too big? she asked.

Well, maybe a little, answered the patient.

Oh, I don’t think so. You know, we women don’t wear our hair loose and tousled like you girls.

We’re women, Mother.

Well, I think of you as girls. I can’t change the way I think. You’re my girl.

Your hair is fine, Mother.

Not too sprayed?

Your hair is fine, Mother.

Her mother said while lighting a cigarette: Today the dry cleaner told me I always look so nice. Not like the other women in their housedresses and curlers. I don’t understand how women can let themselves be seen like that.

Her mother was wearing a pearl-gray wool suit, lapis lazuli beads, a peacock brooch pinned to her shoulder: gold, inset with gemstones. The skirt was tight, to show off her trim figure.

You always look lovely, Mother.

There’s a certain illusion a woman has to maintain, dear. A little powder and paint goes a long way. Don’t forget that, darling. Remember that when you get married.

I’m never going to get married, Mother. You know that I—

Dammit! her mother said. We are not going to discuss that in this house! How many times do I have to tell you?

I wanted to kill her, the patient told her therapist. Really I did. At that moment I thought I would jump up and strangle her. The weight of all those lies, all those silences—I thought there was no way out but to kill her. I suppose I wanted a kind of revenge. How many years had I spent telling her she was beautiful, trying to fill that black-hole need in her—unquenchable, endless—meanwhile sparing her any little upset about me, about who I really was. Bringing up the adoption would hurt her back—that’s what I’m thinking now. But at the time I only knew how blind angry I was. Her refusal to see me, know me. I just felt, I’m not going to let you get away with it anymore. And I said:

So. Tell me what you know about my adoption.

I said it just like that, the patient told Dr. Schussler. Right out. Nothing to prepare her.

But then we both froze, as if we’d been caught in a spotlight doing something wrong. Her cigarette stopped in midair. Dead stop. I confess I enjoyed seeing her freeze up like that. Then, oh so slowly, Mother reached down and put her ice water on the glass coffee table, placing it carefully among the delicate figurines.

What makes you bring that up, dear?

Didn’t you think I’d be curious? I asked her. That I would ask sometime?

The cigarette went back into motion. She inhaled, coughed once, then blew out a line of smoke. Funny, she said at last. I don’t suppose I’ve thought much about it in years. I mean, it all happened so long ago. I don’t even think of you as …

Adopted.

Yes. Adopted.

I watched her deepening lip lines, the patient told her doctor. You know, the wrinkles on the top lip, hard lines straight up and down from nose to mouth.

Mother, you told me never to make that expression. Lip—

Lip lines! Ugly! She laughed. Thank you, dear.

But you’ve got to tell me, the patient persisted. Tell me what you know.

Her mother’s mouth contracted again. I’ll have to discuss this with Father.

Why with Father?

I just do.

Why? He doesn’t own this story.

Her mother looked up at her with an expression the patient had never before seen on that carefully made-up face. Was it fear?

Or does he? the patient went on.

Her mother crushed her half-smoked cigarette, stood up, straightened her dress, patted her hair.

It isn’t too big, is it?

No, Mother. It’s not too big.

And the color?

Perfect.

Her mother stepped one way, then another, then picked up her glass of water. You know, she said, you’ll take this and put this in the dishwasher. She gave the glass to her daughter and started out of the room. But she abruptly paused at the threshold.

We went through an adoption agency, her mother said from the doorway.

She was looking down as she spoke, at her skirt.

But what adoption agency? the patient asked her.

Oh … Let’s not … She was still concentrating on the skirt, brushing it with her hand.

Oh, darling, it was so long ago, she went on. I really don’t remember. Something connected with a Catholic charity.

Catholic! said the patient. But what do you mean—
Catholic
?

Oh, you know. After the war there were so many little babies needing homes—

Orphans?

Well. Yes. Or, you know. Men would come home on furloughs.

Bastards.

Darling! What a thing to say!

Well, what else?

Her mother kept brushing her skirt.

And why a Catholic agency? the patient asked her mother. Father hates Catholics. He’s practically pathological on the subject.

Her mother looked up briefly. Sweetheart! Do you think something like the religion of the
agency
would keep us from adopting you? It doesn’t necessarily mean that you were born Catholic. Do I have a stain here?

Where?

Here.

Her mother indicated a spot on her left thigh.

I don’t see anything, the patient said. And you didn’t ask?

What?

If I’d been born a Catholic.

Something passed over her face, said the patient. A little squint. A tightness in her mouth. So brief and subtle that, if I’d blinked, I would have missed it.

Heavens, no! she said. We so wanted a child. We were so happy to have you!

But Father hates Catholics. Rabidly!

Really, there’s nothing to say. We didn’t care, darling!

She sang it out, the patient said.
We didn’t care, dahling!
—playing Nora Charles in
The Thin Man.

And at that she left the room, calling out over her shoulder:

You ought to pack, dear. Early flight tomorrow.

The bitch—she wouldn’t say another word about it, said the patient. Until the moment I got into the taxi, she wouldn’t even look me square in the face. So isn’t this great, just great. Look what I found out for all my troubles: Now I’m a goddamn Catholic!

Not necessarily Catholic, said the therapist in a calming voice, just as your mother said. In any case, what would it matter?

What would it matter? Matter! You know I was brought up hating Catholics! You know that. My father’s hatred is irrational, relentless. It’s not like a normal person’s prejudice. It’s a … racial hatred. My whole upbringing. All the times I told you about. When I couldn’t stay at Mary’s. And the summer with a “preponderance of them.” And the fight we had over the “papist cultists.”

The patient continued in this light—the man named O’Reilly, the Irish mafia, the summer camp across the lake, that “Danny Boy” song—butterflying from one reference to the next. She and the doctor had evidently dissected these incidents many times before, so no clarifying information was forthcoming, and I therefore tried to listen as I had done in the past: letting the unexplained names and events go by without heed, allowing myself to be soothed by the sound of the patient’s voice.

But as the references went on—that girl in school, the professor, the people on the next block, the wedding, the sweet-sixteen party, that shop lady—I grew increasingly annoyed at the cryptic turn this session was taking. The patient had gone away without explanation—tortured me with her absence—only to return and make it clear she had a life I could not comprehend. She owed me an explanation! How dare she simply run on—the summer in Utah, the couple at the hotel, my friend’s best friend—with all these trinkets, these little pebbles of life! I understood: Yes, her father hated Catholics. She has proven her point. Must she keep going on? Why wouldn’t Dr. Schussler stop her? What pettiness the patient was displaying! She was supposed to be my champion, my athlete in the arena, strong in her battle against the mere situation of birth. But she would not get far if she did not move on from this pitiful
evidence-gathering
!

Then all at once I was frightened. How quickly I could come to hate her—she who was moments ago my icon of self-creation. I must be careful, I thought. I have traveled this path before. I must not go there. I therefore forced down my anger; sat still as my annoyance ebbed. It took all my self-control, but I succeeded, congratulating myself that I had changed, that I could be otherwise than I’d been. I tuned my ear to the lovely pitch of the patient’s voice, her beautiful whiskey alto, and once again let it play above me as music, staccato now, legato then,
piano
and
forte
. My dear patient, I thought, forgive me! And how my heart contracted when she suddenly sobbed and cried out:

I don’t understand! How could they get me from a place they hate? How could they? I know it sounds crazy, but I feel I’m tainted. That Father looks at me and sees this mark: Catholic.

But you are not changed, said the therapist. Your being, your self, is the same, whether you came from a reed basket, a Protestant church, or a Catholic agency.

This has nothing to do with who I am! shouted the patient. It’s a mark on me
before
I was anyone. No matter what I am!

She was breathing forcefully, and I thought she would finally cry. But she contained herself and fell silent.

Seconds passed. Traffic noise rose as if to fill the gap.

She was lying, of course, said the patient at last.

Your mother, said the doctor.

Yes. Mother. I could tell she knew a lot more than she was saying. But I couldn’t get anything more out of her. She just did her
dahling
thing and brushed me off—ha! Like the skirt.

The patient paused.

And why did she tell me just that one detail, she continued, the Catholic agency, and nothing more? To get back at me. Get back at me for bringing up the forbidden subject of adoption.

It’s not allowed, you see. Adoption. Forbidden. I’m not to remind her of something—I don’t know what it is, but the adoption brings up something she hates too. Something bad happened. Something bad she wants to forget. So she had to hurt me. For bringing it up. Hurt me.

The patient stopped, breathing very hard now, nearly crying, but again containing herself. Five seconds went by. Then she burst out:

Why did I ever get into this? I told you I didn’t want to! I knew it would be bad—knew it. Why did you—you!—get me into this?

The therapist said nothing.

Is the hour over? asked the patient.

If you wish, said the doctor. We only have a minute or two.

Then it’s over, said the patient, who strode out the door and slammed it shut.

Even before the elevator arrived, Dr. Schussler was on the phone, trying to reach that Dr. Gurevitch.