by Diane Lawson
She was silent for a while, long enough to make me wonder if she’d gone to sleep. I leaned forward a bit to get a better look at her. Her lips pressed tight and her chest wall quivered under her tight silk tank. It looked to me as if she might be stifling a giggle.
“Renee,” I said, trying to sound neutral, “what’s happening?”
“Are you upset?” Her voice was small and concerned.
I was less thrown by the question than by the fact that it came from Renee. Upset? Not exactly. Try devastated. Try demolished. Try dissolving into dots.
“Yes. I’m upset,” I finally said. “Thank you for asking.”
For the second time that afternoon, my eyes filled with tears. I was an emotional wreck. Whatever had made me think I was fit to work that day?
Renee and I were quiet together. I slumped in my chair, inviting my sorriness—past and present and future—to fill my chest. A sound, like muffled crying, interrupted my self-indulgent reverie. I was inclined to dismiss the possibility. The couch does disadvantage the analyst by restricting access to the patient’s face, that remarkable revealer and vehicle of emotional attunement. Humans are neurologically wired to mimic the facial expression of the other. And when we mimic an expression, however subtly, the corresponding chemistry gets going in our bloodstream, informing us of the feeling state of the other. Some evidence-driven analysts advocate doing away with the standard repose, asking why we should deprive ourselves the powerful knowing inherent in the face-to-face. But traditions die hard in psychoanalysis and many analysts would hold onto the couch for dear life even if it caused them to sink into irrelevance, as if only that piece of furniture keeps them afloat in the sea of lesser therapists.
“This is ruining my makeup,” Renee said.
“You’re crying.”
“So what?” she said. “I can cry, can’t I?”
“You’ve never cried this kind of tears.”
“I’m not usually so weak.”
“Crying doesn’t make you weak.”
“You didn’t have my mother,” she said.
No. I had my mother. I could cry or not cry. Did she notice? I always accepted as a given that my father’s moody storms should loom larger than the minor fronts of my poor emotions. But that isn’t the issue. And for the first time in my life, I understood the issue: My mother never cared about what was happening to me.
“It’s strange feeling sorry for you,” Renee went on. “You’re so high and mighty. The fancy house. The kids. The profession. You get to have it all and dump your husband.”
“High and mighty?”
How obvious. Of course, Renee was threatened by me. But will you take my word that this insight never occurred to me before this very moment? That this most transparent of defensive presentations had completely and pervasively duped me, demonstrating the infinite power of the analyst’s emotional reaction—the countertransference—to pull the wool over her eyes. And why was I blinded to this in particular? Because Renee made herself appear to be everything I wasn’t. She who would be cheerleader and homecoming queen and whatever else she set her sights on. She who turned the head of every man with the drop of a pencil. She who was the antithesis of a pudgy girl like me with a crazy old man for a father.
All this went through my head at that moment. And I started then down my old path of father-bashing, but this time, out of the corner of my mind’s eye, I could see again the shadow of my mother, see her for who she was to me, see her as my father’s silent accomplice. I’d never really held her accountable. Who could blame her? Beaten down as she was, frightened, dependent—as she had no choice but to be—on a bipolar lunatic. Who could blame her? Dr. Bernstein didn’t. He was partial to paternal interpretations—the seductive sperm-secreter, the paranoid pop, the dangerous dad. But the fact is that she stood by and let it all happen. Made sure it happened to me and not to her. And because he was so flagrantly nuts—so reliably unreliable, so predictably unpredictable, so wild, so violent, so self- and other-destructive—the only way for me to sustain myself was to mobilize enough denial to give her some sort of pass on mothering so that I could at least have the illusion of one functional parent. Because no human being can face that kind of terror alone. Why do you think hostages get attached to their keepers? Yes, my dad was insane. He couldn’t help it. But she made sure he took it all out on me and that she got to watch.
I saw all that so clearly then. And understood that I couldn’t see the world through Renee’s eyes because I’d never looked through the eyes of my mother. And I couldn’t look through my mother’s eyes, the eyes of a mother I had no choice but to love more than life itself, because I couldn’t bear knowing how deeply she resented me.
“Yes. High and mighty,” Renee said, lifting her arm as if to hold a scepter. “The queen on her throne.”
I saw my mother in her favorite chair, a fake-leather recliner, Buddy asleep in her lap. Pictured her as she appeared to me when I was a child, standing alongside her, hands and chin on the squishy armrest, dirt-filled nail of my index finger picking at a hole in the thin upholstery.
“Momma,” I’d say. “Your cigarette ash. It’s going to fall.”
And it did, without her making a move to stop it, without her showing any indication of having noticed the dead ash on her housedress any more than the living child at her side.
“You haven’t seen me as human,” I said to Renee.
She gave a bitter chuckle. “If you’re human, I can’t hate you.”
“Or if King were human? Or his new wife? Or your brother? Or your mother?”
“Stop,” she said. “If I can’t hate someone, the hate will destroy me.”
The phone rang, the Caller ID showing Richard’s office number. I checked the time: 2:35. He’d just have finished his session with Morrie. I was distracted for a moment by the thought of what he’d have to say to me, but Renee plunged right on, caught up in her insight.
“And you know what the sad thing is? If I thought you had goodness inside you, I’d hate you so much. I’d want to kill you. That’s pathetic.”
“It’s a tragic loop,” I said. “You can’t let me give you anything because it would mean I had something to give.”
Without knowing it, Renee was talking the basic theory of Melanie Klein, one of several analysts who aspired to be Freud’s nemesis. I’d never been too keen on her work, but at that moment I understood her theory of envy—the kind of envy that demands not only to possess but to destroy. And in the process of destroying, destroys the self.
Freud stared down at me from his niche, angry that I’d put another god before him.
“This makes me feel crazy,” Renee said.
“Believe me,” I said, “this is the sanest you’ve ever been.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The phone rang again just as Renee left. I expected to see Richard’s number pop back up, assuming he’d be compelled to provide me with some smart-assed-holier-than-thou criticism of Morrie Viner’s treatment. It wasn’t enough that Howard Westerman was in bits. That Allison Forsyth had been flattened out of meaning. That John Heyderman had been terrified into skipping town. That Lance Powers lacked half his head. Now I’d have to listen to Richard tell me how I’d failed with Morrie.
My heart thumped when I saw Mike’s number instead. I let it ring until the machine threatened to pick up.
“Dr. Goodman,” I answered.
“Give me a break.”
“Let’s don’t talk about giving people breaks.”
“Just stop,” he said. “There are a couple of things that—”
“What difference does it make? I’m just some crazy, self-destructive bitch you wish you’d never met.”
“Shut up, Nora. I mean it.”
I did.
“Are you listening?” he said then.
“Yeah.”
“Did it strike you as odd that Richard knew about Powers when you spoke to him yesterday?”
“I’m sure he heard
it on the news.”
“They held the story until they found Powers’ family, who just happened to be on an all-day fishing excursion in the Gulf. Nothing went out until that evening.”
“Richard has contacts at the police department.”
“You bet. I wasn’t the only one tailing Sniperman. Richard sicced the cops on Powers. Told them he was worried to death about what this lunatic patient might do to his poor psychoanalyst wife. Slaughter confirmed that they’d been tailing him. No wonder the guy went nuts.”
My brain stalled, staring at all the pieces laid out in front of me, pieces I couldn’t at that moment fit together. “Is that all?”
“Are you serious? Of course you’re serious. Just keep Richard right there in the center of your blind spot. His shadow falls on every one of these deals.”
“Why do you keep trying to pin this on Richard? Do you really think he hates me that much?”
“I think he may love you that much. Or not want to lose you. For him it’s the same thing.”
“So you’re a psychoanalyst now,” I said.
“I don’t need this shit from you.”
We passed a few breaths back and forth. I wanted to say something that would make everything okay between us. Usually I’m good at that. I knew Mike was right about Richard having a role in every bad situation. I couldn’t argue that. Richard was friendly with Camille Westerman. Too friendly. Small world. He was Bobby Tom Macon’s golfing buddy. Bobby Tom was Allison’s attorney. And lover. Small world. John was reported to the Impaired Physicians Committee. Richard had a powerful contact there. Small world. Richard told Slaughter to tail Lance. Small world. Connections. Patterns. Right then my small world felt like a poorly constructed house of cards. Some old part of me knew better than to move.
“There is one more thing,” he finally said. “I want to pick up the kids at camp today. Like usual. I should talk to them myself.”
“You mean tell them goodbye?”
“I don’t know what I mean, Nora. Can you give me some time? I’m screwed up right now. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Okay,” I said. Then, when I couldn’t bear the silence, I added, “I do love you.”
“You’ve already said that. It makes things worse. Just cut me some slack.”
“Will I see you?”
“No. I’m just dropping the kids off. No shooting range. No dinner. No talking. Not tonight. Don’t pressure me.”
So he hung up, and I was at loose ends. I attacked the stack of mail from the day before, delivered faithfully to my office by Ofelia while I was being subjected to blown-out brains and accusing cops. The pile was all junk with the sole exception of a letter from the law firm of Forsyth, Kinney and Reade, which I didn’t need to open to know was a request for medical records, the first step in the making of a malpractice suit on behalf of Allison’s estate. I might have been upset if I’d had anything left to be upset with.
I paced around until the flashing red light caught my eye, reminding me about Richard’s message. It was brief: I’m picking up the kids today. I’ll bring them home after dinner. My first impulse was to call Mike and warn him that Richard was headed that way, but he’d assume I was calling to cajole, to beg, to be a needy pest.
Just let them fight it out, I thought.
The idea made me smile.
I went to the bathroom. I peed. I checked for blackheads and stray eyebrow hairs in the little magnifying mirror I use to keep close watch on my imperfections. I trimmed my nails and filed the tips into a squarish shape, which seems to hold up better than the rounded style. Then I washed my hands, soaping for ten seconds, letting the water run. It felt so good that I washed my face, taking off my makeup and the sweat of a bad day. I closed the toilet, sat down, started thumbing through a copy of The Atlantic that I’d left there weeks ago and considered the option of just staying in that little bathroom until…until what? Until the kids came wanting me to settle a fight? Until Richard came to straighten me out? Until patients came demanding help? Until Mike came looking for love? Until EMS came to take me to the loony bin? There seemed little point in waiting out any of those possibilities. Instead, I went to lock the front door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The sleek toe of a familiar black dress shoe peeked out from behind the waiting room wall.
“What are you doing here?”
“The New Yorker is a cliché for an analyst’s coffee table,” Richard said from around the corner.
“It’s none of your business—like a lot of other things you’re compelled to comment on.”
“We need to talk.” He stepped out into my foyer.
“Read the sign,” I said. “By Appointment Only.”
“I would have waited in the house, but it seems my key doesn’t work anymore.”
“Maybe it’s a hint.”
“Cut it out, Nora. Where are the kids?”
“Provided for.”
“Are they with Ruiz?”
“You’re trespassing, Richard. This is my private space. Leave or I’ll call the cops.” I turned, heading back into my consulting room.
“Who are you calling?” he said—on my heels, mocking voice in my ears. “The real police or that in-house dick you’ve put in my place?”
“I have my own life,” I said, whipping around. “You’re such an ass.”
He grabbed my shoulders, pulled me toward him and shoved his tongue in my mouth. It didn’t occur to me to bite down. I felt his nails, which I’d always thought he kept effeminately long, digging into my arms. He pushed away from my face and looked at me from deep in his head. I wanted to wipe my mouth, but his hold rendered my arms useless.
“You revolt me,” I said.
His upper lip ticced at that, but he dropped his hands.
I turned and stepped into the consulting room, pushing the door shut behind me, planning to lock myself in until he got bored and left. But Richard rammed his high-priced shoe in the crack. I threw my weight into the door, shoving hard.
“Motherfucker,” he screamed, his foot vised in the space.
I edged the door toward me enough to release him, managing to close it and flip the lock when he retreated in pain.
“Nora. Open up,” he shouted. “Goddamn it.”
He slapped both hands on the opaque glass pane. The noise reverberated like a gunshot in the closed space.
“I swear to god, Richard, I’m calling the police if you don’t get out of here.”
I turned my back to the door and took a deep breath, considering whether to follow through on my vow. My pulse hammered in my temples. I took another deep breath. From the belly, like Mike had taught me. What now? What did I want to happen? I should want this to stop. For cooler minds to prevail. But I didn’t. I was pumped on adrenaline. I thought about my father’s violent rants. I know how you felt, I said to his memory. Things must be righted.
I heard Richard pacing, his footsteps nearby, then away. Just when I’d started to think he might be gone, started to fear the opportunity to settle this once and for all had passed, the glass door pane shattered. The waiting room chair flew through the space, trailing a rainbow of scintillating shards. I willed myself to run, to sprint out the consulting room exit, down the stairs, across the courtyard and into the house where his keys no longer worked. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I watched Richard’s arm pass through the jagged opening. Come on, I thought. I watched his hand seek, watched his fingers turn the deadbolt. He stepped through the door and came at me, broken glass cracking under his shoes.
“Sit,” he said.
“No,” I said.
He shoved me down into my Eames lounger, then wiped at the mist of perspiration on his pale forehead. “Now stay,” he added, before backing away to sit in the patient chair. “We’re having a talk.” His breath came hard. “Psychoanalysts talk about things.” He crossed his legs and assumed the fake pose of relaxation that he used for his show.
I could still taste him
, stale and sour in my mouth. I guessed sushi for a late lunch, maybe with a Sapporo, followed by the trademark breath mint. I wanted to gag. I stayed, as I was told, trying to think, trying to slow my breathing, trying to make a plan, my mental finger poised on the fight/flight toggle, unable or unwilling to declare.
“There are three things I want to make clear,” Richard said in his on-air voice, indexing each point with his finger. “One: In case you’ve forgotten, we are still married. Two: I don’t approve of your having this man around the children. Three: Your behavior will weigh against you, if and when we go to divorce court.”
Fury filled my chest. I was Renee. I was Lance. I was my outraged manic father. “Three things I want to make clear,” I said, moving forward in my chair.
“Stay put,” Richard warned.
I continued, holding firm in my position at seat’s edge. “One: I’ve already given my attorney the go ahead.” It was a lie, but one that I had every intention of making true the next day. “Two: Ruiz works for me, and he will be around any damned time I choose.” Another lie, if I was to take Mike at his word. But it was certainly something I hoped was still true. “And three: The kids like him.” That third point unequivocally true, an arrow with poison on the tip.
His face twitched, and he pulled at his nose, trying to cover up.
“Rumors are rounding the mental health community,” he said, when he regained his balance, “that your patient load is down. Friend of mine on the Impaired Physicians Committee told me your name was mentioned. There’s talk of an investigation. Reputation is everything in our field, Nora.”
He picked at his teeth with a fingernail, then spun the coaster on the table by his chair. He flashed me a smug smile, as if nothing could please him more than my career being on the line.
“Small world,” I said. “My hunch is you nominated my patient John Heyderman and me to that committee at the same time.”
Richard leaned slightly forward in a caricature of sincerity, placing both hands on the top knee of his crossed legs. “Nora, I’ve no idea—”