by Marlene Lee
Dr. Naef studied the new patient. “Your eyes are bright and observant even with tears,” she said in accented English. “Come, let us talk about these tears.”
But Agnes remained on guard.
“Tears can help us.” Dr. Naef continued to study Agnes. “Tears are friends. They tell us what we need to know. They tell us about our feelings which are often difficult to understand.”
Agnes was afraid to settle back in the chair, not because she didn’t like this woman, but because she feared, once comfortable, she might never pull herself out of the softness.
Dr. Naef made her a cup of tea on a little hot plate in the corner of the room. At the end of thirty minutes Agnes had not spoken a word.
“Here,” she said on her way out, and handed the check to the receptionist.
The woman looked at Agnes, shocked. “American dollars,” she said. “This is far too much.”
“Keep it for now,” Agnes said. If she took what was left, she might spend it on food. Or Chatto would see it and want to lay in a supply of paper and envelopes and stamps, a request she would not be able to deny.
The receptionist unwound the string from two buttons on a brown folder, placed the check inside, and rewound the string in a figure eight. She entered the amount in a ledger. “This will pay for several sessions,” she said.
“You can give me what’s left when I’m finished.”
“Most of our patients continue in analysis”— the woman searched for the right words—“a period of time, let us say.”
“Not me,” said Agnes. Still she remained at the desk.
“Good-bye, then,” the woman finally said, and Agnes walked to the door. She put her hand on the doorknob.
“Can I come sooner than Tuesday?” Her throat went into another spasm and she coughed.
The woman looked in the black book. “Friday,” she said. “One o’clock.”
Agnes nodded and left the room. Outside, she did not notice the weather or the people she passed, only what she needed to see: the underground station, the ticket, the train seat where she could rest until she arrived at the Hallensee station. Once off the train, she would have to walk several blocks. It seemed impossible. But hadn’t Dr. Naef said to her, “Don’t look ahead. Think of the present. Get through one hour. That is a great accomplishment”? Agnes took a deep breath and studied her hands. They looked like Mother’s.
“You’re looking at your hands,” Dr. Naef stated the obvious a few minutes into the second session. Agnes still sat on the edge of the large, cushioned chair. “You have done much work with your hands, I believe.”
Agnes nodded.
Dr. Naef wore the same tailored skirt under the white smock. It was short and came just to the knees when she sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other. Her black shoes had a narrow strap across the instep. She wore silk stockings.
“You’re not crying today,” she observed, and added, “Would you like some tea?”
Agnes nodded. Her throat had seized up again. “I guess if I don’t talk I won’t get my money’s worth,” she whispered.
Dr. Naef turned around from the hot plate and laughed. “Agnes, that’s amusing. And it’s true.”
“I used to laugh at my friend for going to a psychiatrist. Now she’s paying for me to be analyzed.”
Dr. Naef returned from the corner with two cups of tea. “Is it difficult for you to talk about yourself?”
“My throat gets dry.”
Dr. Naef took a swallow of tea. In the silence she touched up her blonde-gray hair that was done off the neck in a loose roll, like a sausage. The front, too, was combed back from her face in a similar well-kept roll. Dr. Naef was neither young nor old, pretty nor ugly. She took another sip of tea and said something about the close relationship between the body and mind.
Agnes felt embarrassed. “I’m neurotic.” She knew what “neurotic” meant. It meant you thought there was something wrong with you when there really wasn’t. If she would just straighten up, think less about herself, help Chatto instead of lying on a sick bed, work unselfishly for India, forget about Western desire for recognition, publication, money of her own, she wouldn’t need to be spending Florence’s check on a psychiatrist.
“Why do you think you’re neurotic?”
Agnes could barely hear Dr. Naef over Mother’s voice. Such a selfish girl.
Dr. Naef didn’t seem to mind when Agnes couldn’t answer. This psychiatrist, Agnes decided, was better than Florence’s psychiatrist. She liked the woman’s lively blue eyes that showed personality. Her nose was long and aquiline. When she was especially interested, her nostrils flared into dainty triangles. Her attention never wandered.
Several weeks into the analysis, Dr. Naef’s professional objectivity faltered. “But surely there were happy times in your childhood.” She leaned forward and her nostrils flared daintily.
“I remember a few happy times,” Agnes admitted. “But compared to the misery, they don’t amount to a hill of beans.”
“What is this ‘hill of beans’?”
“’Of no significance.’”
Dr. Naef slipped into reflection. She might have been contemplating the figure of speech. “Perhaps the few happy times,” she finally said, “can cast light. Yes. We will use it as a small torch. Its beams will dart about in the blackness and help us see.”
Agnes crossed her arms. “I don’t want to think about my childhood anymore,” she said. “I just want a little advice from you.”
“My dear young woman, ask your friends for advice, not your analyst. The purpose of psychoanalysis is not to give advice.”
“What is the purpose?”
“To complete the formation of the personality.”
Agnes glowered. “What’s wrong with my personality?”
“There is more growth to be done. You, yourself, are dissatisfied with your personality but do not know what steps to take. And so, in confusion and grief, you grow physically ill.” Dr. Naef looked at the clock. The hour was up. She stood, an imposing figure. “We will look into the past,” she concluded. “It requires courage. I will be there to help you. When we are acquainted with the child Agnes, we will begin to know the woman. And when you know the woman, you will feel more complete.”
Agnes walked out. Her headache was coming back. She didn’t want somebody in a white jacket telling her she wasn’t complete. She didn’t want to know more about her childhood. She didn’t even want a childhood. She didn’t want to dilute her anger with pity, dangerous pity, that could dwarf you, turn you into a weeping, sodden mass, undermine you, show you up for what you are: a pitiful person held together by hard work, will power, and fury.
She canceled her next two appointments. When she returned she was thinner and paler than before.
Dr. Naef’s expression was bland, almost without interest. “Hello,” she said, and seated herself. But this time Agnes did not perch on the edge of the soft chair. She took a deep breath, crossed the room, and threw herself lengthwise upon the couch. Dr. Naef’s nostrils flared with interest.
“I want more than advice,” Agnes said. “Analyze me.”
“First comes relaxation,” said Dr. Naef, “and then we will talk.”
“I’m relaxed,” Agnes said, breathing heavily. “You talk. I’ll listen.”
Dr. Naef reached for a notebook and pen on the small table next to her chair. “Are you rushing into this, Agnes?”
“Yes.”
“The past is a difficult and frightening place for you,” Dr. Naef said. “Let us approach it slowly.”
“I’m thirty-one years old,” Agnes said. “I don’t have time for a slow approach.” Nevertheless, she lay quiet until her breathing was even. “I’m ready.”
“A happy time. A rare, singular, happy time in your childhood,” Dr. Naef said. “Put yourself back there, and when you want to tell me about it, speak.”
Agnes thought for a few minutes. “I could tell you about the day we got molasses from the
Westons.”
“Very well.”
“It wasn’t all happy.”
“Fine.”
“Father came home from a business trip.” She rolled her head toward Dr. Naef. “‘Business’ was carousing in St. Joe. He’d be gone for weeks at a time.” Agnes closed her eyes but soon lifted herself up onto one elbow. “It’s hard to talk about myself,” she said. “I’ll pretend it’s a story.”
“Fine,” said Dr. Naef. Agnes lay back on the couch and began.
We need some sweetenin’, Father said when he got home from St. Joe.
Oh, Charles, Mother said, it’s going to be a hard enough winter without we spend money on molasses.
It’ll be a harder winter if we don’t get some sweetenin’. We’re goin’ to the Westons’ for molasses.
Immediately I developed a terrible hunger for molasses.
Mamie Weston’s my friend from school, I said.
Who’s to say she’ll remember you? Mother said. You haven’t been to school since Grover was a pup. The Westons’ll be busy what with everyone bringing in their cane. Don’t be expecting too much, Agnes. You’ll only be disappointed.
She began combing out Myrtle’s hair. John and Sam were eating bread and butter on one of the rag rugs Mother braided. I wandered outside. The sun was bright, the air cool; the kind of a day, Father said, when a nice breeze blows from Kansas and Colorado. I saw Father wave from the barn and I ran back to the cabin.
It’s time to go!
Mother sighed and picked Sammy up from where he was propped beside the sewing machine. John was old enough to walk by himself, and he came over to me with crumbs on his mouth. He had chubby little fingers that were shiny with butter…
Agnes faltered.
“You feel deeply about John,” Dr. Naef said quietly. Agnes nodded and put the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop tears.
I cleaned him up. Mother and the children and I walked to the barn.
Goddam bridle’s broke, Father said when we got to the wagon.
Mother looked worried in her resigned sort of way. Father cursed and fixed the bridle “just temporary.” It was harder to get sweetenin’, he said, than horse radish from a horse, but they could at least try, even if Mother did look sour as old milk and the children were more trouble than shoes on a chicken.
Agnes opened her eyes. They were clouded. “I’m adding a little bit here and there,” she said.
Dr. Naef nodded.
At the Weston house Mamie’s mother stood at a shallow, three-footed vat. Beside her, Mamie was taller than I remembered. She was throwing sticks onto the fire. As soon as Father stopped the team a ways off from the shed, I jumped down from the wagon.
Mamie!
Hush! said Mother. The Westons are busy.
But Mamie dropped the last of her sticks on the fire and began walking toward the wagon. When she got closer to me, she broke into a run and didn’t stop until we were face to face.
You want some molasses? She reached for my hand and we walked back to the vat. It was steaming and bubbling.
Mamie’s mother looked up from the rolling boil. So this is your friend.
It’s Agnes, said Mamie, from Knob School. You coming to school this year, Agnes?
Don’t know. I scuffed a place in the dirt with my shoes. When does school start?
Mrs. Weston gave a final stir and leaned the long-handled spoon against the lip of the vat. She wiped her hands on her apron and set off for our wagon.
Don’t know.
I leaned forward and looked into the vat at the glossy molasses. The fumes were sweet, like taffy, but there was a taint of something foreign, something interesting. It was a smell that sharpened the sweetness; added an edge of danger to the candy.
Mind the vat! called out Mother.
I stepped back.
It’s going to be a hard winter, I said. I don’t know if I can go to school this year.
I remembered the geography book at school; the blackboard and chalk on the north wall. You’re a good speller, I said.
So are you.
It was hot there by the fire, with the steam coming off the sorghum. Mamie grabbed my hand and we ran over to a stack of cane where she broke off two pieces, one for her, one for me, and began to chew on the end. I did what she did. The tough fibers gave out the sugar Father had told us about; the sweetening he and I both craved.
Inside the Weston cabin there was a cane-backed chair by the hearth. There was a clock and sewing machine, chairs and a love seat, two separate bedrooms, and a real wood floor.
I’ll show you something, Mamie said.
I looked. It’s only a cloth doll! I said.
Her name’s Madeleine.
Madeleine!
I’d never heard such a prissy name. She wasn’t real. And people said I lied! This doll was a lie. Nobody is that pretty; that loved.
You got any good climbing trees?
There was too much of everything in the Weston cabin. Too much nice furniture. Too much peace and quiet. Too much love for a silly doll.
I like high trees, I said. Like to get up off the ground.
Once we were outside, I boosted Mamie up into the apple tree and followed. This isn’t very high, I said. We sat on a bough almost bare of leaves. I don’t know if I can come to school this year. I’m late now, anyway. No point starting.
Don’t matter if you’re late, Mamie said. I’ll tell Teacher you had to help out at home.
You’re lucky being an only child and all, I told her. But I can climb higher than you. I was ready to bust from the wish to go to school and from the wish to show Mamie I was equal. I shinnied up the trunk and reached a higher limb. But it wasn’t any fun to race with Mamie. She didn’t care if she was higher or not.
I looked down through what leaves still held to the tree. Already Mamie had started to climb down. I felt for footholds and came down, too. When we reached the grown-ups standing around a pail of sorghum by the wagon, I blurted out, Can I go to school again?
Mother squeezed me by the shoulder. Don’t ask about that now.
Father laughed. What does a girl need school for? He looked up to share the joke with Leroy. But Mr. Weston had moved a little way off where he stood writing something in a pocket notebook. I was surprised to see someone carry a pencil and paper. He stopped to write something down the way you might pick up a stone or break a twig off a bush. I’d never seen anyone stop in their work to reach for a pencil or slip a notebook back into their pocket like it was as common as a tobacco pouch.
By now Agnes’ breathing was slow and deep. Except for the wind blowing around the corner of the Berlin University building, there was no sound.
Dr. Naef ended the silence. “It seems as if you know this child Agnes very well. You are a gifted story-teller.”
Agnes smiled and nodded, as if she were used to being wakened from a dream. She came to a sitting position and looked up, surprised. “I had my feet at the wrong end of the couch,” she said.
Dr. Naef laughed. “Perhaps psychoanalysis works better when the feet are where the head should be.”
“Being analyzed isn’t so bad,” Agnes said.
“Next week we will begin the hard work,” Dr. Naef said. “We will talk more about this young Agnes who so badly needed sweetening.”
“I thought we were finished with that story. Next week I can tell you a different one.”
Dr. Naef said nothing but looked for a long moment into Agnes’ eyes. With a touch of mystery, she said good-bye. Agnes hurried home, filled with energy. She wrote an article that she called “Starving Germany.” The paragraphs on inflation, hunger, illness, suicides, splintering political parties, failed to depress her. She mailed it off to The Nation and began another. She canceled her next appointment with Dr. Naef and spent Florence’s check on food and a new dress.
But by the time she received a letter of acceptance from The Nation, accompanied by a check for $17.50, she was sick again.
“I fe
lt good after my analysis,” she said to Dr. Naef in a stricken voice. “I thought I was cured. How long do I have to be analyzed? I should be writing. I should be earning my own money instead of waiting for Florence’s checks. I shouldn’t be depending on analysis!” She spat out the word, then burst into tears.
“It is common for patients to think they are well before they actually are,” said Dr. Naef. “Perhaps the extent of your instability has not been clear to you. But it has been clear to me. Now we can begin the real work.”
“I can’t bear to be a cripple!” Agnes cried out from the couch. “I can’t bear to come limping back here again and again!”
“Until now, your youth and strong will have carried you,” Dr. Naef said quietly. “You were a child and now you are called upon to be a woman.”
“I don’t want to be a woman!”
“Let us talk about that,” Dr. Naef urged. She got up, poured two cups of tea, and returned to her chair. “In Vienna, Dr. Freud has elucidated a theory which you may find interesting.”
Agnes looked up, guarded. “What’s the theory?”
“It is believed that when a little girl realizes she doesn’t have a penis, she unconsciously feels that hers has been cut off. She feels as if she has lost something important. She feels that someone has taken something that belonged to her. She is plunged into grief. She is bereft, and she is angry, too.”
Agnes stared at Dr. Naef, insulted. “I never felt that someone cut off my…” She could not say the word.
“We are talking about an unconscious process,” Dr. Naef said. “The child is not aware of these thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, she must live with the consequences of this knowledge.”
“But it’s just a theory. A man’s theory.”
“A useful theory.”
Agnes sat in deep reflection.
“Can you share your thoughts with me?” Dr. Naef asked. Agnes began to rub her forehead compulsively.
“I can’t leave Chatto!” she cried out. “He gets sick when I leave. I tried it for a few days. I had to come back.” She looked up. “Men aren’t as strong as women! They want mothers! They suck away our energy! Marriage is a struggle for power and I’m losing!”