The Night, The Day

by Andrew Kane

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the chairperson, Dr. Leonard Johnson, began. “As president of the American Psychological Association’s Clinical Psychology division, I am honored to introduce our speaker this morning. When the division leadership discussed whom we would invite to address us at this 102nd APA convention, prominent among them was Dr. Martin Rosen.”

  The room was quiet and attentive, but Martin barely heard Johnson’s flattery. His eyes were on the door at the rear, watching the latecomers wander in.

  “Today’s lecture is on Confidentiality in the Modern Age, and there are few as qualified to speak about this crucial subject as Dr. Rosen. He is a clinical psychologist in private practice in Great Neck, New York, and an associate professor in the department of psychiatry at North Shore University Hospital. Having authored several articles and, most recently, the critically acclaimed book, Are Patients Protected? he has made the TV and radio talk show circuits and even the New York Times best sellers list.”

  Admiration and envy flowed from the audience. It was the dream of most psychologists to come as far as Martin had. Though Martin’s only dream, at the moment, was to get this done with and flee.

  “So, without further ado,” Johnson continued, “I would like to present to you Dr. Martin Rosen.”

  Martin stepped to the podium while the audience applauded. He placed his notes on the lectern and waited for the crowd to settle. There seemed to be nearly 300 attendees, an impressive assembly considering that there were about fifteen other convention events being held simultaneously. He glanced around the room; still no sign of Nancy.

  “Good morning,” he began. “I am here to talk about a very ticklish subject that touches all of our professional and personal lives, and also significantly influences public policy.

  “Years ago, confidentiality between doctor and patient, especially between therapist and patient, seemed a given. But today, things are different. In fact, I dare say, quite different. With the advent of HMOs and stricter guidelines instituted by all insurance companies; new laws about potential suicide or homicide, abuse of children, spouses and the elderly; and, above all, the burgeoning information age in which we live, the confidentiality between psychologist and patient has been dealt some serious blows. And what’s really frightening is that most patients, and even some practitioners, are completely unaware that their conversations with one another are not necessarily protected…”

  His presentation lasted just short of thirty minutes, followed by the usual applause, a few questions and answers, and then formal compliments from some APA bigwigs. It had come off much better than he had anticipated.

  A few colleagues gathered around him to offer congratulations. Handshakes, smiles, jokes. He labored through the motions as long as he could stand it, and eventually managed to slip away back to his hotel room.

  He glanced at his watch as he entered his room. It was shortly after noon, and he wondered if Elizabeth would be home. The nanny, her Guyanese accent more noticeable on the telephone than in person, answered.

  “Hello, Jamilla,” he said.

  “Ah, Dr. Rosen, hello. How are things in Chicago?”

  “Good. How are things over there?”

  “Very good. Elizabeth misses you, but she’s having fun at camp and I’m taking her to TGI Fridays for dinner tonight.”

  Martin felt a lump in his throat. Fridays’ cheeseburgers were Elizabeth’s favorite, and a steady date for Martin and his daughter every Saturday night, their special time together. “That’s great, Jamilla. I really appreciate it,” he said. “Is she there?”

  “Of course. She’s been waiting for your call. Hold on.”

  Elizabeth came on the line. “Hi Daddy.”

  “Hi princess, how are you?”

  “I’m good, Daddy. When are you coming home?”

  “Late tonight, princess. You’ll probably be sleeping.”

  “Why not early? You can come out to dinner with us.”

  “Because I couldn’t get an earlier flight. But I promise we’ll do something special tomorrow, maybe go to the park, out for dinner.”

  Through the phone, he heard her tell Jamilla, “Daddy’s taking me to the park and out to dinner tomorrow.”

  “Princess?”

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “See you tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay daddy. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He reviewed his arrival plans with the nanny, hung up, stared out the window and thought about how much he missed Elizabeth. He kicked himself for having come back to Chicago. When he’d first planned to attend the convention, he imagined that some time in this town, the place where his relationship with Katherine had begun, might do him good, perhaps give him the chance to figure a few things out. Now he was even more confused. He just couldn’t see himself getting involved with another woman, especially one he met here.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Ashok Reddy’s home number. He could have waited until Monday to return the call, but he was intrigued by Reddy’s message.

  Martin recognized his old friend’s Indian accent. “Hello, Ashok. It’s Marty.”

  “Marty! How the hell are you?”

  “Okay. I’m still in Chicago.”

  “Yes, I remember. You are coming back tonight.”

  Martin smiled. Reddy had an impeccable memory for details. “So, what’s the story with this case?”

  “Things that dull in Chicago?”

  “Dull would be good.” Martin hesitated for a moment, surprised by his own candor. “I was just curious.”

  “Well, are you sitting down?”

  “Yes,” Martin lied. He was still standing, watching the street below.

  “Jacques Benoît.”

  Stunned, Martin turned from the window and found the chair. “The Hotel King?” he asked.

  “Bingo.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s the problem, nobody really knows. He was brought into the ER at the beginning of the week. Apparently OD’d on Xanax. Swallowed a bottle of the stuff with some bourbon, thirty tablets.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “His internist. Seems he complained of sleep problems a few weeks prior to the OD, even though he didn’t take any of the pills till that day.”

  “What’s to figure out, the guy tried to off himself,” Martin said. “What does he say?”

  “He admits he was trying to commit suicide. He claims it was impulsive, that he was under a lot of stress from all the expansion and changes in his corporation. His company’s stock has been doing very well. New management and renovations of three of his hotels in the Middle East, and two more resorts he is opening in the Caribbean. Success isn’t always a good thing, so he says.”

  “So he tries to kill himself?”

  “With pills he had gotten a few weeks ago and hadn’t used.”

  “Sounds a bit strange.”

  “If you ask me,” Reddy reflected, “I think his whole story is bullshit, that’s why I called you.”

  “Why me?”

  “He needs therapy, and you know I only do pharmacology these days. He also needs someone who isn’t intimidated by him, someone who knows how to look for things.”

  Martin was flattered but also wary. It was nice hearing such accolades from his close friend, who also happened to be chief of psychiatry at New York’s esteemed North Shore University Hospital, but Martin was convinced that Reddy had an exaggerated sense of his abilities. “If he’s bullshitting, who says he’ll comply?” he asked.

  “His wife.”

  “You mean one of the richest men in the world is pushed around by his wife?”

  “Not exactly. She is an exceptionally intelligent woman, and quite distraught, much more so than the p
atient, I might add. He appears to really care for her, seems remorseful and eager to put the whole thing behind them. She also suspects there is more to this than meets the eye, says if he goes for therapy, it will make her feel better. He says he will do it. When I told him who I would send him to, he even seemed pleased.”

  “How does he know me?”

  “Maybe he caught one of your countless talk show appearances or saw your name on the best-sellers list. You’re not the most inconspicuous man in America, Marty.”

  “How long was he in the hospital?”

  “Four days. Got out yesterday.”

  “Only four days for a suicide attempt? What kind of treatment is that?”

  “HMO special,” Reddy responded, chuckling.

  “Come on, Ashok, get serious.” Martin knew that a man like Benoît would have nothing but the best medical insurance and would have paid out of pocket for any expenses having to do with something like this.

  Reddy stopped laughing. “Boy, Marty, you sound a bit uptight over there. Everything all right?”

  Martin had long ago realized that there wasn’t much he could get past Reddy. “Everything’s okay, I suppose.”

  Reddy was silent. He had been concerned about Martin’s return to Chicago since he’d first heard of the invitation to speak at the convention. Being a good friend, he had held his tongue then and would do so now.

  “Anyway,” Martin continued, “let’s get back to Benoît.”

  “Okay,” Reddy agreed. “We kept him for four days because he was behaving fairly normally and insisted he was perfectly fine. He didn’t appear to need any medication, and was genuinely contrite about his act. Promised not to do it again, to go for therapy and all that. There wasn’t much more we could do for him and, as you know, there are patients in worse shape waiting for beds.”

  “Business must be good for you to so quickly discharge a cash-paying patient,” Martin said snidely.

  “Just great. Anyway, will you take the case?”

  “Sure. I’ll uncover the deep mysteries of the man’s mind.”

  “Good, then I will give him the go-ahead to call you. I told him I wanted to speak with you first to see if you were taking on any new patients.”

  “Never too busy for you, Ashok.”

  “That is good to hear. When you get back, you will come for dinner. Savitri has a friend she thinks you might be interested in.”

  Martin was used to Reddy’s efforts at matchmaking. “Sure. Okay.”

  “Talk to you soon then.”

  “Yes. And thanks for the referral.”

  “Anytime.”

  Martin hung up the phone, then picked it up again and dialed for the hotel operator.

  “Can you connect me with Dr. Nancy Hartledge’s room?” he asked.

  “Please hold.”

  He held the phone for a moment, but hung up before he even heard a ring. He didn’t know why he hung up, nor why he placed the call to begin with.

  He got up and started packing. He would grab an early dinner, then head out to the airport. Soon he would be back with his daughter, the only thing in his world that made any sense.

  chapter 3

  November 10, 1994

  Brooklyn, New York

  Martin stood on the street, immune to the evening chill, staring at the house. The pavement, wet from an earlier rain, reflected the streetlights above. It was close to 10, quiet and serene.

  He had come not knowing what to expect. Whether he would actually cross the street and ring the bell, or keep his distance and simply watch, he couldn’t choose.

  It had been the worst day of his life. Desperately in need of connecting to something, he had returned here, to the place where his life had begun and where, one day years ago, a part of that life had ended.

  He had been standing in the same spot for close to an hour. Paralyzed, almost inert, he found himself beyond tears, beyond grief.

  The living room and dining room were dark, but through a street-level window, he could see light emanating from the kitchen in the back and the figure of a familiar woman moving about. Upstairs, another light burned in the room that used to be – and probably still was – his father’s study.

  Martin’s mind traveled back five years to the night he had given his parents the news of his engagement to Katherine, the very last time he had talked with either of them. He would never forget his mother’s silence, the anguish in her eyes as his father lashed into him. He remembered having waited for her to intercede, to make peace between them as she always had. But this time things were different.

  “So, this is what you do to us. This is how you finally kill us!” his father harangued.

  “No, Papa, this is how I find love and happiness for myself.”

  “Love and happiness?” Abraham Rosen looked at his wife. “Our son is unable to find love and happiness from a Jewish girl.” He threw up his hands.

  Leah Rosen couldn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry my life didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to. I’m sorry I didn’t become a rabbi like you, that I didn’t devote my life to my religion and my people.”

  “Your religion! Your people! You have no religion. You have no people. All you have is that foolish psychology, and now you will have a shiksa wife and goyish children. A fine return for all the work your mother and I have done!”

  Martin was silent. There was nothing to be gained with words. From his earliest days in yeshiva, when his rebelliousness and skepticism took root, he had always known that some day it might come to this.

  Abraham addressed his wife again. “I told you this was going to happen. From the day you convinced me to let him go to University of Chicago, I knew he would be lost to us.” Abraham’s face turned crimson. He pointed at Martin. “And for this, my parents and my brother walked into the gas chambers.” He was trembling.

  Leah Rosen finally broke her silence. “Enough!” Tears rushed from her eyes.

  Martin moved to embrace her, but she held out her hand to stop him.

  “Mama,” he pleaded.

  “No, Martin, I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  There had been two other times when Martin had stood in this spot, watching the house as he was now. The first had been a year after his marriage to Katherine, the day she gave birth to their son, Ethan; the second was two years later, after the birth of Elizabeth. On both occasions, he had lacked the temerity to cross the street, and now he once again wondered if he could bring himself to do it.

  He wasn’t afraid of being turned away; he was confident they would never do that. The rift between them had not been a “disowning,” it had been an estrangement that probably could have been repaired over time with a little nurturing. But Martin, in his own way, was as stubborn as his father.

  Katherine, ironically, had encouraged him to mend things. She felt strongly about the children having a relationship with their grandparents, and her own parents lived far away in Illinois. Martin agreed, and frequently promised to “eventually” do something about it. But now it was too late, at least as far as Katherine and Ethan were concerned. A few hours earlier, he had buried them both.

  He had met Katherine during his first week at college, almost twenty years earlier, at a bar called Jarod’s. It was his first Saturday night in Chicago, and his roommate, a Jewish kid from Springfield, Massachusetts, had invited him to come along with some other guys. “Just lose the yarmulke,” his roommate said. Martin, who had never gone anywhere without his head covered, was drawn to the idea, wondering what it might feel like. He soon learned that this mere change in appearance would engender a sense of liberation he had never known.

  So, when the young woman sitting at the next table smiled at him, he had no hesitation in simply saying “hello.” His new friends were awestruck at the ease with which he did
this. He was neither afraid nor imbued with the arrogance that normally obviates such fear. He was simply innocent.

  And Martin had found Katherine irresistible. She was his height, with soft, unblemished skin, flaming red hair, green eyes, a dancer’s figure, and a smile that lit up the room. They left Jarod’s together and walked around the campus talking for hours – finding they had absolutely nothing in common. Next thing they knew, they were inseparable.

  It took quite some time for Martin to muster the nerve to marry her. She had always understood and never pushed. But he knew he wanted a complete life with her. After eight years together, through college and graduate school, they became engaged and decided to relocate to New York. Martin hoped that the proximity to his parents might facilitate their eventual acceptance of Katherine, but it was not to be.

  At first, they lived in Forest Hills and Martin opened a private practice in the affluent town of Great Neck on the north shore of Long Island. Katherine worked as a nurse at the North Shore University Hospital and, over time, befriended several doctors, all of whom were happy to refer patients to Martin. Martin’s reputation and practice grew, and he eventually earned the position of associate professor in the hospital’s department of psychiatry. Shortly after Elizabeth’s birth, they bought a house in Lake Success, just minutes from the hospital and Martin’s office.

  Now Katherine was gone, and Ethan along with her, taken needlessly by a drunk driver who flew over an embankment on the Long Island Expressway and came head-on into their car at 60 miles an hour. Their bodies had been charred. The medical examiner said they had died instantly. There had been no suffering. It was little consolation.

  Martin, feeling nothing but the crisp air against his face, wondered once again what to do. He was tired and empty, having spent much of the day cursing a God he probably never believed in, hating the world and everything in it, save his little girl. The grief had already graduated to numbness. Soon, he knew, it would turn to guilt. He would somehow manage to blame himself. Perhaps because he had married her in the first place; because he had scorned his parents, his God, and his people; because he had renounced who he was, abandoned those who had perished for revering that which he had so freely discarded. The guilt would never leave him. In that respect, he would always be the boy who grew up in that house across the street.