“So now,” she said, “I think we should put the get-back-together plan on hold.”
I was stunned, but I shouldn't have been. Paula frequently surprises me. I wanted to launch a rebuttal, but there was nothing to argue about. Her feelings were her feelings. In the dark it was hard to be sure, but I thought I saw tears in her eyes.
“Oh, I don't know what I'm saying, David. Decisions can be hard for me. Let's just go to bed.”
I was numb, undecided between heartbroken and reassured. We stood up and walked to her hotel room in silence. When she kissed me before entering it and sent me on my way, she made clear to my chagrin that what she'd meant to say was: “let's just go to our respective beds.”
I showered, and retired to my respective bed. I stared at the ceiling, anxious about my future with Paula, and angry at myself for the way I'd behaved with my father. One thing for sure. I had to join Paula on the Jonathan Singer case. Not only had she raised serious questions about foul play, but I also had to consider how much Jonathan Singer meant to Paula. He was her mentor; she felt that she owed him a great debt. And Paula’s debt was my debt.
As tired as I'd been before, I was now wide awake. How could I derail my negative train of thoughts? The silhouette of my guitar, leaning against the wall, was a welcome sight. I retrieved it and treated myself to a quiet medley of my favorite folk songs. Tonight's special feature was “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Maybe it was a ‘misery loves company’ kind of thing, but for some reason I found the song's profound pessimism perversely calming.
As I was falling asleep it struck me that my mother must be feeling truly unwell. She hadn't once asked me if I were hungry. Knowing that I'd eaten on Singer's boat would never have stopped her before.
MONDAY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A disturbing dream woke me at 6:30AM, 30 minutes early. I immediately forgot the dream--but that was probably a good thing. In any case, it was too late to return to sleep. As for doing something productive so early in the day...how about exercise? Keep dreaming, David.
While I washed up, shaved, and dressed I prioritized. Whom should I tackle first: Paula, parents, or professor (Singer)? Paula's proximity made my choice easy. At the very least she’d be a buffer against the dreaded mingling with conference participants. On the other hand, mingling might be the perfect way to begin the Jonathan Singer investigation.
It was 7:30 AM. Registration and continental breakfast buffet were set for 8. Formal conference activities were scheduled from 9 AM to 12:15 PM Monday to Friday, with a 15-minute break at 10:30. I called Paula's room but got no answer, so I decided to spend the next half hour exploring the hotel's grounds.
My stroll began well, with bright sunshine and clear blue skies greeting me like a good-morning kiss. But it soon became clear that “hotel grounds” was a euphemism for parking lots and scruffy, un-explorable woodlands. So I circumnavigated the hotel, making note of a deplorably high (to me) number of SUVs and minivans, and landed once again in the sitting area with the stone fountain.
The setting reminded me of my conversation with Paula last night. Would our relationship ever be easy? I like to analyze and resolve issues, but matters involving Paula are seldom simple. Was it possible that she liked it that way? No. She suffers as much as I do. Maybe more. She’s persistent in addressing conflicts, even when it prolongs her own agony. My desire to avoid tension compels me to seek faster resolutions. So whose method leads to better emotional health? I feared that the answer was neither.
Having cleared my mind--or not--I walked back into the hotel at 8 o’clock. The far end of the lobby, where Paula and I had sat with my parents, had been transformed into a conference registration area. Smiling conference staff were assisting sign-in, and handing out clip-on name tags, conference paperwork and carry-bags. I love those bags with their conference logos for their seeming usefulness and pseudo-status-symbol chic. If only they knew that their fate was to join the carry-bags and briefcases on the upper shelf of my closet back home.
I glanced at a bulletin board which bore tourist brochures, and sign-in sheets for after-class social activities. Not in the cards this trip. I smiled in case some stranger might think me unfriendly, and exited the lobby.
Right turn past the bathrooms, left turn past a short corridor of offices. Right turn into the hotel's biggest room. The humid, high-ceilinged one which housed the indoor swimming pool. Through the pool room. Left turn exit into another corridor.
A hand gripped my shoulder from behind. “Ah! Finally one for our side.”
I turned around, and looked up into the face of Dr. Rafael Rincon. Course co-director with Jonathan Singer, he was familiar to me from tabloids as well as medical journals. Only half a dozen years older than I, his stringy, shoulder-length black hair, left earring, silk shirts, and flamboyant lifestyle made him the psychiatrist version of Frank Lloyd Wright or Salvador Dali. His thin nose slanted to the right, daring me to ask if the legend about the fight over a woman were true.
“Only ten of us and sixty of them,” he went on. “Very few doctors are as enlightened as you and I are, Dr. Calder.” (He read my name off my name tag). “They don't understand that mental health must be integrated into general health care. But that just means we're the pioneers.”
A position he appeared to relish, I thought. “As a primary care doctor myself,” I said, “I'll defend my colleagues--after conceding that most of them have not yet bought into the mental/general health integration concept. But we do understand that mental health issues affect everything we do. Depression, for example, complicates many diseases, from diabetes and emphysema to cancer and stroke.”
“Bah, my friend. You're naïve. I think that many of your primary care colleagues are just ignorant.”
“Maybe,” I smiled. “Or maybe doctors stayed away because they had to pay more than did psychologists to attend.”
He laughed. “Good point, David--may I call you David?” (I nodded). “Call me Rafy. I'm sure you know that Jonathan Singer and I have been working together. Terrible about what happened to him, isn't it?”
“Is there any news about his condition this morning?” I asked.
“He's still in a coma, I believe. Everyone's talking about it, of course. Although he would be the first to say that the conference must go on.”
With Rafy a close second, I guessed.
“Stephanie and Judith are with him,” he continued. “But Mitchell, interestingly, is here. I've heard that he never knew his mother, by the way. That she was lost in the shrouds of World War II. If I were still a Freudian I'd love to have him on my couch.”
It occurred to me that I might be able to sneak in a few questions. “Were you on the boat last night? I didn't see you.” Rincon was too distinctive to not notice, had I seen him.
“Yes. I was there. But I spent most of the time in the back rooms.”
Which was where Andrea Peterson, Stephanie Carstens, and Jonathan Singer had emerged from. “Did you see anyone take Singer's pills?”
“What? No. Not at all.”
“Or anyone put them back in Stephanie Carstens' handbag?”
“No. What are you driving at?”
“I'm just curious. Did you happen to see Jonathan Singer on the deck? Or have any idea about how he ended up in the water?”
“I was never on the deck with Jonathan. And I don't know what you're talking about.”
Time to end my interrogation. “I'm sorry. You were talking about working with Dr. Singer.”
He shook his head. “Oh yes. We're going to announce at this conference that we've been awarded a two million dollar grant. It's to bring psychologists into primary care practices, to study the effects of integrating CBT into patients' general health care. I’ll make sure to carry it forward.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “I grew up on Freud, you know.”
“As did I.”
“But as I became a physician and a scientist,” I continued, “I was curious, even
annoyed, about the paucity of scientific studies proving the effectiveness of psychoanalysis. So I admire the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy school for working so hard to prove the validity of their methods.”
“Sounds like my life story, David. As a former analyst, I'll defend them by saying that they're now working to catch up by doing their own studies. But before you go, let me ask you something. Would you and your office be interested in participating in our study, by becoming a test site?”
So that's why royalty is mixing with common folk. But maybe I wasn't being fair to him. A researcher must have to play fundraiser and politician to survive. “I do actually work for a multi-specialty medical group-“
“CoMed, on Long Island,” he smiled. “I did my due diligence.”
“Impressive,” I said. “I do think that my group might fit your study. But I can’t promise anything. If you give me all the necessary information, on paper, I'll be happy to pass it on to my boss. And to promote it.”
“Perfect,” he replied, eyes on his next customer. He clapped me on the back, which propelled each of us in opposite directions. A patented move, no doubt. I stared at the back of his head as he receded. His mane flowed and lifted in his wake. Man, he was good.
My first impression of Rincon was that he was superficial and self-serving. He certainly hadn't allowed a minor happenstance like Jonathan Singer's coma to derail him from his primary interests.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A kind of human vortex sucked me into the breakfast room. I inhaled the aromas of coffee, bagels, and danish, glad to banish the scent of pool chlorine from my nostrils. The room was large, but contained too few tables. Conference participants, arms overloaded with cups, plates, and conference carry-bags, scouted mainly in vain for empty seats.
I thought of Paula as I spread cream cheese on a bagel and poured a glass of orange juice. A subdued version of Mitchell Singer's booming voice attracted me. When I zeroed in on his broad back Paula's silhouette peeked out from behind him, as in a partial eclipse. I smiled and approached--but held back when I saw Paula make a shooing-away hand movement under the table.
“...so I finally accepted my destiny,” Mitchell was saying. “I reconciled with my father and came home. Judith should get the Nobel Peace Prize for mediating our ceasefire. I'm the Jewish prodigal son, returning from my wanderings, even adopting his method of CBT.”
Mitchell stopped, and turned toward me. He must have noticed Paula's signal or a change in her expression. Or maybe he possessed the schoolteacher's indispensable quality of knowing what's occurring behind his or her back.
“Hey, David,” he said. “Join us.”
The sports jacket he wore last night was missing. But the dress shirt and slacks seemed identical except rumpled, as if he'd slept in them. When he shifted his seat and gestured he revealed, to my relief, an empty seat. I interpreted Paula's half-smile to mean that she was happy to see me, but that her conversation with Mitchell had been proceeding quite well without me.
“Thanks,” I told Mitchell, and sat down. “How's your father?”
“Status quo, still in a coma. Thanks for asking.”
Mitchell finished his coffee. His dessert plate was empty except for a few crumbs of danish. On a normal day, I imagined, his plate would have supported stacks of bagels and danish. I ate and drank as unobtrusively as I could manage, trying to display my interest and sympathy.
“I'm in shock,” Mitchell said. “He's larger than life. A force of nature. He's 90, and carries around a boatload of medical conditions, but it's so hard to picture him ever dying.”
Paula took a first bite out of her bagel, apparently taking advantage of my presence to take a break from talking. Cream cheese. Interesting. She must not have found the unsalted butter she usually prefers. I wondered why Mitchell wasn't at the hospital.
“I was at the hospital this morning,” Mitchell said, reading my mind. “But I just couldn't stay.” He shook his head. “I sat with him. I touched him. But he's in a coma. Completely unresponsive. I mean, who was I there for? He didn't know that I was there. And I'm thinking of him just as much over here as when I was there.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “As a doctor, I've seen families grapple with such situations all too often. It's hard to know how to act. Maybe because there is no right or wrong choice. In my opinion, if it feels right to you it's OK.”
Paula looked at the ceiling for a moment but didn't speak. I guessed that she disagreed with my statement and with Mitchell's actions, but didn't want to disrespect Mitchell to his face.
“Thanks,” he replied. “And there's no way I could have lasted very long in the company of those two women. They both seemed happy to have me sit between them. But at some point I would've been forced to choose a side.
“Anyway, I have responsibilities here. To the conference. Especially with my father...”
He turned to Paula. “Thank you so much for volunteering to help.”
“Whatever I can do,” Paula said.
Accustomed as I am to Paula's professionalism and generosity, her offer was no surprise. I hoped that this would be one of many career-advancing connections she’d make at this conference.
“I ran into Dr. Rincon next door,” I said. “He's also working on conference stuff.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Mitchell said.
“He also mentioned the grant he was working on with your father”--Mitchell nodded--“and that he'll be running it now.”
“He said what?”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Mitchell said, then snorted. “Don't worry about it. I'll deal with him later..” He looked at his watch and stood up. “It's a quarter to. Gotta go.”
He turned to leave, and nearly knocked Andrea Peterson over. He grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.
“Andrea! You shouldn't sneak up on someone like that.”
“I'm sorry, Mitchell. I didn't mean to. Wait. Don't go. I've got to speak to you.”
Mitchell mouthed “thanks” to Paula, waved good-bye to both of us, and walked with Andrea to an empty area at the side of the room.
I leaned forward, over the table. “So what did you learn about Mitchell?”
“He's an amazing man. What a life story.”
“Come on. That's not what I mean. What did you learn about his role in the Jonathan Singer case?”
“Don't be ridiculous, David. He's not involved with that.”
“Oh? And how do you know that? Isn't he the proverbial ‘last one to see the victim alive’?”
“OK, OK. We'll keep an open mind about everyone. Even if it's absurd. If you don't want me to talk about what I did learn...”
“I didn't say that. Tell me everything.”
Paula looked over my shoulder. “Later,” she mumbled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Andrea Peterson appeared in my view and collapsed into Mitchell's vacated seat. “This must be the way agents for celebrities feel. All the egos. All the childishness.” Andrea sat between Paula and me, but faced me. Paula grimaced at her and shook her head.
“It must be hard to please everyone,” I said, “when they all want different results.”
Andrea smiled, and leaned toward me. “Thank you sooo much for understanding, David.”
Paula shifted her grimace to me, and shoved the last, large piece of bagel into her mouth. Andrea leaned back again, and rested her right hand on the table. Her curved, graceful fingers caught my attention. The curves were unnatural, though--down at the middle knuckles, up at the far knuckles, the last four fingers angled away from the thumb--known medically as swan-neck deformity and ulnar deviation.
“I hope you’re getting treated for your Rheumatoid Arthritis, Andrea.”
Andrea and Paula sat upright simultaneously. “How-” Andrea asked. When she saw the direction of my gaze she raised both hands in the air and flipped them back and forth, a newlywed showing off her ring. She brought them back
to her lap and sighed. “I shouldn't have expected to keep my secret from a doctor. Especially from such a perceptive one.”
Her flirting and its indiscriminate nature had become obvious, even to me. I had to turn it off, but wasn’t sure how to do it with a smile. So I chose to ignore it for now, and return to her medical issue. Seemed logical at the time.
“I know it's none of my business,” I said. “The reason I'm mentioning it at all is that our thinking about treatments for RA is changing. What medicines do you use?”
“Oh, Motrin, Naprosyn. Anything I can get my hands on.”
“Those drugs are OK as far as they go, although I hope you're aware of their possible side effects. But now the belief is that joint damage from RA can occur relatively early, and that the drugs you mentioned, called non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, don't prevent that damage. Other, more powerful drugs, are being tried earlier in the course of the disease. They may prevent long-term disability and pain.”
“Oh?”
Doctors explain things to patients in every encounter. Explaining at the proper level, not too esoterically and not too condescendingly, is a challenge with a constantly shifting target. I saw glaze cover Andrea's eyes. Time to wrap up.
“You should see your Rheumatologist and discuss it.”
“Rheumatologist?”
“Your arthritis specialist. If you don't have one I can try to find someone where you live.” I didn't tell her that with her hands looking as they did, the damage may already have been done.
Andrea smiled at me and leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands. Please stop, I thought.
“Dr. Rincon told me,” I said, “that he was in the back rooms yesterday. That's where you were, too. Right?”
At my change in topic Andrea and Paula jerked upright in their seats once again. This time, however, the corners of Paula's lips twitched upwards before descending into a frown.
“Is that what he told you?” Andrea replied.
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