Save Johanna! (17 page)

Tuesday morning turns out to be magnificent, seventy-five degrees, solid blue sky and what feels like no humidity, so clear and bright and perfect that I decide to walk to Wyn’s office across town on East Eighty-third Street. That’s a good two and a half to three miles but most of it a pleasurable stroll through Central Park. The park is always beautiful on weekday mornings, especially after ten when it’s closed to cars and the serious people have gone off to work, leaving the lovely green oasis to the gently dedicated fanatics—dog owners and joggers. I’ve never had the dogged determination for either pursuit, but this morning it’s all I can do to disguise the bounce and energy in my step and keep myself from leaping across the new sod of Sheep’s Meadow. But I’m too self-conscious for anything that bold, so I settle for a big smile while I hold my shoulders far back, head high, lengthen my pace and swing my arms as wide as they’ll go. I feel good. Cured even before I reach the doctor’s office. Actually I’m doing this mainly for David. Perhaps this will ease his mind. I hate the idea of his worrying about me.

I arrive early for my eleven o’clock appointment and wait in the outer office, straining to make out the muffled sounds coming from the other room. It all seems to be the same voice, female, I would guess, with a tone and rhythm that’s sharp and fast like a series of angry complaints. No surprise; you don’t come here to tell jokes. With that thought in mind, I begin to get a little nervous.

I don’t know Wyn very well. I’ve run into him at parties a few times, and once he and his wife and David and I had dinner together. He’s a pleasant sort of man, easygoing and friendly, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that night I was being analyzed. David says Wyn suffers from that all the time. People always think psychiatrists are digging into everything they say, but the truth is they’re pretty much like everyone else—they leave their work at the office. He’s probably right, but I still felt uncomfortable and now, suddenly, the discomfort of that evening comes back, and I find I’m in no mood for this kind of intrusion. I’d like to change my mind about the whole thing and head back into the safety of the park, but I can’t because if I run out now it will really look as though I need the treatment.

Soon the door opens, and the owner of the angry voice comes out. She’s a woman in her middle forties, extremely well dressed in suede pants and a rose silk blouse softly draping her trim, tall figure. A handsome woman and, from the glow on her face, a happy one. Hey, maybe the trick is to dump it all on the doctor. A delightful idea, and when Wyn calls me I go in smiling.

“Johanna.” He puts out his hand. “Good to see you. Come on in,” he says, leading me into his office.

Thirty-three years old and never been in a psychiatrist’s office before. There are such people, you know. Of course, I’ve seen reproductions in movies so I pretty much know what to expect, and this one fits the bill perfectly: a leather couch; a couple of chairs; the doctor’s desk nearly empty except for some handsome leather appointments; behind that the wall lined with bookshelves filled with reference books. Everything very neat and simple, all straight lines, undisturbing dull browns and rusts, nothing to distract you from your agony. And, within easy reach of either couch or chair or, in severe cases, window ledge, a huge box of tissues. I make a mental note never to use them.

I want to get it straight with him from the beginning that this is only a one-shot visit to calm David, but he says he knows that already and why don’t I just sit back and relax so we can talk.

And he sits there waiting for me to start. I hate him already, and furthermore I have nothing to say. We sit in silence, and I could kick myself for allowing David to talk me into this foolishness. I’m not the therapy type.

I look up at Wyn; he has a nice face. Maybe I’m being uncooperative and immature. I said I’d do it for David, and now that I’m here I should see it through.

“Things have been a little difficult for me lately,” I start tentatively.

He nods sympathetically.

“You know that David and I are getting married next month?”

“Yes, he told me, and he also said that you were working on a book.”

“I am, and it’s a tough one.”

“Avrum Maheely?”

“I see David’s been discussing my project.”

“Only very broadly. What sort of book is it?”

“Well, I’m aiming for a fictionalized composite of the whole cult culture. There’s a character very much like Maheely, and I’ve got some others who resemble his followers. But it’s not the same story.”

“How is it going?”

“I’m not sure. This is my first novel, and I guess I didn’t realize how total the immersion would be, or what it would be like dealing with such a dark and heavy subject. It’s about terrible aberrant people involved in hideous evil, about brainwashing and sexual and physical violence. Hardly something you dance through, so it’s no wonder I’m not at my best lately.”

“How bad
has
it been?”

“Sometimes it can get very oppressive. There are days when I’ve spent up to seventeen hours immersed in Maheely’s netherworld. It’s hard not to allow some of that blackness to ooze over into your own life.”

“Has it?”

“I suppose it has in some ways.”

“How?”

“Possibly by accentuating the dark parts of my own life which, of course, can be very depressing.”

“Do those dark parts have to do with your sister?”

“Look, Wyn, I don’t know what David’s been telling you, but I think I object to his discussing my private life with you or anyone.”

“He’s told me very little. Only that you have a half sister, and your relationship with her has been disturbing you lately. Johanna, sibling problems are extremely common and something that can usually be worked out.”

“This is completely different. It doesn’t have anything to do with the usual rivalry of siblings.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we didn’t grow up that way. We grew up alone, without parents, so there wasn’t anyone’s love to compete for. Besides, it’s not really Sephra anyway. She hasn’t done anything wrong to me, nothing that would matter in my life now.”

“Perhaps it’s something only associated with Sephra.”

“Of course it is. As my sister she’s been closely associated with the saddest event in my life, the time my parents died. I know that already. It’s really quite simple. When I’m with her that terrible time comes back to me. No distinct memories, just the heavy weight of great unhappiness.”

“How old were you when your parents died?”

“Sephra tells me I had just turned four the week before the accident.”

“What kind of an accident was it?”

“An auto accident. They were both together in the car. I never wanted too many details, but Sephra said they were hit head-on.”

“Tragic.”

“Yes, it was. I’ll never forget how I cried when they told me. It seemed to go on hour after hour, day after day; once I started crying no one could make me stop until I’d fall off to sleep. Everything would make me think of my mother. I couldn’t eat, I wouldn’t talk to anyone, I could only cry. The people who took care of us brought me to a doctor, and he gave me some little white pills. They must have been tranquilizers because they made me sort of groggy, but it stopped some of the ache in my heart. It’s odd, I have such sharp memories of the time right after they died, but I’m very blurry on anything before that. I suppose that sounds strange; after all, I was four.”

“Not really. When a young child suffers a great trauma he will often protect himself by suppressing everything associated with it. That’s probably what you did. Unfortunately those memories are only masked and tend to remain latent in the subconscious. And then sometimes they rise to the surface when you can least deal with them. Have you any memories of either of your parents?”

“Not really.”

“None at all?”

I shake my head. “Just some bad feelings of fright when I think about them, that’s all.”

“Were you afraid of them?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. The fright is because of what happened.”

“What happened?”

“The accident. I told you.”

“Were you involved in the accident?”

“How could I be? It happened in the car. I was home.”

“You remember being home?”

“No. I just said that because I must have been.”

“Were you supposed to go with them? Perhaps they asked you to, but you didn’t want to.”

“That’s not true. I would have gone if they told me to. But they didn’t. They left us both home.”

“Sephra too?”

“Yes.”

“Were you angry at being left alone with Sephra?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did Sephra do something to you after they left?”

“No. She wouldn’t come near me.”

“She
wouldn’t
come near you?”

“I mean, she didn’t touch me. She didn’t hit me or anything.”

“Why would she hit you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I did something bad. I don’t remember.”

“Were you being punished? Was that why your parents didn’t take you?”

“Maybe. I was crying, but I don’t know if that was before or after.”

“Where were you when you were crying?”

“I remember wiping my tears on the edge of the pillowcase on the big bed. I must have been in their bedroom.”

“Your parents’ bedroom?”

“I guess so.”

“Why were you crying?”

“I don’t know.” At that moment nausea begins to stir in my stomach, and I tell Wyn that I think I’m going to be sick. “Please, I need some water.”

He pours a glass of water from a leather thermos atop his desk and gives it to me, but my hands are trembling. The water leaps up and down in the glass, sending sprays over my jeans. I sip some, hand the glass to him, and lie back on the couch, cold and sweaty. Wyn is standing over me. He takes my hand, but I still can’t stop shaking.

“Try to get past the sick feeling, Johanna; that’s just a subconscious defense barrier to keep you from uncovering whatever it is that is disturbing you. Don’t be frightened. It won’t be terrible. You were only four when it happened. Whatever it was you can certainly deal with it now. Put it to rest. Wipe it out of your life forever. Try to think, Johanna; what was making you cry?”

For a moment I feel I can trust this man, and I dig as hard as I can into those old memories. I come up with something. It’s not very much, only a short flash, but it’s very clear. “My mother was angry at me.”

When I say the words a sharp pain cuts into me. “She grabbed me hard by the shoulders. She must have been so angry . . . I don’t know why. . . . I remember being lifted up and half carried, half dragged into her bedroom. All the while I was hanging onto her and crying. She put me down on her bed and I kept clutching at her arms but she pulled my hands off, and then she left the room and closed the door. I never saw her again.”

“You’ve almost got it, Johanna; now try to think. What happened to make her so angry?”

“Enough, please. I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember. All I know is that the last time I saw my mother alive she was furious with me. She left because of me.”

“That’s impossible. Think, Johanna, what could a child of four do to cause an adult to take such rash action?”

“I don’t know, but it
was
because of me! I know that!”

I see him shake his head, and that starts the words tumbling from me, opening hidden sores that have been festering at the bottom of my mind for all these years. “You don’t know! Only I know. If she hadn’t gone she would still be alive!”

“Johanna, that guilt cannot belong to you.”

“It does! Deep down inside I know it does.”

“Your sister was there. She would know what really happened.”

“Leave Sephra out of this! Don’t you dare talk to her!” I get up from the couch. I know I have to get out of here. “You hear me, Wyn, I don’t want you or David to contact Sephra. If you do I’ll . . .”

“Johanna, please sit down. You have my word. I promise.”

“Swear to me!”

“I will not contact your sister without your permission. Now please come back; I don’t want you to leave like this.”

“No. I don’t want to talk anymore. This was a stupid, bad idea, and I shouldn’t have listened to David. Every time I turn around he sabotages me.” I scoop my pocketbook off the chair and head for the door. Wyn is there before me, his hand on the knob.

“Johanna, you’re in an extremely agitated condition. . . .”

“Please take your hand off the door.”

“I will. I just want to assure you again that I would never take any steps against your wishes.”

“All right. Now let me leave.”

He opens the door for me, and I move out quickly. I go directly through the waiting room and into the street without turning to look back. He calls out something to me, but I don’t hear him. I’m almost running now, heading across Fifth Avenue toward the park. Once inside the park I slow down and, finding an empty mound of grass, climb up and collapse out of breath on the top.

I still feel some of the nausea I felt in Wyn’s office, but now there’s an anger and bitterness added. Most of it is directed at David for meddling in places of my life where he doesn’t belong. Places where no one belongs. Wyn was right about one thing. Obviously I had repressed that terrible truth to protect myself, and now that it’s uncovered I’ll have to live the rest of my life with the awful knowledge that somehow, in some way, I contributed to my mother’s death. I guess I’ve always carried the misery of that burden, but until now I never knew its contents. Now it will be much worse and much heavier.

I sit in the park for an hour or so, trying to think about what I’m going to do now. How can my life ever be the same again? I’m certain of one thing. Though I was very young, I somehow precipitated the situation that angered my mother enough to make her flee the house. The only protection I have left for myself is never knowing what it was I did.

My life has gotten out of hand. Out of
my
hands, at any rate. And that has to change. For the moment, my first priority is the book. I must hold onto that at all costs. Once it’s finished I can make the other decisions. However, in order to complete the book I must keep myself in a quieter frame of mind. That means temporarily relieving my anxieties in any way necessary for the time it takes me to finish.