Lying on the Couch (56 page)

"What he's told me is that ikebana offers an escape from anxiety—a refuge of tranquillity. The discipline helps him feel centered, offers a sense of harmony and balance. Let me remember . . . what else did he say? Oh yes—that ikebana inspires him to express his creativity and his aesthetic sensibility. You're so quickly dismissive of it. Marshal. Remember, ikebana is a venerable practice, going back several centuries, practiced by tens of thousands. You know much about it?"

"But ikebana therapy? Good God!"

"I've heard of poetry therapy, music therapy, dance therapy, art therapy, meditation therapy, massage therapy. You said yourself that working with your bonsais these last weeks has saved your sanity. Isn't it possible that ikebana therapy might be effective for certain patients?" asked Carol.

"I think that's what Shirley's trying to determine in her dissertation."

"What are her results?"

Marshal shook his head and said nothing.

"I assume that means you've never inquired?" asked Carol.

Marshal nodded almost imperceptibly. He took off his glasses and looked away, as he always did when he felt ashamed.

"So you feel mocked by Shirley and she feels ... ?" Carol gestured for Marshal to speak.

Silence.

"She feels ... ?" Carol asked again, her hand cupping her ear.

"Devalued. Invalidated," Marshal answered sotto voce.

A long silence. Finally, Marshal said: "Okay, Carol, I acknowledge it. You've made your point. I've got things to say to her. So where do I go from here?"

"I have a feeling you know the answer to that question. A question ain't a question if you know the answer. Seems to me like your course is clear."

"Clear? Clear? To you, maybe. What do you mean? Tell me. I need your help."

Carol remained silent.

"Tell me what to do," Marshal repeated.

"What would you say to a patient who pretends not to know what to do?"

"Dammit, Carol, stop acting like an analyst and tell me what to do."

"How would you respond to that kind of statement?"

"Goddammit," said Marshal, holding his head between his hands and rocking back and forth. "I've created a goddamned monster. Pity. Pity. Carol, ever heard of pity?"

Carol hung tough, just as Ernest had advised. "You're resisting again. This is valuable time. Go ahead. Marshal, what would you say to that patient?"

"I'd do what I always do: I'd interpret his behavior. I'd tell him that he has such a craving for submission, such a lust for authority, that he refuses to heed his own wisdom."

"So you do know what to do?"

Marshal nodded resignedly.

"And when to do it?"

Another nod.

Carol looked at her watch and rose. "It's two-fifty sharp. Marshal. Our time is up. Good work today. Call me when you return from Tassajara."

At two in the morning at Len's house in Tiburon, Shelly hummed "zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay" as he raked in another pot. Not only had the cards turned—flushes, full houses, and perfect lows had been dealt to him all evening—but, by cannily reversing every one of

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the tells that Marshal had identified, Shelly had confused the other players and built enormous pots.

"No way I could have figured Shelly for a full house," mumbled Willy. "I would have bet a thousand dollars against it."

"You did bet a thousand against it," Len reminded him. "Look at that mountain of chips—it's going to totter the table. Hey, Shelly, where are you.-* You still there.'' I can barely see you behind those stacks."

As Willy reached into his pocket for his wallet, he said, "Last two hands you bluff me out, this hand you suck me in; what the hell is going on. Shelly? You taking lessons or something?"

Shelly embraced his mountain of chips, pulled them closer, looked up, and grinned, "Yeah, yeah, lessons—you got it. It's like this: my shrink, a bona fide psychoanalyst, is giving me a few pointers. He totes his couch down every week to Avocado Joe's."

"So," Carol said, "last night in this dream you and I were sitting on the edge of a bed and then we took off our dirty socks and shoes and sat facing each other touching our feet together."

"Feeling tone of the dream?" Ernest asked.

"Positive. Exhilarating. But a little scary."

"You and I sit touching our bare feet together. What's that dream saying? Let your mind drift. Think about you and me sitting together. Think about therapy."

"When I think about therapy, I think about my client. He's left town."

"And . . . ," prompted Ernest.

"Well, I've been hiding behind my client. Now it's time for me to come out, to get started on myself."

"And . . . just let your thoughts run free, Carolyn."

"It's like I'm just beginning . . . good advice . . . you know, you gave me good advice for my client. . . damned good . . . and watching how much he was getting made me envious . . . made me long for something good for myself ... I need it. ... I need to start talking to you about Jess, whom I've been seeing a lot of lately—problems coming up as I get closer to him . . . hard time trusting that something good can happen to me . . . starting to trust you . . . passed every test . . . but it's scary too—don't quite know why . . . yes, I do . . . can't quite say why. Yet."

"Perhaps the dream says it for you, Carolyn. Look at what you and I are doing in the dream."

"I don't get it—touching the soles of our bare feet. So?"

"Look at how we're sitting—sole to sole. I think the dream is expressing a wish to sit soul to soul—spelled s-o-u-1. Not sole touching but soul touching."

"Oh, cute. Soul, not sole. Ernest, you can be very clever if I give you half a chance. Soul touching—yes, that feels right. Yes, that's what the dream is saying. It is time to begin. A new beginning. The cardinal rule here is honesty, right?

Ernest nodded. "Nothing more important than our being honest with each other."

"And anything I say here is acceptable, right? Anything is acceptable as long as it's honest."

"Of course."

"Then I have a confession to make," said Carol.

Ernest nodded, reassuringly.

"You ready, Ernest?"

Ernest nodded again.

"You sure, Ernest?"

Ernest smiled knowingly. And a little smugly—he had always suspected that Carolyn had kept some parts of herself concealed. He picked up his notepad, snuggled back cozily into his chair, and said, "Always ready for the truth."

(continued from front flap)

Readers Kave turned to Dr. Yalom's writing over and over for knowledge, insigkt, and a tantalizing, almost illicit look behind tke objective gaze of a psyckotkerapist, to taste tke forbidden fruit of wkat a tkerapist migkt really be tkinking during a tkerapy session. In Lyin^ on the Couch, tke reader is seated ringside at tke nastiest of power plays between tkerapists and patients and moved by a resolution ot surprising kumanity and redemptive faitk.

IRVIN D. YaLOM, M.D, is tke autkor of tke best-selling Love's Executioner and When Nietzsche Wept (winner of tke Commonwealtk Award for Best Fiction), Every Day Gets a Little Closer (witk Ginny Elkin), as well as several textbooks on psyckotkerapy, including tke classic Theory anJ Practice of Group Psychotherapy and Existential Psychotherapy. He is professor of psyckiatry at Stanford University and lives in Palo Alto, California.

Jacket design by Roberto de Vicq de Cumptich Jacket photograph by Geoff Spear

Al THOR photograph C 1996 BY REID YaLOM