DeBeers 05 Hidden Leaves (5 page)

"My mother tells me she did it and is doing it for my own good.' Grace revealed through clenched teeth one day when we began to talk in earnest about this problem.
"Don't you believe her?" I asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"She knows I never cared about what those people thought of me." Then she looked up at me and said. "She and my father were going to have another child, you know."
It wasn't something she had told Dr. Anderson, so I considered it something of a breakthrough,
"Why didn't they?"
"He was killed before they could, but she came to me one day and told me that now that he was stationed for a long period of time in one place, and now that he had been given a higher rank with a better salary, they felt more relaxed and confident and decided to try. She had tried before but had not become pregnant, and she blamed it on her stress and nervousness. At least, her doctors told her that. I remember her telling me how she and my father had gone to doctors to be sure that she could become pregnant."
"So you think that because of that..."
"Linden was the child she never could have, the child she wanted." she asserted. "I was almost the surrogate mother, not her."
"How do you mean?"
"You know, like those women who carry another woman's fertilized egg in their wombs."
I thought this analysis of her mother and herself was quite perceptive of her, and my appreciation of her rose even higher, as well as my expectations for a complete recovery.
"How do you think you should deal with this. Grace?" I asked her.
She thought a long moment.
"I've got to get stronger," she concluded. "I've got to go home and take my baby back."
"That's right," I said "That's exactly what you have to do. Grace."
She looked up at me and we just stared at each other for the longest moment. It took all my
professionalism, all my psychiatric skill to keep me seated in that chair, Willow. The man inside me was practically screaming for me to get up and go to her and put my hands on her arms and stand her up so I could kiss her and hold her and tell her the secrets of my own heart, but I managed to shut him down. I pretended to make notes, think, and then told her we had done enough. We had made some wonderful progress.
"You are getting stronger. Grace,"
I
added. "We can adjust your medications accordingly."
She liked that.
"Thanks to you." she said. "And your sneaky ways."
I'm sure I had my best Christmas smile on my lips, the most joyful, giving smile I could manage. How delightful she could be. Willow. I never had a patient with so much personality My reactions to her weren't programmed, weren't designed just to make her more comfortable. They were sincere reactions, and she knew it just as much as I did.
This secret you were holding inside you, Claude De Beers,
I
told myself, it can't be hidden forever.
And it would not be.

5
A Pure and Wonderful Love
.
Like anyone with guilt in his heart. I couldn't

help wondering just how much Alberta sensed when she looked at me and spoke to me during those early months when I was treating your mother. Willow. Ironically, I became grateful for all Alberta's distractions. Perhaps it was solely because of them that she was unable to take one look at me and see how lovesick
I
had became. I could not imagine how she missed it. Whenever
I
stopped for a moment in my home and gazed at myself in the mirror.
I
saw a different Claude De Beers, one who barely resembled the man everyone knew as Dr. De Beers, the renowned psychiatrist, lecturer, author, the mature, confident man of logic and reason. unflappable.

How could even Alberta be so oblivious to my long pauses during our conversations, my
daydreaming, my drifting through our home, walking like a ghost an air, being forgetful, even to the point of having to be reminded about dinner. One morning
I
was in such haste to get to the clinic. I even forgot my tie and Miles had to remind me, Fortunately, I had one in the car at all times.

And at our dinners whenever we did eat together and Alberta went on and on about her activities or things she wanted us to buy or change in the house, how could she not notice my blank stare, my failure to comment, to question, to respond to anything, to give her my usual nod or simple yes and no? Why didn't she see how I nibbled at my food?

Was all this in my imagination? Was I merely lost in some fantasy? Would it all come to an abrupt end? Shouldn't I want it to come to an abrupt end? I asked myself.

I was caught in a great conflict, you see. On the one hand,
I
was doing all in my power to help Grace regain enough self-confidence to throw off the demons that had brought her here, and on the other, I was secretly hoping she would never leave, that we would go on forever, walking, talking, catching each other's longing in each other's eyes, and eventually....

Eventually what?
What do you expect will happen, Claude De Beers?
I
asked myself each day I headed for the clinic.
Can't you see how impossible all this is? You can only ruin someone else's life along with your own.
The
voice of my conscience grew louder and stronger almost every new day. One night
I
arrived at what I thought was a prescription for ending all this. I decided to throw myself at Alberta, to try to resurrect our early passion for each other, to cure myself of this nonsense by reminding myself in no uncertain terms that I was a married man.
It was a good night to try it. Alberta had not gone to any of her usual meetings, lunches, or dinners. She had spent the day meeting with some decorators because she wanted to redo our sitting room and our entryway. The house was old, but historic. a classic structure in our community. She knew
I
would not permit her to change the exterior very much, so she focused her attention on modernizing the interior. I used to think our furniture should be on wheels. She had it moved around and changed that often. Every time she visited one of her wealthy friends, she returned depressed about our home. For Alberta, the grass would always be greener somewhere else.
I
confess I was somewhat to blame for her behavior. As long as she was doing these things, she wasn't nagging me, criticizing me for the time I spent at my clinic. Occasionally she would burst into my office with a brochure of furnishings or with samples of rugs and demand I give her an opinion.
"Well, which is right for the room?" she would ask again, impatient with the time I was taking.
Almost invariably, what I chose, she hated.
I
began to think that my not choosing what she liked was her way of confirming her choice was correct. In her mind I had no taste, no sense of style because I was the classic absentminded professor. It was all simply another nail in the coffin that marked the death of our marriage, and I have to admit that after I had met Grace Montgomery, I not only didn't notice all the nails. I didn't care.
It
frightened me. Would
I.
the psychiatrist's psychiatrist, go mad myself?
Bring it to an end
_;
I ordered my rebellious heart. Bring this all to an abrupt and final end. And there is no better way to do that than to reinforce the oath of marriage you have already taken
_;
I told myself.
I fortified myself with a tumbler of scotch on the rocks and concentrated my thoughts on memories of Alberta when we had first met, courted, and made love. I blamed my infatuation with Grace and my awn neglectful ways on my failure to regenerate my own marriage.
I
had become too comfortable with myself and my work, and now I was almost a married man living like a bachelor. Why should I blame Alberta for her interest in other things? What had I done to deserve her romantic interest in me? I was rarely escorting her to social events anymore. We had so little in common, and that was at least half my fault, I told myself. I had to do something to change that.
In short. I was fleeing from Grace, retreating to my own marriage.
Would it work?
I knocked on Alberta's bedroom door. "Yes?" she called,
"It's Claude."
I
said May I came in?"
She opened the door and looked out at me. She was in her nightgown and had her hair in a hair net.
I
could see she had just begun to remove her makeup. She looked a little annoyed until she saw the tumbler of scotch in my hand. I hadn't realized I was still carrying it.
"What is it. Claude?" she asked with a curious little smile nesting on her lips,
"I was wondering if I could stop in to see you." I said.
Our long love draughts and lack of intimacy made me sound more formal than I wanted to be.
"Why?" she asked.
There was a time when she wouldn't have had to ask that.
I
thought, although it was never easy for me to be amorous. Perhaps that was why
I
was so eager and happy to marry Alberta. Here was a very attractive young woman with a certain elegance who was willing to accept me as I was, at least in the beginning. I was quite conscious of my male friends and associates thinking I had done the equivalent of winning the lottery. Why would such
a
stunning beauty want to be with me above anyone else? Not that I think of myself as an unattractive man. Hardly that, Willow. I am just realistic about my romantic qualities and admit I am and was not the most exciting beau she could find or even the most exciting she was courting.
I
am quite familiar with the Don Juan syndrome. but
I
am by no means a Don Juan.
In any case I felt a bit awkward standing there with a drink in my hand that was obviously needed to bolster my courage.
"Well. I just... thought... it's been a while since... I mean..."
"Really? What did you do. Claude, get yourself a testosterone booster?" she asked dryly.
I guess my face fell a bit.
She shook her head and stepped back.
"Come in," she said. "I don't see you drinking much anymore or relaxing in any way," she added, nodding at the glass in my hand.
"Yes. I know. I've been so occupied with my work. I..."
"Forgot you were married?
I
know," she said and laughed. She removed her hair net and shook out her hair a bit, "You're lucky," she said. "Twenty minutes more and you would have been out of luck. I would have my facial set. and I don't think that would have been very attractive to you Loosen your tie, at least. Claude. You look as if you're here to give me therapy," she added and laughed again.
I smiled,
I suppose I was a funny sight standing there in my jacket and tie, my drink in hand, looking more like
a
meek librarian asking someone to please pay her library debt.
As she spoke to me. Alberta looked at herself in the mirror and primped her hair.
"The first time you and
I
made love. I thought you were following same sex how-to book. You kept asking me. "Is that all right? Is this all right? It was more like an examination than lovemaking. Claude."
"I'm sorry,"
I
said.
"Since then I've taught you a lot and you've become better at it. It's funny that I had to teach a psychiatrist the art of making love, don't you think? You, of all people, should know how important the fantasy is. That's why I have worked so hard to make this room so plush and feminine." she said, gesturing at the velvet drapes, the canopy bed, the gilded mirrors, and the plush carpeting. "I don't know if you even notice what an effort I make. Do you. Claude?"
"Of course I notice. It's a beautiful room. You have done wonders with it." I told her, gazing around and nodding as if it were really the first time I had seen it.
"I'll say I have. I've done wanders with this whole house. Your mother lived as if she didn't have a penny. Some of the things in this house were literally rotting away when I first came here to live with you. Claude. I was surprised your father didn't have more pride in his home. He did have people visiting often, didn't he?"
"Oh, yes."
"They must have been very disappointed with what they found. Now, at least, this is the home of a successful doctor and we don't have to be
embarrassed.
I
wouldn't have it look any less, but do you appreciate that?"
"I do. Alberta. I might not show it because I'm so involved in my work, but I do."
I
protested.
She smirked. "It's all right if you don't. I appreciate enough for the both of us," she said. "So"-- she continued turning to me and undoing her nightgown. "you remembered you were married to an attractive woman and the man in you was finally stirred up, is that it?"
"No, I...
I
mean. yes. I mean..."
"Forget about it. I'm not looking for
a
scientific explanation. Are you going to get undressed_. Claude, or do you expect me to do that for you?" she asked.
I looked about to place my drink an something, and she screamed. "Not there, Put it on the desk. You'll leave a circle in the wood. How you can be so intelligent and do so many stupid things, I don't know."
I
put the glass down where she wanted it put and began to undress.
No matter what,
I
thought, it just wasn't romantic. It just wasn't emanating from any heart beating with love, and the irony was, it was she who was always teaching, instructing, critiquing it all, not me. She was analyzing, comparing, designing every movement to fit some preconceived image. She put herself in a romance novel or a movie love scene. and I was the one who was no more than a prop, a manikin standing in for this actor or that dreamboat.
I
won't go into all that happened afterward. Willow. but I can tell you this-- when I lay back on my own pillow in my own bed afterward that night,
I
was even more in love with Grace. How do I know? I couldn't make love to Alberta without thinking about Grace, without doing just what Alberta did most likely every time we were together: pretending she was with someone else. In my case it wasn't a movie actor or a singing star I was imagining, nor was it a debonair socialite. It was someone I knew, someone
I
could touch,
Grace,
I
kept thinking in my mind. Grace, how I want to curl up in your heart and sleep contented forever and ever.
How can that ever be?
Just thinking such thoughts made me ashamed of myself, Grace Montgomery was my patient. It was assumed she was vulnerable and in my most protected trust. A doctor cannot take advantage of that trust, can he? He can't and remain true to his profession, to the essence of who and what he is and abuse that relationship.
I tossed and turned, trying to keep myself from dreaming of her. I deliberately reviewed my reports on other patients. I planned my whole month's calendar.
I
did everything
I
could to keep awake, for fear that once
I
fell asleep, I would fall victim to my own secret heart, which, my darling Willow, was exactly what did happen.
Over the next few days I kept my sessions with Grace as professional as I could. I met with her only in my office. and I spent time working on correcting her medications.
I
busied myself with my other patients, and I tried desperately to occupy my every free hour with something that would keep me from thinking about her. Nothing worked,
This is madness, I kept telling myself. I'm growing more and more obsessed. It had to stop, but for all my wisdom and for all my experience.
I
could not heal myself, Willow.
I
could not purge my mind of your mother. Her eyes, her lips, her hair, the way she held her head or moved her hands, every little thing about her was caught in a mental snapshot and replayed on the screen of my memory and in the corridors of my dreams.
Finally one night after I had finished dinner and Alberta had gone upstairs. I went to my office and tried to reason with myself. I reviewed my thoughts, my actions. What should
I
do next to stop this fall into a sweet oblivion? I had another tumbler of scotch and then went up to bed, but almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, your mother's face returned to the inside of my eyelids.
In a crazed rush of impulsive activity, I rose, dressed, and left the house. Miles was already asleep. I drove myself back to the clinic. It was a very dark night, overcast, with not a star in sight. The clinic looked asleep itself, the lights turned down low and the lobby very quiet. All of our patients were in their roams, and the attendants and nurses were sitting and having coffee or tea or watching television. I was able to let myself in and, like some burglar, sneak down the corridor. When I reached Grace Montgomery's door. I stopped and stood there, my heart pounding.
What was
I
doing?
Why had I come here? What were my intentions?
I saw my hand move slowly toward the doorknob, and then
I
heard. "Dr. De Beers?"
One of the night nurses had appeared in the corridor. "Oh, Suzanne," I said.
"Is anything wrong?"
"I was a little concerned about Grace Montgomery today and wanted to check on her. How has she been?"
"Fine," she said. shaking her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary. She ate well, worked in the arts and crafts room, did some reading in our library. I'm sure she's asleep."
"Yes, yes, you're probably right." I said.
"But let me look in on her for you," she added and opened the door.
I peered in over her shoulder like a voyeur, a child wanting to see something exciting. &race was asleep, her face caught in the moonlight peeking through her curtains. She looked absolutely angelic to me.
"She's fine. Doctor." the nurse said.
I
nodded and we both backed out and closed the door softly.
I am truly a madman, I thought on the way home that night.
Tomorrow, Tomorrow I will turn her over completely to Ralston.
But when I arrived at the clinic the next morning and went to his office to do just that. I found I couldn't even suggest it. Not yet. I wasn't ready for such surrender. I had to continue to test myself, and perhaps, dear Willow, perhaps that was where
I
went right. You would have expected me to say wrong, but even to this day I refuse to believe I was guilty of anything but a pure and wonderful love.
We returned to our walks, our wonderful walks. Grace was talking more and more about her life in Palm Beach now, telling me how difficult it had been far her to make new friends and how out of place she had felt right from the beginning.
"I had come from a very structured world, the world of a navy family on a navy base, and was dropped into this... this world where rules almost didn't matter. Doctor. My new friends didn't worry much about disappointing their parents. I used to think some of them actually didn't like their own parents."
"Yes, that's not something that surprises me. Young people want to have some structure. You might think otherwise, but when they're tossed out to sink or swim on their own, they feel neglected and should feel that way. Disciplining, supervising is another way to show you care."
"Were your parents that way?"
"Oh, yes," I said. laughing. "My father was a very strict disciplinarian, not that I really needed it. I was too well behaved and responsible.