My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  I put my sandwich down. “Oh Christ,” I said. “What did you do?”

  “I was shocked, I admit. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to take that garbage from anyone—since leaving the city, in fact. As I said, M. G. is miserable, body and soul, and I guess he needed someone to take it out on. So, I said what I always say when someone insults me: ‘I beg your pardon?’”

  “Good ploy.”

  “It’s not an original trick, but it frequently works. Not this time, though. He repeated his greeting with an even uglier term. I refuse to repeat it. I have to admit, Mac, that as sick as he is, and as conscious as I am of my role as his therapist, I wanted to punch him. But I controlled myself of course; my anger passed in a minute. I asked him why he wanted to hurt me. He told me to go fuck myself. I asked him why he’d said that. He exploded, wheeling around the room and knocking over everything he could. An attendant in the hallway heard the ruckus and came in and took him away.”

  “I can see why you’re so upset. It must have been terrible for you.”

  “That wasn’t the end of it. That interview took place pretty early this morning. After they took M. G. away, I hunted down the guy who’d intimated that he was heading for serious trouble, and finally got him to tell me what had upset him so. It seems that on one of their wheelchair jaunts, M. G. had exposed himself to a group of high-school girls. I was amazed that the police hadn’t gotten in on it, but apparently the girls hadn’t told. They had run away, fast. The soldier told me he was afraid of M. G., and that’s why he hadn’t said anything until now.

  “Clearly we needed to do something about M. G. immediately. I was going to talk to the head of our department, of course, but I decided to see if I could find M. G. first and talk to him a little. I hated to leave things the way they were. Some of the other boys told me he was in the library.

  “I found him there, all right, but he wasn’t reading. He’d pulled his chair up to one of the big windows and was just sitting there looking out. I watched him for a minute; he’d knotted up one end of his jacket and was twisting it violently and smacking it again and again against the side of a bookshelf like a cudgel. The strength of his arms and hands was obvious and appalling, and I felt a little afraid, which unnerved me. But I went up to him, carefully approaching from the side instead of the rear so that I wouldn’t surprise him.

  “He gave me a big, fake smile. ‘Hi, Doc,’ he said, ‘Come to smoke the old peace-pipe, I’ll bet.’ I said that would be nice. I told him I was sorry we’d gotten off to such a bad start and asked him if he’d come back and see me tomorrow. He kept smiling at me in that awful way, and said, ‘Sure, Doc, I’ll see you tomorrow. Why the hell not? You and me’ll get real buddy-buddy, right? Just the way you like it? Sure, Doc, I’ll be there. You can count on it.’ And then he zoomed away. I sat there for a while, just stewing. I’ve got to deal with him tomorrow, and I’m not sure of the best way to begin.” Don sighed. “Any ideas?”

  What I’d been hearing had worried me of course, but I couldn’t make sense of why I felt such intense foreboding. Hostile patients are common enough, God knows, and sometimes disturbed persons have an uncanny way of homing in on a therapist’s sore spots. But I knew Don would be skillful enough to handle M. G. once the initial shock of their first day’s encounter had worn off. There was something else going on, though; I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it made me feel uneasy.

  “Well,” I finally answered, “Have you thought about having yourself removed from the case?”

  Don looked at me quizzically. “Thanks for that vote of confidence,” he said.

  “No, no, Donald, I didn’t mean that you can’t handle it,” I told him. “I’m sorry if it sounded that way. I know you can handle this young man as well as anyone—probably better than most. But for some reason—intuition or whatever you want to call it—I’m getting a bad feeling about the whole thing. It wouldn’t be shameful for you to drop the case, you know. I’m sure no one would think the less of you for doing that.”

  “That’s not the point,” Don said. “I could get out of the situation easily enough if I wanted to, but I feel I have to face him. It seems important to me; I want to see how I do. And I want to help M. G. too—I’ve always liked him. I remember how exciting it was to watch him relearning speech, and how we all stood around and cheered the day he came speeding through the wards in his new wheelchair. There’s a lot of good in that kid, Mac. He’s just had so many lousy breaks. I’ve got to figure out some way to get through to him.”

  “I understand,” I said, “I’ll help you any way I can. I did have a similar experience once with a very violent-minded youngster in New Jersey named Luther. We made a lot of progress together.” We continued to talk about M.G, all through lunch, and after a while Don relaxed. As for me, I still felt nervous. This is silly, I told myself; you’ve been away from the real world so long that you’ve really become a wimp. Help Don with this boy, I told myself; be useful. He’ll succeed, I told myself, and then we’ll celebrate. We’ll all be the better for it, I reasoned, and that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?

  43. A Sky Bar

  For several weeks Don struggled with M. G.’s case, making little headway. The only comments M. G. would make to him were hostile, taunting ones, and he often refused to show up for scheduled appointments. Don’s supervisor was in favor of assigning another therapist but had agreed to give Don until the end of the month to make some kind of meaningful contact with M. G. Don also struggled with his knowledge of M. G.’s sexual transgression: naturally, he considered it very serious and was fearful that it might happen again, but he also feared that any interference from correctional authorities would cause M. G. to reject help altogether—and perhaps even land him in prison. He told me he thought that the mere fact that the boy was speaking to him at all was promising.

  I continued to worry. And I was adamantly against Don’s keeping the young man’s public behavior a secret. I tried to convince Don that he had to think not only of his patient, but of all the women and children who might fall prey to M. G.’s exhibitionism. Don countered that, wheelchair bound as the boy was, there was no chance whatsoever that anyone could be physically harmed, and when I told him flat out that that was an irresponsible position he became very angry with me. It was the first time we’d really been at odds, and it felt terrible. Nevertheless, I had to stand my ground. The rotten thing was, I knew Don agreed with me in his heart. Obviously, M. G. could do real harm without ever leaving his chair. The fact that Don was trying to overlook that was astonishing to me. He had invested so much in this case that it was clouding his professional perceptions drastically.

  But gradually, like a married couple in disagreement over some insoluble problem, we returned, at least on the surface, to our normal existence. I knew Don was under pressure, and I tried to allow for his moodiness; in his turn, he tried not to bring up M. G.’s case any more than necessary. He also promised me that, should he be forced to give up the case at the end of the month, he would divulge all he knew to the new therapist. That calmed me somewhat, and I told him I thought that was wise. I think in my deepest heart I was hoping that would happen. It was selfish of me, but besides wanting the best solution to M. G.’s problems, I wanted the old Donald back. I wanted to protect him from what I felt would turn out to be a painful experience. Even if he learned a lot, the cost might be too high.

  Looking back, I suppose I did everything I could to change Don’s mind, but at the time I blamed myself completely for what happened. I should have argued with him more; I should have stifled my fear that our friendship would be damaged and gone right for the throat of the dilemma. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, but I couldn’t get that thought out of my mind. Don was less experienced than I; he looked up to me. I should have been able to save him.

  The telephone rang shortly before eleven one morning as Tillie and I were having a little game of floor hockey with an aluminum foil ball she’d become ver
y fond of. As I spoke into the receiver, I was vaguely conscious of the little cat still skittering about on the linoleum, batting at her silver puck. Suddenly I had a premonition and felt all the blood drain from my head—even though the first words I heard were only “Dr. MacLeod?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Dr. Gallieri, at the V.A. hospital—Don’s supervisor?”

  “Yes, of course. What can I do for you? Donald’s not home yet. I think he—”

  He stopped me mid-sentence. I already felt sorry for him. I knew he was struggling to give me bad news. “Dr. MacLeod, there’s been a terrible accident. I didn’t know who else to call. Is there any way you could get down here right away?”

  I sat down on the floor with the phone and Tillie ran over my lap, still chasing the silver ball. “Is he alive?” I said.

  “Yes, yes, he is, but he’s in serious condition. I think it would be a good idea for you to come down here now, and I could fill you in when you arrive.”

  I told Dr. Gallieri my predicament as far as travel was concerned, and he said he’d send a man out with a car right away. In less than fifteen minutes, the car arrived. The driver offered me no information, and I didn’t ask any questions. I was busy trying to hold my guts together. When we arrived at the hospital, Gallieri came out to meet me and guide me to Donald’s room. He started to speak about the accident, but I asked him to wait. I wanted to see Don first; I didn’t care about the details. Dr. G. said he understood, but to prepare myself for a shock. I was holding on to his arm as he guided me down the long corridors, and I realized I had a death-grip on him. It must have been uncomfortable, but he didn’t mention it.

  It was one of those rare times when I was glad I couldn’t see very well. Don’s room was brimming over with figures in white, and the walls were lined with lit-up medical machinery, but when Dr. Gallieri and I appeared, a hush came over the room, and the sea of people around Don’s bed parted silently so we could get through. Dr. Gallieri took my hand off his arm and gently placed it on Donald’s. I could feel an unnaturally rapid pulse beating through his fingers, as if he were trying with every last ounce of energy to stay alive. I made a noise I couldn’t identify. I reached for his face, but someone stopped me. “Be careful of the tubes,” a voice said, and I leaned forward as far as I could to try and see Don’s face. I still could not tell if he were conscious. One entire side of his head, including his eye, was bandaged—there was fresh, bright, red blood still seeping through. He had tubes in his nose and mouth and an I.V. in his arm. I reached around them and touched the other side of his face.

  “Don, it’s Mac. Can you hear me?” I was weeping openly.

  Dr. Gallieri said, “He’s opened his eye. He sees you. He knows you’re here.”

  But that was the only response any of us was to get from Don Rath that morning. He died just after noon. I was with him, and I tried to let him know I was still there, but I was grateful he was not awake to suffer. When it was over, Dr. Gallieri led me to a quiet room with a couch. He brought me a Valium, a pitcher of ice-water, and a blanket. He told me to simply pick up the nearby intercom and ask for anything I might need. He said when I was ready to talk, he’d be ready to see me. And then he left me. He was a kind man.

  I wept for a while, lying on the couch. I was wholly sad, wholly bereft, but in such shock that I don’t think I could have even told anyone why I was crying. After a while, I swallowed the Valium. It put me immediately to sleep. When I awoke, soaked in sweat, I felt as if my head had been removed and then resewn to my body. I could tell it was late afternoon by the way the light played along the thin white curtains. I picked up the intercom and Gallieri answered immediately. “I’ll be right in,” he said.

  Gallieri walked me to his office. Quite a few people lined the hallway; I found out later they were reporters and policemen. Once inside the office, Gallieri closed and locked the door and sat me down on another sofa. He asked me if I were all right, and I said yes: a meaningless question and answer.

  He removed some crisp green hospital scrubs from a little cabinet, handed them to me, and ushered me across the room to a private bathroom. “Take a shower if you want,” he said. “I’m not in any hurry.”

  So I did. It woke me up a little. The scrubs made me feel suitably out of this world—nothing seemed real. A huge, pounding headache had started, but I almost welcomed it: at least I knew I was alive. Gallieri had what I thought was lunch sent in and, when I came out of the bathroom, he led me to the sofa again and handed me a tray with a sandwich on it.

  “I know you don’t feel like eating,” he said, “but please try. It’s almost six o’clock and you never had lunch. If you’ll forgive me, Dr. MacLeod, I know you’re not a well man, and you need to keep your strength up.” He paused. “I sound ridiculous, I know. I don’t know what I’m saying today. Please forgive my awkwardness. But please do eat something. Then we can talk.”

  I took a bite of the sandwich just to please him. He had a kind voice. He was a very large, silver-haired man, and he smelled of a lemony after-shave, but of course I could not get close enough to him to see any details of his face. It was just as well. His eyes would be so sad. There would be frown lines everywhere. I didn’t need to see it.

  After a couple of minutes, he began to speak to me. “Dr. MacLeod,” he said, “I was very fond of Donald. This is an unspeakable day. As his friend, you must be devastated. To offer you my condolences would be an impertinence.” He wiped his hand across his brow.

  “What happened?” I said. My voice seemed to be coming from another time and place. It sounded ten years old.

  Gallieri sighed. “I assume Don told you about his patient, M. G.?”

  “Yes.”

  “In detail?”

  “In detail. Yes.”

  “Well, things got very much out of hand this morning. I was not aware of what was going on until it was too late—not that I could have done much. From what I understand it all took place in a matter of seconds. There were quite a few witnesses who—”

  I could bear it no longer. I stood up, upending the tray of food on my lap, and more-or-less lunged toward Gallieri, stopping just short of touching him. It was really more of a falling forward than a lunge, and he looked as if he were ready to catch me.

  “Dr. Gallieri, please!” I said, very loudly, “Please just tell me what happened to Donald.” I flopped down again on the couch. Sandwich was everywhere.

  “I’m sorry,” Gallieri said. “I didn’t know how to approach it. It was M. G. He’s in police custody now. The brutal truth is that he went into the staff lounge this morning, pulled out a revolver, and shot Donald in the head. It happened very quickly. Nobody knows where he got the gun. Nobody seems to know anything, in fact. M. G. isn’t talking. He tried to turn the gun on himself just after he shot Don, but somebody grabbed him.” Gallieri paused. I could hear the tears in his voice.

  “In all my years, in all the institutions I’ve worked in, I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m so sorry, Dr. MacLeod, so sorry. Don was a wonderful person. Everyone loved him. Perhaps I should have taken him off M. G.’s case at once, but he convinced me he could help the boy, and that a breakthrough was only a matter of time. I was wrong to listen to him, but you know how convincing he could be.”

  We talked a while longer. Talking helped me to erase the picture of Don’s bloody head from my mind. Gallieri seemed to need to talk too; we spent a lot of time assuring each other neither of us was to blame. When I was ready to go, he called a car for me, and escorted me safely past the reporters outside. He made me promise to call him if I needed any help whatsoever. He gave me the blazer Don had been wearing that morning, and a manila envelope containing Don’s wallet and other personal possessions. The police, he said, had told him it was all right to do so. It occurred to me that I needed to call Denny.

  When I was safely in the back seat of the car, I put Don’s jacket on over the scrubs. I buttoned it up and put my hands in the pockets
. I found a candy bar in one of them. I’d told him again and again not to eat so much sugar. I’d wanted him to take care of himself. I’d wanted him to live a long and happy life. I ate the candy; it was a Sky Bar, and I savored each one of the four fillings. I think Don had liked the caramel best. I dreaded going home alone. Tillie was not going to understand this.

  44. A Mental Bookmark

  After Don’s funeral, after the long period of semi-celebrity I endured as the roommate of the murdered man; after Denny’s weekend visit (during which I discovered why Don had loved him—he was an extraordinarily sensitive person); after the sad business of dispensing with Don’s possessions (Don’s parents were deceased: he’d left me some money and his car, bequeathing the rest to Denny, various charities, and a few far-off relatives); and after Frances, my sons, and Dr. Gallieri had satisfied themselves that I could get along on my own, at least for a while, I settled down to the enervating business of everyday life. I never asked Gallieri what had become of M. G.: I knew from the news stories that he was in prison, awaiting trial, but I did not want to know more. I think I was afraid of my reaction should he be freed or dealt with leniently by the justice system. I knew M. G. was not sane, but my professional training did not help me with my emotions. I could not fathom how a person like M. G., in a place like that hospital, could have obtained a gun. I guess I was naive. Tillie was still a great comfort to me, and I could not have gotten along without her warm presence, but now she reminded me not only of my lost Cybèle, but of Donald: both of them victims of a cruel and senseless world. Many times, playing with her or caressing her, I would find myself in tears instead of smiles, though I suppose even that was helpful, providing a needed release.