by Paul Dini
Dr. Patel shrugged. “I read some articles and they stuck with me. It seems to be very current in the field right now. I’m not one for being trendy but I won’t dismiss a good idea just because it’s the topic du jour.”
The hell he wouldn’t, Dr. Leland thought, hiding her amusement. “So nobody mentioned putting in a swimming pool here?”
“At Arkham?” Dr. Patel looked appalled. “That’s a horrible idea! The first day, it’d be full of bodies floating face down by lunchtime.”
* * *
A few days later, a nurse named Jack Abraham sought her out as she was on her way back to her office after a session with Phil the Phish Phrobisher. Harleen Quinzel had not used the term “boring” in Phrobisher’s file but Dr. Leland wouldn’t have blamed her. He seemed determined to follow the path of least resistance to entropy. Dr. Quinzel’s concentrated, full-immersion therapy would roll off him with no effect. Dr. Patel, on the other hand, would have regarded his treatment as successful in that he didn’t engage in any undesirable behavior.
Phrobisher definitely deserved to be confined for life but, in Dr. Leland’s opinion, in prison, not Arkham Asylum. Unfortunately, his lawyer had made an iron-clad deal. When she had queried it, the board sent her a terse note saying they were sure the head of Arkham Asylum had more important things to think about, like possible budget cuts. Whoever was looking out for Phrobisher had probably been well insured, especially against fire, Dr. Leland thought, and turned her attention to next year’s budget.
“You got a minute, Dr. L?” Jack Abraham asked, falling into step beside her. He was an ex-Marine with combat experience, husky though not linebacker-sized like most of the orderlies.
“Give or take ten seconds,” she said cheerfully. Jack Abraham seldom asked for anything or made complaints. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was wondering what your thoughts are on Dr. Patel’s proposal for swimming therapy,” the nurse said chattily. “I told him I’d volunteer as support.”
“I see,” Dr. Leland said, slightly unsettled. “Let’s discuss this in my office. But I really don’t have more than a minute.” She unlocked the door, gesturing for him to take the chair in front of her desk. “Why the sudden interest in swimming?” she asked as she sat down, opening one of the file folders she’d been carrying to remind him she was busy.
“It’s not really sudden,” Jack said, looking ever so slightly defensive. “I’ve always believed exercise is great therapy—been a gym rat all my life, even before I joined the Corps. I still hit the Gotham Health Center three or four times a week. Arkham doesn’t have a gym and, considering who our patients are, it’s just as well. But they all need exercise, and swimming is good for all ages and every level of fitness.”
Dr. Leland nodded, glancing down at the contents of the folder without really seeing them. “So I’ve been told by Dr. Patel, at length and in detail.” She paused, frowning thoughtfully. “He didn’t put you up to this, did he?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Jack said, looking worried now. “He doesn’t even know I’m talking to you, I swear.”
“Your support and willingness to volunteer is noted, and I’ll take it into consideration,” Dr. Leland told him. “But now I really can’t give you any more time.”
“No problem,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “I appreciate your letting me give you my input on it.”
“I promise I’ll think it over carefully,” she said, pretending to be absorbed in the file. “Anything else?”
“No, just thanks again for listening.” He was cheerful but there was a hint of disappointment in his voice.
* * *
“So have you joined the swimming campaign?” Dr. Leland asked the Joker. It was just the two of them in his cell, while Dr. Quinzel waited in the hall. Dr. Leland swore she could feel the woman’s apprehension coming through the wall like heat.
The Joker blinked at her in what seemed to be genuine bewilderment. “What swimming campaign?”
“Don’t you want to go to the County Pool?” she asked. “Enjoy the numerous benefits of hydrotherapy and no-impact aerobic exercise?”
“Is this some nefarious plot hatched by the Looney Ladi—excuse me—by the female patients to get me into a Speedo? Don’t answer, that’s a joke.” Pause. “I hope.”
“So you don’t want to try out for the Arkham Asylum swim team,” Dr. Leland said, amused.
“Not to be flippant or disrespectful, doctor,” the Joker said slowly, “but do I look like a man who wants to be seen in swimming trunks?” He studied her for a moment. “Does Dr. Quinzel know we’re having this conversation?”
“Of course,” said Dr. Leland. “She agreed to let me interview you at any time, on a moment’s notice if need be, without her being present.”
“With all due respect, this feels more like an interrogation than an interview,” the Joker said. “And I have enough experience with each to know the difference.”
Dr. Leland was sure he did. “Has Dr. Quinzel said anything to you about swimming therapy or exercise?”
“She’s mentioned maybe getting me a stationary bike or a treadmill,” he said. “But walking or riding a bike to nowhere seems more like an exercise in futility.” He sighed. “No, Dr. Leland, we’ve never discussed swimming. Although a Jacuzzi would be nice.”
* * *
Harleen didn’t pace or hop from one foot to the other—Nathan the orderly sitting outside the Joker’s cell would have reported that to Dr. Leland, and there was no telling what she’d make of it. At the moment, Dr. Leland was very much in favor of her therapy program for its salutary effect on the Joker. Even some of the orderlies were saying he’d changed for the better. But Harleen wasn’t taking any chances, especially now.
After the women’s group fiasco, her current success made her want to do cartwheels through the halls for joy, and yet she had to be more guarded than ever. Because professional achievement wasn’t the only reason she loved coming to work every day. It wasn’t even the biggest.
At first, she’d tried to deny her feelings, telling herself it was only countertransference—very intense and powerful, but nothing more. It was perfectly normal. People became psychiatrists in the first place because they wanted to help people and doing that stirred up a lot of emotions. But the therapist couldn’t let them interfere with the treatment. The patient’s best interests were the most important consideration; the doctor had to put the patient first.
Yes, but suppose acting in the patient’s best interests stirs up even more, uh, positive feelings for them? Harleen had asked one of the instructors during her psychiatric rotation.
You do what’s best for your patient because it’s the right thing to do, the woman had replied, not because it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. Those things might overlap but your feelings can’t be your motive.
The instructor’s words had helped Harleen clarify her thoughts and feelings, especially during her first clinic experiences. For a while she had seriously considered writing a book to explore the contradictory dynamic between therapist and patient: an intimate, personal relationship that could not be intimate or personal. It was a fascinating topic in its own way, but she hadn’t become a psychiatrist to study other psychiatrists.
Arkham Asylum was her dream job—sometimes nightmarish, but that came with the territory. Her patients were many things besides psychotic—passive-aggressive, obsessive-compulsive, depressed, borderline, narcissistic, psychopathic, self-destructive, and most of all exhausting. Next to these things, countertransference was a non-issue.
In the back of her mind, however, she had wondered if, in some instances, it wasn’t that simple. Could it be that, in certain circumstances, two people who had initially come together as doctor and patient had actually been meant to find their way to each other? Wouldn’t they then realize their lives had been incomplete, lacking something to make them work right? For example, one of them might have turned to crime, even gone crazy—or maybe just seemed crazy to everyone around hi
m.
Wasn’t it possible that Fate could bring that person’s soulmate to him in the form of a doctor? In which case, would the doctor have the wisdom and courage to accept the truth—that they were meant to be together? Or would she knuckle under to convention, hiding behind jargon like “countertransference” because the prospect of professional censure and disapproval made it too hard to do the right thing? If she chose the latter, she wouldn’t just be giving up her chance at happiness—she’d be one more sorry excuse for a human being following that ever-popular path of least resistance to mediocrity.
God, the world was so irrational! Things that were perfectly natural—love, for example—were fraught with complications and obstacles. If you didn’t get arrested for being a victim, some so-called authority was telling you what emotions you weren’t allowed to have—or even that your feelings weren’t real.
As crazy as the patients in Arkham Asylum were, they had nothing on the outside world, where The Golden Rule was Love thy neighbor, and you’d be punished if you did.
Despite her insight, Harleen struggled with her feelings. For the couple of weeks she’d tried to deny them, she had been extra careful to do everything by the book, to cross no lines, break no rules. In the time she had been at Arkham, she hadn’t put a foot wrong. She never even took more office supplies than she needed, unlike Dr. Davis. What was he doing with all those paperclips? Eating them?
She felt she had to hold herself to a higher standard, just because of how her co-workers saw her. Except for Dr. Leland, the other doctors often treated her like a little girl—clever but still wet behind the ears.
It wasn’t really that anyone disrespected her; the progress she’d made with the Joker impressed them and the nursing staff as well, although a lot of the orderlies were sure she was being played. But there were always cynics everywhere, people who had been eroded by life rather than enriched, who, like the old adage said, knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Harleen was so lost in her thoughts that the sound of the Joker’s door opening made her jump. Nathan jumped, too, probably because he’d been dozing. Not that she faulted him for that—guard duty was pretty boring. Besides, she liked Nathan. He was one of the orderlies who had gathered up Killer Croc; later, she’d overheard him telling some of his co-workers not to sell the new shrink short just because she was a pretty blonde.
She watched Dr. Leland typing with one hand on her tablet. When she finally looked up, Harleen said, “Everything okay?”
Dr. Leland’s smile was perfunctory. “Seems to be.” She headed down the hall toward the elevator, beckoning for Harleen to follow. “Tell me the truth,” she said, pressing the call button. “Are you behind the swimming trend?”
“‘Swimming trend?’” Harleen did her best to look innocent.
“Not too long ago, you asked about the possibility of putting in a swimming pool here. The next thing I know, even Dr. Patel is extolling the benefits of swimming. He wants to take some of his patients to the County Pool.” She paused, looking intently into Harleen’s face. “I’m not accusing you of anything, I’d just like to know if you gave him the idea.”
“Dr. Patel wouldn’t take my word for it if I told him the sun rose in the east,” Harleen said, laughing a little. “I don’t mean anything bad—I like Dr. Patel; he’s really smart and he works hard to stay current. But he sees me as his junior. He’d give me suggestions, not vice versa.”
“Did you talk to anyone else about swimming? Maybe the nurses? Or your patient?”
“Is that what my patient said?” Harleen asked, hoping she didn’t look as apprehensive as she felt.
“No.” Dr. Leland laughed a little. “When I mentioned it to him, he thought it was a female conspiracy to get his clothes off.” She laughed some more and Harleen laughed, too, despite a sudden flash of irrational jealousy.
“Was it?” Harleen asked after a bit. “A conspiracy?”
Dr. Leland laughed harder, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle it. “Oh my goodness,” she said finally. “I really don’t think he’s Pamela Isley’s type and he’s definitely not Harriet’s. He’s not shiny enough for Magpie, and he’s too tall for Mary Louise.”
“It certainly wasn’t me,” Harleen said, forcing herself to grin hugely so her boss would know what a joke that was.
“I didn’t think so,” Dr. Leland said, still laughing a little. “More like wishful thinking on the Joker’s part—he is an exhibitionist, after all. He claims he doesn’t want to be seen in swimming trunks but methinks he doth protest too much.”
“I don’t,” Harleen said. “Not after what happened to him, with all those chemicals.”
Dr. Leland was still laughing when the elevator doors opened. “Normally I don’t make pronouncements about someone else’s patient but I’ve known that man longer than you have,” she said, stepping into the elevator. “He’s an inveterate show-off. Crime gets him a lot of attention but he’d take off his clothes in a pinch.” Dr. Leland’s phone rang just as the elevator door slid shut.
Harleen hurried back to the Joker’s cell. Nathan let her in and locked the door behind her without budging from his chair.
The Joker was stretched out on his side on the bed, his head propped up on one hand. “She wanted to know if you talked about swimming with me,” he said. “I posited a female conspiracy to put me in a Speedo.”
Harleen didn’t say anything. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before they both burst out laughing.
“She thinks I’ve instigated a campaign for swimming therapy,” Harleen said, when she could speak. “As if!”
“Where do people get such silly ideas?” the Joker said, laughing. “You would never do anything like that; you’re too professional, too much of a straight arrow.” He paused and sat up. “But with hidden depths that only someone who knows you well enough can see.”
Harleen sat down in her chair, opened her notebook, and jotted the date and time at the top of a blank page. “Are you saying you know me that well?”
“I’d say I’m the only one who does, my dear doctor,” he said. “Because hidden in those depths are things that only I would think of.”
“Is that so?” Harleen’s laughter died away as she felt her heart go thump. Her heart was doing that a lot lately. She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Can you give me an example?”
“Well, there’s the secret of your name,” the Joker said, learning forward and lowering his voice a bit. “Camouflaged within Dr. Harleen Quinzel is Harley Quinn—harlequin, the classic clown character who originated in a form of Italian theatre called commedia dell’arte. Harlequin is the spirit of fun and frivolity. When I heard your name, I felt drawn to you immediately.”
What’s in a name? Harleen thought. “So it was only my name that made you want me for your therapist?” she asked uncertainly.
“Like everyone else, I heard about your heroic takedown of Killer Croc. I wanted to meet this beauty who could repurpose a fire extinguisher at a moment’s notice and your name only made you that much more intriguing.” The Joker looked into her face, openly earnest. “Then you showed me you didn’t need a fire extinguisher to put an unruly patient in his place.” He gave her a brief apologetic smile. “I knew then I wanted you—needed you.”
Harleen’s heart went thump! again, so hard she thought he must have heard it.
“I knew you were the only one for me—that I could put myself completely in your hands because even as you slapped me down, I saw a twinkle in your eye. Not because you didn’t mean what you said, I knew you did,” he added quickly. “But as a sign there was a fire inside you. I was afraid it was just a trick of the lousy fluorescent lighting. Then you laid out your plan for this concentrated, full-immersion therapy program and I saw it was no trick. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for—the only person I can ever open up to, the one person in the world who can understand me. And the harlequin who would get all my jokes.”
His successful therapy was all down to her name? Harleen felt uncertain, as if someone had yanked the ground out from under her and she was a cartoon character standing in midair, about to fall a long way into a ravine.
No, I’m not, Harleen told herself firmly. The injured child in him had responded to the twinkle in her eye. It had reassured him that she would accept him, not hurt him, and never hit him so hard he woke up three days later. An injured and neglected child had a profound understanding of “validation,” “inclusion” and “kindred spirit” as things they yearned for, even if they didn’t know the words.
Besides, deep, life-changing relationships of all kinds had to start somewhere, usually with things like a smile, a word of greeting, small talk.
Harleen’s gaze fell on what she’d been writing.
My one true love in all the world. One soul in two people.
* * *
In general, Dr. Leland was good about not micromanaging the staff and she didn’t intrude on their lives outside Arkham. But one thing she did insist on was that all the staff psychiatrists saw a psychiatrist on a regular basis.
Harleen had no problem with that. Like anything else, crazy could rub off on other people, and not always in ways that were as easily recognizable as mass hysteria or folie à deux. The problem for Harleen was finding a shrink she felt comfortable with in Gotham City, aka Batmanville. Speaking of crazy being contagious.
Most of the psychiatrists she tried refrained from the open displays of hero worship endemic to the locale, but none of them found Batman as questionable as she did. When she expressed her feelings about the so-called Caped Crusader, they all immediately chalked it up to the fact that she wasn’t from the Gotham City area.
A couple were willing to admit that, under federal, state, and local laws, Batman was problematic. But, they added, there had always been something odd about the area, even before Batman. Something in the soil, the water, the air, or all three affected people in a way that caused the sleep of reason to produce monsters, of a kind that persisted even after reason was awake.