“Jeez.”
“A little later I hear a big splash, and I know they’ve put Warren in one of the old hydro tubs, and then he stops squealing for a little while, and then I hear him gasping, a big intake of breath, and he starts crying, and then he’s quiet again.”
Ben nodded. “Myron’s holding him underwater.”
“That’s what I figured too,” Marie said. “This happens a few times, until Warren is crying when he’s not gasping for air. Then I hear water splashing, and I know they’re taking him out of the tub, so I leave before they come out.”
“Unbelievable. That’s ‘behavior modification’ with a vengeance. Did you say anything to anyone?”
“You,” she said, and laughed. “I don’t know what good it would do. Both of them are wedged in there for good, I think. Maybe if they killed a patient, but even then I suspect they’d only get a reprimand.”
“I can’t help but think Dr. Reed would do something about it,” Ben said.
“What could he do? It’s Dr. Goldberg’s decision, and he’s a results guy. Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom get the job done. Would Dr. Steiner have more of an impact than Reed? You’ve been here much longer than I have.”
Ben frowned. “I think Steiner has more influence, but he’s pretty much a yes man. Doesn’t want to rock the boat. After all, he’s next in line when Goldberg retires. The state board decides, but Goldberg’s recommendation would carry a lot of weight.”
“So Myron and Lindstrom can pretty much dunk patients at will,” Marie said.
“That’s the extent of it. Unless somebody dunks them.”
Marie took a sip of coffee and looked at Ben over the rim of her cup. “Sometimes I think that psychiatry hasn’t advanced all that much in the past fifty years…”
3
August 17, 1909
It is with great delight that I put pen to paper to chronicle that the funds have been fully raised to proceed with my life’s dream. I have nothing but the deepest gratitude for those gentlemen of means who have come together into a consortium that will, by this time next year (should all go as planned), permit the doors of the Adolph Ollinger Sanitarium to open to patients near and far.
The praise that I have for these selfless donors is tempered only by what I detect is their own familial self-interest. It seems to be a sad reality that the children of the wealthy are not always blessed with the original diligence, morality, and work habits that have allowed their parents to achieve such success. On the contrary, oftentimes these descendants are corrupted by the easy flow of riches to which they have become all too easily accustomed.
This corruption can lead, unfortunately, to vices such as alcoholism, addiction to certain baleful drugs, venereal diseases that can affect both body and mind, and states of distemper which reveal themselves through such external behavior as sadism, cruelty, and even extreme violence toward those not on the same social level. Idle hands are the Devil’s playground all too often, and I predict that in time these same gentlemen who have proven so generous with their donations and investments may call upon me to succor their own offspring from the hands of legal authorities who have found their actions objectionable, if not also criminal. Indeed, I have had some inform me privately that they wish to house their own relatives here, removing them from the cold and uncomfortable clinics in which they now reside. To that purpose, it has been suggested that the furnishings and appurtenances of my sanitarium should be of a standard far higher than those in institutions already in existence. It shall be so.
When the time comes, I will have no hesitation in admitting these unfortunates. I truly believe that nearly all criminal acts, be they destructive to others or to oneself, are the result of illnesses of the mind, and can in time be cured. The children of these wealthy families will not go to prison, but will come here. They will come and be cured.
Though I have not as yet revealed to my erstwhile investors the techniques I hope to utilize to bring about these cures, in my own mind, and in this most private journal, I shall refer to it as Spiritual Repulsion Therapy. It stems from the concept that if malefactors and perpetrators are exposed to the spiritual results of their transgressions, the core morality that lies within the heart and mind of every man and woman will be touched and transformed. It is a psychological exploration of Christ’s Golden Rule and the more homespun notion of walking a mile in the other fellow’s shoes.
The technique is dependent upon the structural plant of the building as well as the dedication and skills of those who work within it, and now that funding for the construction is completed, it is time to discuss with the builders—and with them alone—the final physical plans that will allow me to bring Spiritual Repulsion Therapy to vibrant and healing life at the Ollinger Sanitarium.
* * *
In psychotherapy, the dramatic breakthrough moments are few and far between. In most cases, progress is achieved an inch at a time, with a slow and constant breaking down of a patient’s defenses. For every instance of a patient suddenly shouting out, I remember everything now! there are a thousand cases like that of Norman Bates, in which steady attrition wears away the psychological guards the patient has erected, like rain wearing away a mountain.
At times the process felt that slow to Felix Reed, but he persisted, spending as much time out of every day as he could with Norman, speaking slowly and softly, reasoning with the patience of Socrates, though there were no questions from Norman for him to answer.
And ever so slowly and softly there were responses, slight and physical. There were twitches of a hand, the tiny jerk of a head, an occasional shift in the gaze, things that told Reed that Norman was performing the mental task of listening as well as the merely physiological response of hearing.
And when these responses occurred, Reed persisted, trying to widen the mental crack that Norman had allowed in his otherwise impregnable psyche. He tried subtly to disabuse Norman of the notion that his late mother had any control over him, to command or to punish.
In this strategy, Reed used Nurse Marie Radcliffe as his chief ally. Every time she fed Norman, she spoke continually to him, but softly and slowly, as slowly as Norman ate. In a woman’s voice, the yin to Reed’s yang, she reinforced Reed’s comforting, nonjudgmental words with her own, nurtured further by food and drink.
And they watched, and they waited.
* * *
Norman.
… Yes, Mother.
He’s lying to you. And so is she.
All right, Mother.
Don’t you “All right, Mother” me. They don’t care about you, boy. They don’t love you, not the way a mother does. Oh, that bitch feeds you and wipes your little mouth, and I’m sure you’d like her to touch more than that. And she talks to you so pretty, just the way she’s talking now, but—
Mother?
What, Norman?
Be quiet, please. Nurse Marie is talking to me. I want to listen.
Be … quiet?
Yes, Mother. I’m eating. And Nurse Marie is talking.
Norman, I—
Thank you, Mother.
* * *
Norman would look at Reed for a moment, then look away again. His head wouldn’t turn, but his eyes moved, and when Reed saw Norman’s glance fall on him then flick away, he was encouraged, and his next words were more intent, though never invasive. This had to be a treaty between their two countries, not an attack of one upon the other.
Eventually the gaze held longer, lowered thoughtfully as if in contemplation of Reed’s words, then returned again. Reed smiled. It seemed to him that he was always smiling, but it was important. Norman had to feel as though Reed and everyone who worked at the hospital truly cared about him and wanted to see him come back into the world, into reality.
The gaze began to hold on Reed now, and then on Marie. Marie was making further progress with Norman’s eating, getting him to feed himself, guiding his hands with a light touch of her own on his wrist, his forearm, placing the single
utensil between his fingers that at first seemed to have trouble retaining it, then held it in a death grip, and finally, after a period of weeks, grasped it lightly but firmly. Marie smiled just as much as Reed did, confident in the presence of attendants Ben Blake and Dick O’Brien just behind her.
And then audible responses began to be heard. At first they were no more than whispered exhalations of breath, but soon they acquired resonance, became an mmm, an actual humming in the throat of Norman Bates, as though he were considering what Reed and Marie told him, as though it made sense to him and he was speaking inside himself.
* * *
You’re not here, are you, Mother? You’re really not here at all.
I’m here, boy.
No. No, you’re not. You were just part of me. I wanted you to be here, and I made you stay. And you made me do terrible things. Things I wouldn’t have done on my own.
You did them yourself, Norman. You were a naughty boy. A dirty boy.
No. I don’t believe that. You made me sick, Mother. But I want to get better.
You need me, Norman. A boy needs his mother.
I want to get better, Mother. And I know now there’s only one way that can happen.
A boy needs his mother to take care of him.
I need you to leave, Mother. I need you to go away and leave me alone.
Norman, I’m your Mother …
Go away, Mother.
Norman …
Go away. I don’t need you anymore. I don’t want you anymore. Go away.
* * *
And then those sounds became words, spoken so softly that Reed couldn’t understand them. It took several days for Norman’s words to grow loud enough for Reed to comprehend the sibilants and fricatives, consonants and vowels that made up the syllables that built the words.
At first they were simple. Yes and no, expanding to several words, such as I know, I see, I understand. For Marie, the guttural sounds gradually evolved into please and thank you. Sentences continued to lengthen, facial expressions answered by similar ones, and Norman Bates was smiling. The smiles were infrequent, and never lasted long. They were directed primarily at Marie, occasionally at Reed.
But when Ben and Dick took Norman to get washed and shaved, the communication ceased. Since they were not the ones who had chipped away Norman’s facade of uncommunicativeness, Reed surmised, they would not reap the results.
And neither, it seemed, would anyone other than the two people closest to him. But for the time being, that was enough. A typical session between Reed and Norman now consisted of a greeting, and then Reed would sit in the chair, and Norman would lie back comfortably on his bed, a pillow under his head, and the two of them would talk. Many times Norman would close his eyes, trying to re-create the memories that were required to answer Reed’s questions. At times it almost seemed as though he were sleeping, and that was good for Reed, since Norman was more open then, answering Reed’s questions and responding to him slowly but, Reed felt, honestly.
At such times, Norman’s defenses were at their lowest, and Reed guided him gently, almost hypnotically, along the paths of memory down which Reed wanted him to go. As the true Norman revealed more and more of himself, Reed found that his patient was—or wanted to be—a moral, gentle man. But at the same time, Reed sensed that there was something even deeper, farther below the surface, a darkness, an anger that was perhaps better left unseen, entombed in Norman’s psyche. Buried with Mother.
* * *
Norman wasn’t expecting visitors that afternoon. After his usual late-morning session with Dr. Reed and the visit from Nurse Marie with his lunch, Norman usually passed a few hours reading in his cell. They called it a room, but he knew what it was, with its thickly padded walls—it was like living inside a winter coat, which was fine with Norman. He felt as snug as a bug in a rug, like his mother used to say.
Wait. No thinking about Mother. Dr. Reed was helping him with that, showing him why he had to keep Mother out of his mind. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of it. She spoke to him less and less now. Still, even when she was quiet, there were times when he could hear her in there, scurrying around way down deep, as though lost in darkness and trying to find her way out. If he thought too much about her, he was afraid he would leave some kind of door open down there in the cellar of his soul through which she might be able to escape, and he was not going to do that.
He didn’t want to listen for her, and he certainly didn’t want to hear her speak to him again. She had only done so a few times since he told her to go away, and that made him feel strong, as though he were his own person again. They were talking about that, he and Dr. Reed. They were talking about more and more things now.
It felt good to talk, to be honest, and Dr. Reed was so easy to talk to. Norman couldn’t remember ever speaking to anyone who relaxed him so much, to whom he felt so ready to share the things he thought, the things he’d experienced, both good and bad. It was as though Norman was important, as though Dr. Reed really cared about him and about what he thought, and Norman had shared more than he ever thought he could. As a result, he had figured out some things, important things.
Norman had told Dr. Reed that he knew that Mother was imprisoned with him, and that he would never let Mother get away from him again, because she was the one who killed. The way Norman figured it, if she stayed inside him, way down deep, then she’d never be able to kill again, since Norman was locked up. It was for the best, he realized, just as he realized he could probably never be free again. Dr. Reed had told him that he hoped that Mother could be made to go away, to leave Norman forever. And if that happened … well, maybe someday years from now, Norman could walk out of the hospital a free man. And alone.
Norman had liked it when Dr. Reed said that. But as much as he liked talking to Dr. Reed, he didn’t talk much to anyone else, not even to Nurse Marie. He liked her very much, and he didn’t need Mother to tell him that. But he was afraid that if he liked her too much, he might say or do things that he’d be sorry for, that would maybe make Nurse Marie not come to see him anymore, and he didn’t think he could stand that. So the less he said to her, the better. He was always polite, saying please and thank you, just the way Mother had taught …
No. Don’t think of Mother. As the old saying goes, “That way madness lies.” And he was living proof of that, wasn’t he?
The best way to forget about Mother—about everything—was to bury himself in a book. Dr. Reed had started to bring him volumes from the hospital library. Norman had timidly asked if they had any titles similar to those he’d enjoyed when he lived at home, but Dr. Reed felt it best that he spend his time reading fiction of a not too excitable nature. He first brought Norman a love novel by Grace Livingston Hill that Norman quickly found he didn’t like. Sinclair Lewis’s Arrowsmith and Babbitt were the next offerings, and they were better, though Norman requested something with a bit more action.
Though Dr. Reed didn’t come right out and say it, Norman thought that action equated with violence, something Dr. Reed wanted to keep Norman away from, even on the page. Still, the day after Norman finished Babbitt, Dr. Reed handed him a copy of Owen Wister’s The Virginian. There was as much love story to the book as there was Western action, but that was fine with Norman, and his praise for the book brought him several Zane Grey and then Max Brand novels. It seemed that Dr. Reed thought Westerns a relatively safe genre in which Norman might read, with their accent on moral men doling out justice in an earlier time, using violence only when necessary and only for good ends.
Norman was halfway through Riders of the Purple Sage when a peremptory knock sounded on the door of his cell, and he heard a voice say, “Norman?” through the open slot. Norman sat up as the door opened, and saw Dr. Reed standing there smiling.
Norman smiled back. “Hello, Dr. Reed,” he said.
“Norman, I wonder if you’d be ready to talk to some friends.”
Norman felt a sharpness in his throat. “Friends?�
� he said, hating how his voice had suddenly diminished in volume.
“Yes. Just for a minute.”
He tried to say yes, but the word locked in his mouth. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint Dr. Reed, so he nodded.
Dr. Reed smiled again, but the smile was crooked, as though he wasn’t sure if he could count on Norman. Then he stepped back and allowed two men to enter the small cell.
The first was an older man, well over six feet tall. His hair was steely gray and cut close to his scalp. His gray beard was neatly trimmed as well, and he wore a dark suit and tie and a white shirt. He peered at Norman through a pair of thick, gold-rimmed glasses. The second man, short, balding, and chubby, followed. Norman recognized him. He was the doctor who had talked to Norman after the police got him, the one who had made him tell what Mother had done.
No, what he had done. What Mother had made him do.
Norman didn’t like this doctor. He didn’t want to talk to him again.
“You may remember Dr. Steiner, Norman,” Dr. Reed was saying. “He talked to you when you first came to us. And this gentleman is Dr. Goldberg. He’s the superintendent of the hospital.” Dr. Reed stepped aside so Norman could see yet a third man, in a suit, younger than the others, looking in from the corridor. “And this is Dr. Berkowitz,” Dr. Reed said. “He’s a friend too. Dr. Goldberg would like to ask you a few questions, Norman.”
The oldest man continued to stand, towering above Norman. Norman looked up into his face, then down again at the floor. “Norman,” Dr. Goldberg said, and in that single word Norman knew that Dr. Goldberg wasn’t from this country, at least not from any part of it that Norman knew. “How are you feeling today?”
Only it wasn’t feeling, it was feelingk, like some sort of German accent. Norman thought that Goldberg was a Jewish name, so maybe the accent was Jewish. Wherever he was from, Norman didn’t want to talk to him. Norman didn’t look up, didn’t answer the question.
Robert Bloch's Psycho Page 4