Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“It’s banal,” I said. “And sort of pompous.”

Halley smiled as she returned the papers to the envelope. “Well, you’re right about one thing. We’re not there yet.” She closed the clasp. “Are you gay?” she asked casually. She brought her head up, in the style of a television detective, to catch my reaction.

I laughed. “That’s a little weak, Halley.”

“You just like to play mind games, is that it?”

“That’s my job.”

“What I want to know is — are they for your entertainment or mine?”

“It’s really quite simple, Halley. I meant to talk to you about it. Do you want to do that now?”

She looked at the pint-size refrigerator, at the Staunton chess pieces frozen in mid-game, and finally at the guts of the prototype, still a crashed mess of boards and wires. “Well, we could find a more romantic spot.” She smiled. “Or at least a bathroom.”

I checked my watch. “I have a meeting with your father in a half hour—”

“What was that shit you pulled — saying you love me?” she interrupted. The words were angry; her tone, however, was merely annoyed. “I mean,” she leaned one hand on Andy’s desk, the other on her hip, “especially for a brilliant psychiatrist, that was pretty primitive manipulation.”

“I do love you,” I said. Halley straightened, blinking at me. “But, unfortunately, you’re mentally ill and I’m not into that. I don’t have the shrinks disease of having relationships with potential patients. Not that I would treat you anyway.”

Halley’s lovely full lips, her pink lipstick iridescent against the tan, opened into a broad, amazed smile. She turned to the wall as if there were someone there to share her amusement. She came back to me, both hands on her hips, let out one of her noises of multiple feelings, and repeated with utter skepticism, “I’m mentally ill?”

“You’re a classic narcissist.”

“At least I’m a classic,” Halley mumbled.

I ignored her sarcasm. “I noticed you had one of Alice Miller’s books on your shelves, so I know you won’t misunderstand my use of the term. Almost nothing you do or say is genuine. You’re constantly making up personas to win the love of whomever you’re dealing with. Mostly, of course, you’re focused on men because of your unresolved incestuous desires for Stick. Quite a nickname for someone with your fixation. Both phallic and punitive.” I waved that digression away. “Your quest is hopeless, Halley — making yourself into the perfect fantasy for all these men to impress your father. What you really want, the only thing that will really satisfy you, is if Daddy falls in love with you. I guess you’re so far gone that you might even actually want him to fuck you. To feel him quaking in your arms, groaning in ecstasy, vulnerable and in your control. But that’s never going to happen. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t love anyone. You said you were incapable of love, but you were really thinking of your father. You’re very much in love and he’s taking advantage of it. He’s got every man in Minotaur by the balls — so to speak — thanks to you. Of course that’s your murdered self all over again. The real Halley is dead — there are only pretty reflections to mesmerize us. You can’t get Daddy to fuck you, so you help him fuck others.”

Halley was still. She didn’t appear alarmed or upset. She nodded once or twice during my speech, not in agreement, to indicate she was following me. “I don’t want to fuck my father. I know why you think …” She smiled gently, as if regretting that she had to embarrass me. “I played along with your little fantasy because I thought—” She stopped, catching herself.

I finished for her, “Because you thought that would make me addicted to you — like Gene, like Jack, like who knows how many others. I knew that’s what you thought. But it wasn’t my fantasy, Halley. It was yours.” Once again, as she had so often, Halley surprised me with her will and her essential inner strength. There were many reactions she might have had — all of them genuine. There were many false reactions she might have chosen — all of them useless. Instead, she cocked her head, eyes brilliant, and asked coolly, “And what is your fantasy? You say I’m an expert at supplying them. So tell me, what do you like?”

I nodded, impressed. “You should have been a therapist. You always throw people back on themselves.” I felt this was my last chance to reach her. I walked over, resting my hands on her shoulders. I shook her gently. “Okay. No games. Listen to me. You can be helped. You’re very bright and you’re young. There’s really no limit to what you can accomplish. I know you must feel guilty, somewhere, about the harm you’ve caused, to your brother, to Gene, and possibly many others. But that really wasn’t in your control, although you think you’re in control all the time.” Halley listened to me, chin up to meet my eyes, lips shut, face impassive. I believed she was interested. I was convinced most of her, the best of her, wished to hear me. “I can get you the names of many good doctors. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You won’t be anybody’s fool. You won’t turn into a victim. You won’t be hurt and alone again, the way he made you feel as a little girl. You can find her — there’s a real Halley in there — and she’s even stronger than this one.”

She lifted her arm. That eased my hand off her shoulder. She touched my cheek with her fingers, stroking me. “You have a beautiful face,” she commented. “Tell me. Is that the same speech you made to Gene?” She backed away. There was not a trace of malice in her expression or in her voice. “I really don’t need help, Doctor. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do terrible things. But they don’t make me feel terrible. I’m happy. And believe it or not, I can make you happy.” She waved the manila envelope gently for a goodbye. “Give me a call if you feel like learning to enjoy life,” she said and left.

I had no guide, no text I could follow after I took that risk and it failed. Twenty minutes later, the big door to Stick’s office whooshed open for me to enter. I had to be prepared for the possibility that Halley had reported my diagnosis to him, although I doubted she actually would. (Especially if I was on the money.) Still, if she did, what were the consequences? My position was untenable — I wanted to treat these people and they didn’t believe they were ill. Therapy depends on the patient desiring a cure. If I took Halley at her word (as you know, an Olympian feat for a shrink) I was sadly mistaken and she was a paragon of adjustment. My training, the accumulated knowledge of dozens of geniuses studying the human condition, had taught me she couldn’t be happy. Yet she functioned. There were no symptoms of distress. Settling into the black leather chair across from Stick’s country French table I had to allow for the possibility that she was right. I pronounced Gene cured and he committed suicide; I said she was mentally ill and she thrived. At what point did I have to admit that if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, then, at the very least, it was going to be able to live its life as a duck?

“Well,” Stick said, palms out, as if he were surrendering, “I have to hand it to you. I just got off the phone with Andy. They’ve licked the I/O slowdown and—” Stick shook his head. “Goddamn, Andy actually gave credit to somebody else. Tim Gallent—”

“Yes,” I said, glad to be on neutral ground. Not that I felt safe. I knew Stick well enough so that I didn’t relax because he appeared relaxed. Halley might have told him, anyway. His self-control was formidable. “They were rechecking it early this morning,” I continued. “Apparently Tim beat it last night.”