Praise for
LOST IN THE REFLECTING POOL
“This is a memoir about a relationship that spans two decades. Pomerantz excels at description and scene-setting throughout, as in passages about the couple’s early days: ‘The luminous glow of the flames danced from the old stone fireplace through the dimpled glass windows reflecting back the white blanket that silently encased us in our warm, private cocoon.” —Kirkus Review
“Pomerantz’s memoir is a well-plotted, swift-paced story full of vivid details. This gem of a book stands out from the pack, Not only does the author survive a horrible marriage, she survives cancer. Her characters are real and multi-dimensional.”
—Book Life/ Publisher’s Weekly
“A riveting, bold, and tender portrait of a woman surviving cancer and marital betrayal. Dr. Pomerantz exemplifies how we can find inner strength and new meaning in life even when forgiveness makes no sense.”
—Janis Abrahms Spring, Ph.D., author of How Can I Forgive You? and After the Affair
“ ‘Relationships evolve,’ Pomerantz, a psychologist, wisely tells us. ‘They have a life cycle.’ And in her gripping memoir Lost in the Reflecting Pool, she fearlessly shares the story of her marriage to a charismatic psychiatrist whose narcissistic behavior menacingly emerges as time goes on. Her story is one of extraordinary resilience as she faces the challenges of starting a family and fighting a deadly disease, while dealing with her critical and untrustworthy husband who undermines her sense of worth and creates an atmosphere of fear. An exceptionally honest and engaging read!”
—Betty Hafner, author of Not Exactly Love: A Memoir
“The emotional journey that is Lost in the Reflecting Pool is a story of love and of life, of courage and endurance, made all the more real and relevant by Dr. Pomerantz’s human frailty. She, like the wild flowers in the field, despite their seeming delicacy, somehow finds a way to endure and eventually thrive. Pomerantz rises from her long suffering not as an invulnerable superhero, undaunted and unmarred by all that has occurred, but as an ever more deeply feeling and thoughtful woman, mother and therapist and, more beautiful for it.”
—Charles McCormack, MA, MSW, LCSW-C, author of Treating Borderline States in Marriage and Hatching Charlie: A Psychotherapist’s Tale
“This brave and extremely well-written memoir, Lost in the Reflecting Pool, is a must-read for victims of a personality disordered partner, as well as those seeking a quality read. Those victimized by a narcissist will relate, never considering the same could happen to a professional, a psychologist. That’s where Dr. Pomerantz proves us wrong. By skillfully and concisely sharing her story of a 20-year marriage to a narcissist, enduring infertility, adoption, and eventually cancer, I can only applaud Dr. Pomerantz for her bravery in sharing her story. Her epilogue uniquely ties the narrative together, not with pain and blame, but with beauty and love of life. One can only learn from reading this book.”
—MrsXNomore, author The Secret Life of Captain X: My Life with a Psychopath Pilot
“Diane’s story is, sadly, the story of far too many women who fall in love with a man and ignore the early warning signs that he might just be a bad choice as a life partner. Charles woos her with flowers, says all the right things, and when he says or does the wrong thing, she dismisses it, thinking the problem is her and not him. If ever there was a story that proves how blinding it can be to fall hopelessly in love, Lost in the Reflecting Pool is that story. Highly recommended reading.” —Readers’ Favorite
“This is a story that will resonate with people going through a swath of life’s challenges: People in difficult and abusive relationships, people facing cancer diagnosis and treatment, infertility, adoption, people grieving, and issues of loss. The author’s voice is strong, wise, humble and authentic. I couldn’t put it down.”
—Alexa Faraday, M.D., Greater Baltimore Medical Center
Copyright © 2017 Diane Pomerantz
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2017
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-268-0 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-269-7 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017946092
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
For my children with unending love
Author’s Note
This is a memoir written from my own recollections, journals, and correspondence.
Memory is always personal. It is filtered through a subjective lens; it is in this way that memory differs from truth. All the events presented in this memoir did happen; the story is told through my own lens.
Other than my name, names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. Exact locations have also been modified.
Writing my memoir allowed me to process and reevaluate my memories and thereby change my perception of my internal reality. This provided me with the opportunity to move on. I hope that sharing my story allows others to find a new way to rewrite or restructure their own life narrative.
Prologue
I LISTENED, HYPNOTIZED BY THE RAIN, STACCATO TAPS LIKE a piano against the window.
On that day, as I looked out at the steel-colored sky, a crash interrupted my thoughts. I jumped and saw the lithe gray shadow leap past. Mr. Buttons? My gut churned.
It was July 1994, only months before my mother’s death. Charles and I and our two children had just moved into the charming farmhouse on St. John’s Lane. Mr. Buttons, the previous owners’ gray tabby cat, often found his way back to the house. He would climb onto the roof and scratch at the window. I would call his owners, the Masons, to come get him. Elisabeth, our five-year-old, and Sammy, then two-and-a-half, loved Mr. Buttons’s visits.
“Let’s get him some milk and tuna fish.” Elli would laugh and run down to the kitchen to retrieve whatever she could find for her new love.
Sammy would squeal, “Kitty, Kitty,” stroking the cat’s long gray fur and playing with his toes and tail as Mr. Buttons cuddled with him on the bed.
“I hear Mr. Buttons at the window, Mommy. Can I get his food?” Elli started down to the pantry.
“Sure.” I nodded and dialed his owners.
“Elisabeth!” Charles snapped. “Do not feed that cat. It will only make him come here more often, and we don’t want that. I don’t know why your mother doesn’t understand something so simple.” Charles glared at me; his eyes narrowed.
My response caught in my throat, unspoken. “He’s hungry. I want to give him a snack. Don’t be mean, Daddy.” Elli started crying. She ran into her room and slammed her door. Having already let the cat in, Sammy lugged Mr. Buttons past us as we stood in the hallway.
“Elli, I’ve got him. Let me in so we can play.”
I heard her door open and Sammy say, “Don’t cry, Elli, Mr. Buttons is here.”
Charl
es stood there, silent, oblivious to and disconnected from Elli’s cries and Sammy’s words of comfort.
“What was that all about?” I looked at Charles with controlled calm, but my head spun and a vise tightened around my chest. I hated when he treated the children with such disregard. I hated when he treated me that way. And it was happening more and more.
“Why don’t the Masons keep better track of that damn cat?” The muscle in his cheek twitched. His cold eyes pierced through me.
Outwardly I controlled my rage; inside I pushed it further down. I turned away and called the Masons.
A few evenings later, we were both upstairs, doing paperwork, when I saw Mr. Buttons through the glass. The children were already asleep, and I automatically opened the window.
“Why the hell did you do that, Di? You know how goddamn tired I am of that stupid animal. I’ve had it with his irresponsible owners!” I reflexively jumped as Charles shoved his chair, grabbed Mr. Buttons, and stomped downstairs.
I heard a door slam. I held the phone in my hand. I sat and stared. Popping sounds; rain hitting the tin roof; firecrackers in my head; puffs of gray and white; difficulty catching my breath. I put the phone down and walked unbalanced into the bedroom.
I don’t know how much time had passed when I noticed Charles standing in the doorway. “It’s done,” he muttered.
“What’s done?”
“That damn cat won’t be coming back. I took care of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you, I took care of it. He won’t be coming back.” Charles turned away.
I stared at the back of his head, but my gaze was on the old sepia photo of my grandmother that hung on the wall behind him. I sat silently. The hands on the clock did not move, nor did my eyes. My lips were parched. Everything stopped.
Then, without warning, a churning storm rose in my gut. I tried to, but couldn’t make it into the bathroom. Sitting, soaked in the foul stench of my vomit, I wondered, Whose reflection is that in the mirror. Is it me? Is it Charles? Are we any different from each other? If I don’t speak up, if I forget, if I’m complicit, are we the same? I sort of knew, but at the same time I couldn’t remember anything at all.
I stood up, threw my nightclothes into the trash can, stepped into the shower, and turned the hot water on full force.
PART ONE
1980–1997
“In some ways I think every wrong turn I was to make . . . could be traced to moments of inaction, moments when I noticed things unfolding wrongly and failed to query or object.” —Heat Lightning, by Leah Hager Cohen
Chapter One
DRIVING THROUGH THE OLD FIELDSTONE GATEHOUSE onto the grounds of the hospital, I was transported back into another era. The winding lane was fragrant with blooming rhododendrons, and the rolling, peaceful hillsides gave no clue that behind the bucolic setting were personal horrors and internal demons struggling to be tamed. As I drove farther down the road and approached a cluster of late-nineteenth-century brick buildings surrounded by lush lawns and lawn chairs, I understood the meaning behind that original endowment for this institution, which was left in 1857: “Courteous treatment and comfort of all patients . . . No one is to be confined below ground; all are to have privacy, sunlight, and fresh air.”
Yes, this setting could make such a terrifying journey bearable. This was where I had come to do my postdoctoral training in inpatient, intensive, long-term psychotherapy. This hospital was one of the few places where this kind of treatment was still done. It was July 1, 1980. I was twenty-nine and excited about the opportunity. I planned to return to California after my training, although I hoped that I might meet someone with whom I could return there.
“BALTIMORE is a jewel,” I said to my friend Donna, who sat beside me as we drove around the area, trying to decide where I would live. I was staying with her and her family in Washington until I found my own place. “I never imagined there were so many interesting neighborhoods. I’ve only seen the slums before.”
“It’s beautiful here,” she said. “I’m so glad you moved back East.”
We soon found ourselves meandering along narrow roads, in a neighborhood with rolling hills and old Victorian houses.
“This is so nice. I love it,” I said softly. The sunlight made dappled patterns on the windshield, and I felt myself ready to be carried off into a dreamlike state.
Donna gasped as I started to drift into the curb. “I can tell by the look on your face that this is it . . . but please, watch the road.”
“I saw it, but you’re right—this is where I want to live, and it’s not too far from the hospital. Did you see the outdoor cafés and shops in the little village? It was so quaint. Let’s drive around and see if we can find any rental signs.”
It didn’t take long—a couple of turns, up and down a few hills, majestic oaks and grand maples—and then it was there. Set back from the road, a lovingly restored, small painted lady stood serenely. On a post by the road, a sign read FOR RENT.
“Donna, write down the phone number and I’ll call as soon as we get home. I have to live here.” I felt as if the bay windows and wraparound porch were inviting me personally, so as to make my transition across the country easier, bringing me comfort from the sense of loss I felt about leaving my dearly loved Berkeley. Two weeks later, I moved in.
CHARLES and I met the next year. It was a blind date. He was thirty-eight, a psychiatrist, and was recently separated.
He called and said, “Can we get together on Thursday evening? There’s a concert at Ladew Gardens.”
“It sounds wonderful, but I have an audition for a play that evening that I really can’t miss.”
“So, you’re both a psychologist and an actress?”
“Well, I’m not sure I would call myself an actress, although half of my high school class has my autograph, which says, ‘Keep this. Someday it will be worth a lot of money.’ I haven’t done any acting in years, but someone told me about a production of Abelard and Héloïse by a local group. I was so excited to hear about it. Do you know the play?”
“No, other than that it’s a tragic love story. I take it you want to be Héloïse?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Of course I do. I loved the play. Diana Rigg was wonderful as Héloïse. I have little free time, but if I can play Héloïse, I’ll find a way. Why don’t we get together another evening?”
“How about Friday? You can tell me if you got the part.”
“That sounds great. I’m not expecting to get the part, but I can tell you all about the audition.” We made our plans for Friday evening, and after I hung up I started studying the script I had gotten from the library. But while I studied the lines, my mind kept wandering back to Charles and to our conversation. Words came so easily with him that I found myself thinking of more and more things I wanted to tell him. There was something about his voice, its timbre and resonance, that made me smile and feel powerful anticipation about actually seeing him on Friday.
Other than the stage lights, the theater was dark when I walked onto the stage for the reading. Only Abelard was there: a tall, muscular man, with sandy-colored hair that swept across his forehead. His voice was deep and resonant. Another young woman stood in the wings, waiting for her turn to become Héloïse. But when I started reading, I knew I had it. There was an intense, breathless silence as everyone listened to the words Abelard and I exchanged.
Héloïse: “God knows I never sought anything in you except yourself. I wanted simply you, nothing of yours.”
Abelard: “If I am remembered, it will be for this: that I was loved by Héloïse.”
The next day, I got the call that I had indeed gotten the part, and I couldn’t wait to tell Charles. Finally, at six thirty, the doorbell rang and I saw him standing on my white-painted porch. He was smiling through the large front window, tall, bearded, blue eyes twinkling, wearing a silly-looking red baseball cap with three gold rams’ horns. He was looking at the two bi
g brown eyes, the long dangling, pink tongue surrounded by a mass of white fur, and black nose pressed hard against the glass, staring up at him. My sheepdog, Winnie, was always ready to greet a guest.
I answered the door, saying, “Hi, I’m Diane, and this”—I laughed, trying to keep Winnie from knocking him over—“is Edward, Duke of Windsor, who answers to Winnie.”
Charles laughed and didn’t seem at all bothered by Winnie’s enthusiasm. “Hey, guy, go get that ball.” He pointed toward a ball lying under the window, and Winnie turned on all fours and went for it.
“Here, these are for you.” He held out an earthenware bowl filled with blackberries. “I picked these from the bushes in my yard. My grandmother says that a man should always bring a lady a gift to make her smile when she opens the door.”
For years, Charles continually surprised me with thoughtful gestures like this. Every time we went out for dinner, there was always a beautiful bouquet of flowers on our table. We always laughed because I was always surprised.
When we met on that first evening, I told him all about the audition and getting the part. I told him about having seen the production of Abelard and Héloïse in London and then in New York, both on opening night and, some six weeks later, on closing night. I shared all these things with enthusiasm because I liked him and felt a powerful connection to him, though I can’t remember now if he asked me directly about any of them.
After chatting in my living room for a while, we drove to Harbor Place. He turned to me, his long fingers around the steering wheel, and said, “Di, I feel as if I’ve known you forever.”
I smiled and nodded, indicating I, too, felt as if I were reconnecting with someone who had always been a part of my life. Maybe it was talking about egg creams, or the movie The Little Fugitive, a haunting, low-budget 1940s film about a little boy who runs away to Coney Island, or our mutual Brooklyn, New York, roots, which seemed to give us an unspoken understanding of where we had both come from. Whatever it was, the link between us showed itself from the start in private and insightful laughter that we shared only with each other.
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