Lying on the Couch (6 page)

since he had spotted some condoms in her purse. That, of course, is further irony: it was only because therapy had curbed her lethal self-destructiveness that she was willing to use condoms in her affairs.

"The last I heard. Belle's condition was terrible—back to ground zero. All the old pathology was back: two admissions for suicidal attempts—one cutting, one a serious overdose. She's going to kill herself. I know it. Apparently she tried three new therapists, fired each in turn, refuses further therapy, and is now doing hard drugs again.

"And you know what the worst thing is.' I know I could help her, even now. I'm sure of it, but I'm forbidden to see her or speak to her by court order and under the threat of severe penalty. I got several phone messages from her, but my attorney warned me that I was in great jeopardy and ordered me, if I wanted to stay out of jail, not to respond. He contacted Belle and informed her that by court injunction I was not permitted to communicate with her. Finally she stopped calling.

"What am I going to do? About Belle, you mean? It's a tough call. It kills me not to be able to answer her calls, but I don't like jails. I know I could do so much for her in a ten-minute conversation. Even now. Off the record—shut off the recorder, Ernest. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to just let her sink. Not sure if I could live with myself.

"So, Ernest, that's it. The end of my tale. Finis. Let me tell you, it's not the way I wanted to end my career. Belle is the major character in this tragedy, but the situation is also catastrophic for me. Her lawyers are urging her to ask for damages—to get all she can. They will have a feeding frenzy—the malpractice suit is coming up in a couple of months.

"Depressed! Of course I'm depressed. Who wouldn't be? I call it an appropriate depression: I'm a miserable, sad old man. Discouraged, lonely, full of self-doubts, ending my life in disgrace.

"No, Ernest, not a drug-treatable depression. Not that kind of depression. No biological markers: psychomotor symptoms, insomnia, weight loss—none of that. Thanks for offering.

"No, not suicidal, though I admit I'm drawn to darkness. But I'm a survivor. I crawl into the cellar and lick my wounds.

"Yes, very much alone. My wife and I had been living together by habit for many years. I've always lived for my work; my marriage

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has always been on the periphery of my life. My wife always said I fulfill all my desires for closeness with my patients. And she was right. But that's not why she left. My ataxia's progressing fast, and I don't think she relished the idea of becoming my full-time nurse. My hunch is that she welcomed the excuse to cut herself loose from that job. Can't blame her,

"No, I don't need to see anyone for therapy. I told you I'm not clinically depressed. I appreciate your asking, Ernest, but I'd be a cantankerous patient. So far, as I said, I'm licking my own wounds and I'm a pretty good licker.

"It's fine with me if you phone to check in. I'm touched by your offer. But put your mind at ease, Ernest. I'm a tough son of a bitch. I'll be all right."

And with that, Seymour Trotter collected his canes and lurched out of the room. Ernest, still sitting, listened to the tapping grow fainter.

When Ernest phoned a couple of weeks later. Dr. Trotter once again refused all offers of help. Within minutes he switched the conversation to Ernest's future and again expressed his strong conviction that, whatever Ernest's strengths as a psychopharmacologist, he was still missing his calling: he was a born therapist and owed it to himself to fulfill his destiny. He invited Ernest to discuss the matter further over lunch, but Ernest refused.

"Thoughtless of me," Dr. Trotter had responded without a trace of irony. "Forgive me. Here I am advising you about a career shift and at the same time asking you to jeopardize it by being seen in public with me."

"No, Seymour," for the first time Ernest called him by first name, "that is absolutely not the reason. The truth is, and I am embarrassed to say this to you, I'm committed already to serve as an expert witness at your civil suit trial for malpractice."

"Embarrassment is not warranted, Ernest. It's your duty to testify. I would do the same, precisely the same, in your position. Our profession is vulnerable, threatened on all sides. It is our to duty to protect it and to preserve standards. Even if you believe nothing else about me, believe that I treasure this work. I've devoted my entire life to it. That's why I told you my story in such detail—I wanted

you to know it is not a story of betrayal, I acted in good faith. I know it sounds absurd, yet even to this moment I think I did the right thing. Sometimes destiny pitches us into positions where the right thing is the wrong thing. I never betrayed my field, nor a patient. Whatever the future brings, Ernest, believe me. I believe in what I did: I would never betray a patient."

Ernest did testify at the civil trial. Seymour's attorney, citing his advanced age, diminished judgment, and infirmity, tried a novel, desperate defense: he claimed that Seymour, not Belle, had been the victim. But their case was hopeless, and Belle was awarded two mil-hon dollars—the maximum of Seymour's malpractice coverage. Her lawT^ers would have gone for more but there seemed little point to it since, after his divorce and legal fees, Seymour's pockets were empty.

That was the end of the public story of Seymour Trotter. Shortly after the trial he silently left town and was never heard from again, aside from a letter (with no return address) that Ernest received a year later.

Ernest had only a few minutes before his first patient. But he couldn't resist inspecting, once again, the last trace of Seymour Trotter.

Dear Ernest,

You, alone, in those demonizing witch hunt days, expressed concern for my welfare. Thank you—it was powerfully sustaining. Am well. Lost, but don't want to be found. I owe you much—certainly this letter and this picture of Belle and me. That's her house in the background, incidentally: Belle's come into a good bit of money.

Seymour

Ernest, as he had so many times before, stared at the faded picture. On a palm-studded lawn, Seymour sat in a wheelchair. Belle stood behind him, forlorn and gaunt, fists clutching the handles of the wheelchair. Her eyes were downcast. Behind her a graceful colonial home, and beyond that the gleaming milky-green water of a tropical sea. Seymour was smiling—a big, goofy, crooked smile. He held onto the wheelchair with one hand; with the other, he pointed his cane jubilantly toward the sky.

As always, when he studied the photograph, Ernest felt queasy.

He peered closer, trying to crawl into the picture, trying to discover some clue, some definitive answer to the real fate of Seymour and Belle. The key, he thought, was to be found in Belle's eyes. They seemed melancholy, even despondent. Why? She had gotten what she wanted, hadn't she? He moved closer to Belle and tried to catch her gaze. But she always looked away.

hree times a week for the past five years, Justin Astrid had started his day with a visit to Dr. Ernest Lash. His visit today had begun Uke any of the previous seven hundred therapy sessions: at 7:50 A.M. up the outdoor stairs of the Sacramento Street Victorian, handsomely painted in mauve and mahogany, through the vestibule, up to the second floor, into Ernest's dimly lit waiting room, permeated with the rich, moist aroma of Italian dark roast. Justin inhaled deeply, then poured coffee into a Japanese mug adorned with a hand-painted persimmon, and sat on the stiff green leather sofa and opened the San Francisco Chronicle sports section.

But Justin could not read about yesterday's baseball game. Not on this day. Something momentous had happened—something that demanded commemoration. He folded his newspaper and stared at Ernest's door.

At eight A.M. Ernest put Seymour Trotter's folder into his file cab-

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inet, glanced quickly at Justin's chart, straightened his desk, placed his newspaper in a drawer, put his coffee cup out of sight, rose, and, just before opening his office door, looked back to scan his office. No visible signs of habitation. Good.

He opened his door and for a moment the two men looked at each other. Healer and patient. Justin with his Chronicle in hand, Ernest's newspaper hidden deeply in his desk. Justin in his dark blue suit and Italian striped silk tie. Ernest in a navy blue blazer and Liberty flowered tie. Both were fifteen pounds overweight, Justin's flesh spilling into chins and jowls, Ernest's belly bulging over his belt. Justin's mustache curled upward, stretching for his nostrils. Ernest's manicured beard was his tidiest feature. Justin's face was mobile, fidgety, his eyes jittery. Ernest wore large goggle spectacles and could go for long periods without blinking.

"I've left my wife," Justin began, after taking a seat in the office. "Yesterday evening. Just moved out. Spent the night with Laura." He offered these first words calmly and dispassionately, then stopped and peered at Ernest.

"Just like that?" Ernest asked quietly. No blinking.

"Just like that." Justin smiled. "When I see what has to be done, I don't waste time."

A little humor had entered their interaction over the past few months. Ordinarily, Ernest welcomed it. His supervisor. Marshal Streider, had said that the appearance of humorous byplay in therapy was often a propitious sign.

But Ernest's "just like that" comment had not been good-natured byplay. He was unsettled by Justin's announcement. And irritated! He had been treating Justin for five years—five years of busting his ass trying to help him leave his wife! And today Justin casually informs him that he left his wife.

Ernest thought back to their very first session, to Justin's opening words: "I need help getting out of my marriage!" For months Ernest had painstakingly investigated the situation. Finally he concurred: Justin should get out—it was one of the worst marriages Ernest had ever seen. And for the next five years Ernest had used every known psychotherapy device to enable Justin to leave. Every one had failed.

Ernest was an obstinate therapist. No one had ever accused him of not trying hard enough. Most of his colleagues considered him too active, too ambitious in his therapy. His supervisor was forever remonstrating him with, "Whoa, cowboy, slow down! Prepare the

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soil. You can't force people to change." But, finally, even Ernest was forced to give up hope. Though he never stopped liking Justin and never stopped hoping for better things for him, he gradually grew convinced that Justin would never leave his wife, that he was immovable, rooted, that he would be stuck for life in a tormented marriage.

Ernest then set more limited goals for Justin: to make the best of a bad marriage, to become more autonomous at work, to develop better social skills. Ernest could do this as well as the next therapist. But it was boring. Therapy grew more and more predictable; nothing unexpected ever happened. Ernest stifled yawns and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose to keep himself awake. He no longer discussed Justin with his supervisor. He imagined conversations with Justin in which he raised the question of referring him to another therapist.

And here, today, Justin saunters in and nonchalantly announces he has left his wife!

Ernest tried to conceal his feelings by cleaning his goggle spectacles with a Kleenex yanked from the box.

"Tell me about it, Justin." Bad technique! He knew it instantly. He put his glasses back on and jotted on his notepad: "mistake— asked for information—countertransference?"

Later, in supervision, he would go over these notes with Marshal. But he knew himself that it was nuts for him to be pulling for information. Why should he have to coax Justin to continue? He should not have given in to his curiosity. Incontinent —that's what Marshal had called him a couple of weeks earlier. "Learn to wait," Marshal would say. "It should be more important for Justin to tell you this than for you to hear it. And if he chooses not to tell you, then you should focus on why he comes to see you, pays you, and yet withholds information from you."

Ernest knew Marshal was right. Yet he did not care about technical correctness—this was no ordinary session. The sleeping Justin had awakened and left his wife! Ernest looked at his patient; was it his imagination or did Justin appear more powerful today? No obsequious head bowing, no slouching, no fidgeting in his chair to adjust his underwear, no hesitancy, no apologies about dropping his newspaper on the floor next to his chair.

"Well, I wish there were more to tell—it all went so easily. Like I was on automatic pilot. I just did it. I just walked out!" Justin fell silent.

Again, Ernest couldn't wait. "Tell me more, Justin."

"It's got to do with Laura, my young friend."

Justin rarely spoke of Laura, but when he did she was always, simply, "my young friend." Ernest found that irritating. But he gave away nothing and remained silent.

"You know I've been seeing her a lot—maybe I've minimized that a bit to you. I don't know why I've kept it from you. But I've been seeing her almost daily, for lunch, or a walk, or going up to her apartment for a romp in the hay. I've just been feeling more and more together, at home, with her. And then, yesterday, Laura said, very matter of factly, 'It's time, Justin, for you to move in with me.'