I find out the details of the stroke from my aunt, and I’m horrified. He had gone to the bathroom to shave and had inadvertently locked the door, something he never did, and he had been struck down there. They had been forced to break down the door to get him out, wasting precious time. Aunt Sonia is crying hysterically over the phone now and I wonder if she finally realizes what she is really losing, since all her life she underestimated and neglected him.
He was a man who suffered quietly, in a lonely, unsatisfying marriage for decades. Even the short retirement he enjoyed wasn’t without its problems because refusing to change her routine, she was always away from home three, four nights a week, and whenever he complained, she would mock him, “what do you want me to do, stay home and contemplate your face?” I wanted him to die quickly now because I knew she would never have the heart to nurse him back to health, or to accept the devastating effects of the stroke for as long as he lived.
He lasted two days, long enough to see Ana and Ramiro. Ana said he couldn’t talk and only shed a tear when he saw her by his bedside. I was told the funeral was huge; people from all walks of life came to pay their respects, from the humblest to the richest, and that grown men were openly crying there because they had each been a recipient of his generosity.
I know I should have been there saying goodbye, and the fact that I wasn’t made me miserable, yet I was consoled by his own words that the grandest funeral means nothing to the dead, and that you should honor the people you love in life. I had loved him since I was a child so I felt good about that, we had always had a communication without words, a bond that defied time. I had honored him more than his own son, for Ramiro had always been judgmental and indifferent, and had given him a lot of grief. Was he finally taking the full measure of his father now? I doubted it, he was made from the same stock as Uncle Jorge and nothing touched them for too long, perhaps that’s why they got along so well.
~~~
His death brings about a deep depression. It takes a great effort to get out of bed in the morning, and I can hardly function at the office. Rose refers me to a psychologist in Manhattan with an excellent reputation, and I quickly make an appointment to see him. The only disappointing thing is that Nick doesn’t support me, he thinks only crazy people go to psychologists and that I should forget the whole thing because it is a monumental waste of time and money.
“We all suffer losses in life,” he scoffs. “But most people don’t run to psychologists because that’s just plain overindulgence and immaturity.”
“People do what they need to do Nick, and at this time in my life I do need this.”
“You have to solve your own problems, that’s how you get strong, not talking to all your girlfriends about your problems and running to psychologists.”
“I’m sorry you don’t understand why I need to do this. I wish with all my heart you did but I’m doing it whether you like it or not, so you might as well get used to it.”
“What,” he mocks me. “The committee you surround yourself with all the time is not enough? Now you have to go and spend a fortune besides?”
There are already cracks in the marriage and his resentment is showing. He has no friends so he resents mine, calling them a bunch of losers. He doesn’t read, not even newspapers, so he hates my books. He wants a marriage that is only between the two of us, shutting out the rest of the world. He works hard to give me everything I want but demands total submission and fidelity. He works overtime on Saturdays at the garage, and also goes out to see clients, so taking advantage of the good weather, Sandy and I take long bicycle rides to the park, and he objects to that, going as far as reproaching Sandy in front of me by calling her irresponsible and a bad influence on me.
His possessiveness and jealousy are the biggest problems so far, but there is another side to him that’s irresistible. He brings me breakfast in bed on Sundays; he cooks for me during the week because he gets home earlier, and there are always candles and flowers on the table. He makes me feel pampered and adored and I never had that feeling in my life. I choose to overlook the flaws and hope that time and effort will make him feel more secure, making him realize that one person can’t possibly fulfill all our needs and that we need other people in our lives.
~~~
Dr. Bergman’s office is located on Second Avenue and Sixty Fourth Street, and all I have to do is walk a few blocks to catch my bus back home when Nick is unable to pick me up, so the location is perfect. He is a small framed, middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, intense blue eyes framed by horn rimmed glasses and a neatly cut beard he touches pensively from time to time as he listens to his patients. He has a soft, reassuring voice and a controlled, serene manner that immediately puts the most reluctant, recalcitrant patients like me at ease.
His office is small and he handles all his affairs by himself, writing down appointments in a big black book with a pencil, and letting the service pick up the calls during sessions. His therapy room consists of a comfortable chair for himself, a white couch for his patients, and a huge clock with a set up alarm which rings softly when the time is up. He smokes a pipe during sessions and frequently refills it with more tobacco, filling the room with a smooth, appealing aroma. I always take the last appointment at six, and thus avoid encountering his other patients.
On our first session I ask him if he is related to the great Ingmar Bergman. He smiles.
“No relation. Why, do you like Bergman?”
“I simply adore him.”
“That’s a funny idol to have for a young girl.”
“I know. I’m the only who feels that way; most of my friends think he is morbid, weird and utterly depressing.”
“The main thing is what you think and feel.”
I smile, remembering those solitary Sundays in Manhattan when I would rush to see his films and come out enthralled by them.
“What’s your favorite Bergman film?” he asks, gently.
“The one where he plays chess with the devil, I don’t recall the name.”
“He plays chess with death,” he corrects me, smiling.
“Yeah, that’s the one, what’s the name?”
“The Seventh Seal, and that’s my favorite too.”
“He is the greatest, ever, don’t you think?”
“Certainly this century’s greatest. Tell me what you like about him, Vicky. By the way if I can call you Vicky, you can call me Jay, instead of Dr. Bergman.”
“Good, this way I won’t be thinking of the other Bergman when I talk to you,” I say, teasingly. “It’s hard to put it into words. He is somber, poetic and pretty devastating.”
“Very well put. How many of his movies have you seen?”
“I think most of the ones that came to Manhattan.”
“Me too,” he says, softly. “What does Bergman do for you?”
“He makes me think, feel and wonder.”
“The hallmark of a true artist, wouldn’t you say?”
The ice is broke and I like him immensely. When he asks if I think we might be able to work together, my answer is unequivocally yes.
Nick picks me up later and asks me how many sessions it might take. “I have no idea. But it will probably take quite a few; these things are not resolved overnight.”
“You’re talking yourself into this, you can talk yourself out.”
“Please, Nick, I don’t want to fight about this. I need you to understand.”
“But it’s such a big inconvenience. I have to drive to Manhattan, hitting traffic, it’s really a nightmare.”
“I told you not to come, I can take the bus.”
“I’m not going to let you come home by yourself at that hour, it’s not safe.”
“Then you’re just going to have to come to his office once a week on Thursdays.”
“Couldn’t you do it in your lunch hour?”
“I’m too far away. It takes me half an hour to walk to his office.”
“You must be the only person
in the world who has to go into therapy because her uncle died,” he says to me mockingly, after we have dinner. “I mean he was a nice gentleman and all that, but don’t you think this is carrying things to an extreme?”
“It’s not just my uncle, Nick, you don’t understand; let’s just drop it, shall we?”
“No wonder they say there is a sucker born every minute.”
“Well, you’re looking at one, are you happy now?”
“You could go to a priest for nothing and get the same results.”
“I’m tired, Nick. I don’t feel like arguing.”
“Sergio and Lisa say it looks bad for me that you are going there so soon after our marriage. Sergio said “What’s the matter, man; you can’t make your woman happy?”
“For God’ sake, you told them? Something so painful and personal is now open knowledge?”
“If it’s the most natural thing in the world to do, you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”
“Then tell everyone, okay? Put it on the TV and radio, I really don’t care.”
His face is tense and he is not happy. It’s going to be a struggle for him and for me, but I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I’m going to do this no matter what it costs me.
~~~
At the beginning I hate the doctor, it seems that all he ever asks is “why do you think that is?” forcing me to be rude and snap, “If I knew why that was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“I’m not here to give you the answers, Vicky. You have to find your own answers.”
“Then what are you going to do for me?”
“I’m going to help you find them.”
I resist like crazy at first, and then grudgingly find myself opening up to him and sharing long buried secrets and feelings. He begins to concentrate on my childhood, forcing me to go back as far as I can remember, much to my discomfort and reticence. I find myself using the box of tissues he has on a table more and more while he artfully and gently persists in probing more. But the effort to relive it all becomes excruciating and I try to end the therapy.
“It’s up to you, of course,” he says looking at me intently. “But I think it would be a serious mistake. There is a lot of pain in you, it has to come out.”
And I find myself going back to the couch time and time again to continue the tortuous self examination.
“But I have always been self aware,” I argue. “And you’re making it seem like I was living in a dream world.”
“In a way you were. You learned to do that to survive a miserable childhood. You became strong and developed excellent coping skills by never acknowledging your pain, but it took a heavy toll on you, and it came out when your mother died.”
“I don’t see how coming here and crying my eyes out is going to help me come to terms with her death,” I say, stubbornly. “And that’s the only reason why I’m here.”
“She was the trigger, of course,” he says, gently. “But the process has been going on for a long time.”
“There I go crying again,” I say reaching for the tissues. “I hate that.”
“Don’t hate it, just cry.”
~~~
The ongoing war in Vietnam is threatening my relationship with Nick because he is afraid he is going to be drafted. He wants us to have a child right away and I have to hide my birth control pills to make believe it’s simply not happening. The country has angrily risen up and there are endless riots, protests and demonstrations. I sense that the war is coming to an end and try to reassure him, but he doesn’t believe me. He wants to go back to Italy till the war is over.
“Be reasonable, Nick. How will we live? We can’t just quit our jobs, you know.”
“I have a large family in the country there, we’ll live with them, and maybe you will be able to get pregnant.”
“Why, the air is different in Italy?”
“You bet your life it is,” he answers, annoyed.
“Do whatever you want, but I’m not going, Nick.”
“Why did you marry me, Vicky, was it the visa?” he says clenching his teeth and holding my arm forcefully. “Because if it was, you got it already, you can leave me now.”
“”You’re hurting me. Why would you ask a thing like that?”
“Because you don’t love me, that’s for sure.”
“I won’t follow you there with no job, no prospects and no money so I don’t love you? You’re absolutely crazy.”
He lowers his head. “I’m not going to Viet Nam, I’d rather die first.”
“You are thirty years old, Nick; you’re too old to be drafted.”
“Look at the expert, since when do you know so much?’
And he would go on and on till fed up with the nagging I would scream at him and lock my bedroom door. Then he would plead outside like a puppy dog and want to make love to me the moment I opened the door to reassure him that everything was fine. Smothered and angry, I would refuse and he would start up again. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep all night if I didn’t consent, I would let him make love to me, but I hated those moments.
~~~
“You present a façade to the world that’s very different from the way you are,” says Dr. Bergman, smoking his pipe. “But then again you had lots of training.”
“What kind of façade?” I ask, drying my eyes.
“Expertly camouflaged with frivolity, but that’s not the way you really are, is it? You’ve always had the world upon your shoulders.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
I feel strange, bereft. We have been working together for six months now and the sessions are becoming more painful.
“What are you feeling, Vicky?”
“Nothing,” I snap. “Why do I have to be feeling something all the time?”
He lets out a big puff from his pipe, the smoke curls up in front of him and a pleasant aroma fills the room.
“All this anger, Vicky, where did it come from?”
I can’t talk, there is something bitter inside of me wanting to come out but I won’t let it, I resist it, I fight it with all my heart.
“Are you finally going to cry for the little girl, Vicky?” he asks, softly. “Or are you going to keep hiding her for the rest of your life?”
“Which little girl, you’re not making any sense.”
“Cry for her, Vicky, you know you eventually have to.”
I bite my lower lip and cover my face with my hands.
“It’s time to drop the mask,” he says, gently. “Our work won’t be successful until you do.”
Something is strangling me and I look at him pleadingly. He shakes his head. “It’s time to go there, we have to go there.”
I dab my eyes with the tissue. “I don’t know what game you’re playing but you are not going to succeed in reducing me to pieces.”
“Just as I figured, you’re afraid to; you’ve repressed her for too many years, it’s going to be a struggle for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I see a terrible repression in you, until you feel and cry for that brave little girl you once were, that’s never going to improve.”
I dissolve, loud sobs shake my body and I can’t stop. He says nothing and lets me cry for a long time.
“Therapy is very painful,” he says, compassionately. “That’s why many people avoid it all their lives. It takes a lot of courage and a lot of strength, and I think you have both.”
I can’t answer; I’m drowning in my own sobs. My chest hurts and I think I’m having a heart attack.
“We have more work to do with this little girl,” he says. “We’ve barely touched the surface today but I want you to go home and put her in the back burner till next week.”
I get up faint, exhausted. I pray that Nick won’t be in a nagging mood again this evening because I won’t be able to take it. But my eyes are red and swollen, and the minute I get in the car, he notices that I’ve been c
rying.
“What happened,” he asks, angrily. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing, just something that needed to be done.”
“And you pay good money for that? You must be absolutely crazy.”
I say nothing and ignore him. I can only deal with one problem at a time because all the fight has gone out of me. We go out to dinner to a fancy restaurant and he orders wine to celebrate.
“Celebrate what?” I ask, confused.
“One year of marriage. I can’t believe you forgot.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“Sometimes I think I’m the woman and you the man in this marriage. How could you forget such an important date?”
“It won’t happen again.”
He hands me a present. I open it and see a beautiful gold bracelet with a charm and my initials on it.
“I’ll get you a charm for every occasion in our lives, like the date you finally get pregnant,” he says, with longing.
“We have so much time, Nick. I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to get me pregnant.”
“Because life has no meaning without kids,” he says, seriously. “At least mine doesn’t.”
I fall asleep soundly, without the usual tossing and turning. During the week I find myself reliving the sessions, fearful about them but also anxiously waiting for the next one. I wish I could afford to see him twice a week, but I know that’s impossible. Nick already resents the fact that I go once a week because he thinks it reflects poorly on him, on his ability to make me happy, that if I were to increase the sessions he would go crazy for sure.
~~~
“Have you thought about what I mentioned last week?” asks Dr. Bergman, in his usual soothing voice.
“Yes, and I realized you were right.”
“What did you find out?”
“That I never had time to feel sorry for myself because I was always busy juggling situations, trying to keep everyone happy.”
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 45