The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  The shrink I went to labeled what had happened an anxiety attack. Situational, he said. Understandable under the circumstances, and 100 percent fixable. I could tell he was downscaling it for me because I’d told him about Thomas—had confided that I was afraid my twin brother’s craziness had begun to claim me, too. It’s funny: I can remember that therapist’s face—his rusty red hair—but not his name. During my second session, he said that in the weeks ahead, we’d be addressing the feelings of anger and grief and betrayal the baby’s death had left me with. Later on, in a month or two, we’d probably get into the difficult work of exploring what it was like growing up as Thomas’s twin. As my mother’s and Ray’s son.

  “His stepson,” I corrected him.

  “His stepson,” he repeated. Made a note.

  I never went back.

  Never went back to teaching, either. I couldn’t. How can you cry in front of a bunch of teenagers one week and then go back the next and say, “Okay, now, where were we? Turn to page sixty-seven”? I mailed my letter of resignation to the superintendent of schools and got through the worst shit and insomnia by reading. Solzhenitsyn, Steinbeck, García Márquez. All that fall and winter, I kept heating the soups and pastas Ma sent over (it was easier now that the casserole dishes came from a single source) and turning pages and turning down Leo’s requests that we go for a couple of beers, go up to the Garden to see the Celtics play, go up to Sugarloaf and ski. “She’s got a boyfriend, doesn’t she?” I asked Leo one afternoon when he stopped by.

  “How should I know?” he shrugged. “You think she checks in with me about what she does?”

  “No, but she checks in with her sister,” I said. “Who is he? The guy with the braid? I saw them downtown.”

  “He’s just some asshole artist,” he said. “Makes pottery or something. It won’t last. He’s not Dessa’s type. You’re her type.”

  But it did last. I kept seeing them all over town. Kept seeing his van in the driveway out at that ramshackle farmhouse she’d rented. Saw that jazzy, psychedelic mailbox he painted with both their names on it. And so, little by little, it sunk into my thick skull that I’d lost her for good. Lost both my daughter and my wife, and that goofball of a dog to boot. And one night, somewhere around 3:00 A.M., I finally looked myself in the medicine cabinet mirror and admitted it to my own baggy, sleep-starved face: I’d lost her.

  When springtime came around, I bought a compressor and a network of scaffolding at an estate auction. Stenciled the door of my pickup and reinvented myself as a housepainter. Premier Painting. Free estimates, fully insured. “Customer satisfaction is our highest priority.” Our: like I wasn’t the painter and the bookkeeper and the rest of the goddamned shooting match. I met Joy a year later, a month or so after my divorce decree came in the mail. We get along okay. It’s not perfect, but it’s all right.

  When Dr. Patel’s wide face appeared at the truck window, I jumped. “Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry I startled you,” she said. “You were deep in thought. Forgive me.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, shaking my head, trying to compose myself. “I was just sitting here vegging out.”

  “Well, come up, come up, Mr. Vegetable,” she said, a warm smile undercutting the flippancy.

  On the narrow staircase up to her office, we brushed by a row of little girls hurrying from Miss Patti’s to a soda machine at the bottom of the stairs. One of them, the dark-haired girl in the yellow leotard—my resurrected daughter Angela—accidentally bumped against my arm. Up close, I could see the leotard had a pattern: alternating monkeys and bunnies.

  “Whoops! ‘Scuse me,” she said, her smile revealing missing front teeth. She and her friends descended the stairs in a flurry, a chorus of giggles.

  15

  “Hold these, please,” Dr. Patel said, handing me her briefcase and a small tape recorder. She put her key in the lock, turned it, and swung open her office door. “Come in, come in,” she said, taking back her things.

  Her office was a single room stripped to the essentials: small desk, two opposing easy chairs, a cube table, Kleenex for the crybabies. The walls were white and blank. The only nod toward decoration sat on the floor by the window: a cement statue two feet tall—one of those smiling Indian goddesses with the waving arms and the shit-eating grin.

  “Sit down, please, Mr. Birdsey,” Dr. Patel said, hurrying off her trenchcoat.

  “Which chair?” I asked.

  “Whichever chair you’d like.”

  Today, her sari was gold, green, and blue. That peacock-color blue. I’ve always liked the color. “I’m going to put on a pot of tea before we start,” she said. “Will you join me?” My “yes” took me by surprise.

  From a closet, she removed a hot plate, a jug of water, a small box of tea-making paraphernalia. I walked over and looked closer at the statue of the goddess. She was wearing a headdress with a skull and a cobra and a crescent moon. Maybe this was what peace of mind was all about: having a poisonous snake on your head and smiling anyway.

  “I see you’re looking at my dancing Shiva,” Dr. Patel said. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?”

  “It’s a he?” I said. “I thought it was a she.”

  Dr. Patel laughed. “Well, ‘he’ or ‘she’ is not as grave a matter with the gods as it is with us mere mortals,” she said. “Whereas we are fixed and inflexible, they are impish, transmutable. Perhaps, for you, Shiva is a woman. I have—let’s see—chamomile and peppermint and wildberry spice.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Ah, ‘whatever.’ The favorite word of ambivalent American men. All day long, ‘whatever, whatever.’ It’s passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

  I told her I’d have the spice. She nodded, smiling—pleased with me. “Do you know much about Hindu beliefs, Mr. Birdsey?” she asked. “Shiva is the third god of the Supreme Spirit. The Hindu trinity. Brahma is the Creator, Vishnu is the Preserver, and Shiva is the Destroyer.”

  “The Destroyer?” I said. “Well, if they ever make the movie, Arnold Schwarzenegger could play the lead.” The second I made the crack, I realized it was probably sacrilegious or something. I’ll do that: make a wise remark when I’m nervous. When a situation’s new. But Dr. Patel’s soft chuckle short-circuited my apology.

  “No, no, no,” she said, shaking a scolding finger. “Shiva represents the reproductive power of destruction. The power of renovation. Which is why he’s here in this room, where we dismantle and rebuild.”

  She sat down on the chair opposite mine, a notepad and the tape recorder in her lap. Through the partition came the faint plunking of piano music, a dance teacher’s muffled command to lift and reach, lift and reach. “And of course, Shiva is a dancing god, too, so I know he’s happy with my next-door neighbors. All the little tap dancers and ballerinas.”

  I nodded at the tape recorder. “What’s that thing for?” I said. “Are you taping us or something?”

  She shook her head. “I would like to play something for you, Mr. Birdsey. A bit later. Let’s chat first.”

  “All right,” I said. “What’s going on with him, anyway? The message you left said something about an ‘incident.’”

  She nodded. “I believe I’ve told you over the telephone about your brother’s preoccupation with the surveillance cameras. Have I not?”

  “His fear of being watched,” I said. “It’s always been an issue with him.”

  She sighed. “With most paranoid schizophrenics, of course. But at Hatch, the cameras are a ‘necessary evil.’ On the one hand, the activities at a maximum-security facility certainly need to be monitored, for everyone’s protection, patients and staff alike. On the other hand, many of the patients feel intimidated by them. Resentful. Which is entirely understandable.”

  For the past two or three days, Dr. Patel said, Thomas had grown more agitated about being watched. More and more preoccupied with the omnipresence of the cameras. He’d begun to stare and mumble at them, she said—to whisper threats and curse
s, engage in a one-sided dialogue. “I’ve tried to address the behavior in our sessions, but he has not wanted to discuss his worries. With me, he has remained rather uncommunicative. Polite and politic during some sessions, glum and nonverbal during others. Winning the trust of someone suffering from paranoid schizophrenia is a long, slow process, Mr. Birdsey. And a tenuous one. A rickety bridge.”

  “The incident?” I said.

  “Ah, yes, the incident. This morning at breakfast, your brother apparently began shouting and throwing food at the camera mounted on the wall in the dining room. When an aide attempted to contain him, the table where he’d been sitting was overturned and—”

  “Thomas turned it over?”

  She nodded. “From what I understand, several of the other patients’ meals landed on the floor and something of a melee followed. The guards were called and the situation was quickly brought back under control, but your brother had to be restrained and confined to the close observation room.”

  “Restrained how?”

  “Four-point restraint. His arms and legs.”

  I flashed on an image from when we were kids: Ray dragging Thomas to the “bad boy seat” in the front parlor—yanking him by the wrist with one hand, the toes of Thomas’s shoes skidding along the floor. One time I saw Thomas’s feet lift all the way off the floor—saw Ray wallop him one, my brother tethered by his skinny arm, swinging back and forth and screaming.

  “The restraints were removed by midmorning,” Dr. Patel said. “As quickly as possible. He was back in his room by eleven.” She didn’t want to alarm me, she said; it was not abnormal for patients suffering paranoia to decompensate—to act out occasionally. She was telling me about the incident because I’d made it clear to both Lisa Sheffer and her that I wanted to be kept informed.

  “How is he now?” I asked.

  He’d been sullen for the rest of the morning, she said. Withdrawn, even with Lisa. At lunchtime, he had refused to go back to the dining hall and made do instead with a piece of fruit and some cookies. “But I’m happy to report that our session this afternoon was a productive one. This afternoon we made some progress. Now I must also tell you that I’ve talked to Dr. Chase, the staff psychiatrist—just before I left the Institute to come here, as a matter of fact. Dr. Chase is considering, as one of his options, increasing Thomas’s dose of Haldol.”

  “Oh, Jesus, here we go,” I said. “Take off the restraints and straitjacket him with his meds instead. That’s bullshit. That’s business as usual.” She started to say something, but I interrupted her. “Excuse me, but I’m not interested in hearing any bogus justifications for it, okay? I’ve heard them all before. Your American colleagues are way ahead of you, Doctor. They’ve been pulling that particular stunt for years.”

  The smile stayed on her lips, but I thought I could read resentment in her dark eyes. “My colleagues have been pulling what particular stunt?” she asked.

  “Overmedicating him when he freaks out. Look, the last time they upped his dosage after an episode, he was like something out of Night of the Living Dead. You’d go to visit him, and he’d just sit there, ramrod straight, his hands and legs twitching away like someone had plugged him into the wall socket.”

  “Well, Mr. Birdsey, neuroleptic medications are mostly effective in lessening delusions and hallucinations,” Dr. Patel said. “They allow a reprieve from the positive symptoms which plague the patient. Unfortunately, the medication often enhances the negative symptoms: the flat affect, the Parkinson’s-like tremors we so often see in—”

  “Turn off his voices by turning him into one of the body snatchers. Jesus Christ, I know all this! I know all about Stelazine and Prolixin and all the other fun stuff. You think you can have a brother in and out of the state hospital for twenty years and not already know about all this chemical voodoo?”

  She said nothing. Waited.

  “Look, he hates taking Haldol, okay? Even the smaller dose. It makes him feel like shit. I don’t want you guys turning him into a zombie just because he pitched a fit and turned over a table. Just because it’s convenient to the staff. Upping his dosage is unacceptable.”

  “It’s unacceptable to me, too, Mr. Birdsey,” Dr. Patel said. “Please give me credit for some professional ethics. I am an advocate for your brother, not an enemy. Not a mad scientist.”

  We sat there facing each other. Her eyes, young and mischievous, belied her salt-and-pepper hair. I opened my mouth to say something, then changed my mind.

  “I told Dr. Chase that, in my opinion, increasing the dosage of your brother’s haloperidol—his Haldol—was probably ill advised. And certainly premature. And I’ll be glad to relay your concerns to the doctor as well.”

  I let go a laugh. “As if that counts for anything. As if one of the divine gods of psychiatry would do anything except listen politely and then proceed the way they damn well wanted to, anyway.”

  Her smile remained constant. “That’s quite a broad indictment, Mr. Birdsey,” she said. “You’re very angry. Aren’t you?”

  “Hey, I’ve earned the right. Believe me. But what I am is irrelevant. All I’m saying is that if he—”

  Smiling still, she reached across and covered my hand with her own small butterscotch-colored hand. Squeezed it. Relaxed the pressure. Squeezed again. The gesture was so unexpected, it disarmed me. Shut me up for once. “Squeeze back,” she said. And I did.

  “Drug treatment with schizophrenics is always a balancing act,” Dr. Patel said. “As you said, a trade-off. But unless the patient is in danger of harming himself or other people, it’s always best to err on the side of caution. So you and I are in agreement. Isn’t that nice? And in these days of American malpractice suits, it’s my guess that Dr. Chase will probably be inclined to agree as well. To listen more carefully than you’d think to the opinions of the patient’s family.” She gave me that mischievous look again. “Ah,” she said. “The water is ready for our tea. Isn’t that lovely?”

  She stood and went over to the hot plate. While I waited, I looked again at her smiling statue. What had she called him? Shiva?

  She handed me a small yellow cup, hand-painted with monkeys. Poured the tea from a matching monkey pot. It smelled delicious. Warmed my hands.

  “It’s ironic that I never drank tea when I was growing up in India,” Dr. Patel said. “I acquired the habit later on when I was in my twenties. During my London days.”

  I wasn’t sure why, exactly, but I was starting to like her in spite of myself. “Is that where you studied psychology?” I said. “In England?” This was the kind of small talk I usually had no patience for.

  “Oh, no, no. When I was in London, I was earning a degree in anthropology. I got my psychology degree later on at the University of Chicago. I studied with Bettelheim. Do you know his work? Dr. Bruno Bettelheim?”

  I shrugged.

  “Oh, you must read him! The Uses of Enchantment, The Informed Heart. Splendid works.”

  “So you’re both, then?” I said. “A psychologist and an anthropologist?”

  She nodded. “Actually, my interest in the one field led to the other. They’re quite interrelated, you know. The stories of the ages and the collective unconscious. Have you ever read Jung, Mr. Birdsey?”

  “A long time ago. In college.”

  “How about Joseph Campbell? Or Claude Lévi-Strauss? Or Heinrich Zimmer?”

  “I’m a housepainter,” I said.

  “But surely, Mr. Birdsey, you must read other things besides the side of a paint can.” Her smile, her soft, nasaly voice cut against the sarcasm. “Your brother says you’re an avid reader. That your house is filled with books. He was quite animated when he was telling me about you. He seems so proud of your mind.”

  “Yeah, right,” I laughed.

  “Oh, I’m serious, Mr. Birdsey. You think otherwise?”

  “I think . . . I think Thomas doesn’t focus much on anything or anyone beyond Thomas.”

  “Elaborate, please.”


  “Because of his disease. He can’t think beyond himself. . . . Compared to, you know, the way he used to be.”

  “How did he used to be?”

  “Before the illness?”

  She nodded.

  “Well . . . when we were kids, he used to worry about me all the time. I used to get into things, you know? Take chances. Take risks. And he’d get nervous about it. Try to talk me out of it. He was always worried about me.”

  “What kinds of risks did you take?”

  “Oh, you know. Climb ledges we weren’t supposed to climb. Jump off the garage roof. Cut through people’s yards. Kid stuff. But Thomas would always hang back. Warn me I was going to get in trouble or get hurt or something. He was as big a worrywart as she was.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So when you look back, you would say that you were the more adventurous brother?”

  “My mother used to call Thomas the bunny rabbit and me the spider monkey because . . . well, who cares, right? I’m going off on a tangent here.”

  “No, no. Continue, please. You were the spider monkey be- cause . . . ?”

  “Because I was always getting into everything. I was Curious George.” She smiled. Waited. “He’s a . . . a character in a kid’s book. A little monkey who’s always getting into—”

  “Indeed, he is, Mr. Birdsey. An inquisitive little fellow. My granddaughter would have me read her Curious George day and night if she had her way. But go on. You were the more curious brother and Thomas was more . . . ?”

  “More mellow, I guess.”

  “Excuse me, please. By that, do you mean more relaxed or more fearful of venturing forth?”