Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

He’s jealous of his father’s photography work, I thought, excited. Its success represents abandonment. [Obviously, there was also an Oedipal theme in Gene’s reaction. And I was interested in the ego psychology involved: Gene identified with the carpenter-father; when he lost that role model, he regressed to childhood. However, in those days I was enthralled by Susan’s psychological bias, the loss of object and its emotion of grief and abandonment, rather than the deeper drive to conquer the father, or that his father’s transformation into an artistic success threatened Gene’s ego. I believed then that the various schools of theory were contradictory choices, not colors of the palette. I was a long way from understanding how combining them can paint a three-dimensional portrait.]

For the first time, I felt in control. “Okay, Gene,” I said. “Our time’s almost up. I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I think it would be good if you could come here three times a week. How about Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays? Would that work?”

There was a silence. The hidden thumb rose to his chin. “Three times a week?” he asked meekly.

“Is that a problem? You could come after school on your way home.” My suggestion of a time was deliberate. I knew he missed the afternoons he used to spend with his father; the therapy’s transference would be helped by associating it with them. If that seems like manipulation to non-professionals, I agree. It is manipulation, but not wrongheaded or malicious. For the therapy to work, we needed to replace the comfort and strength those childhood hours gave Gene. Indeed, the hope was that the therapy’s afternoon care would be superior, a relationship Gene could eventually discard voluntarily, rather than something whose loss he resented and mourned, leaving him weak and helpless.

“I guess. For how long?”

“An hour.”

“No …” The hidden thumb rose higher. “Uh … How long do I have to keep coming here?”

“That’s something you’ll decide with your therapist.”

“You’re not my …” he hesitated. “You’re not going to be … it?”

I had made too many mistakes with him. I was glad to have had a little insight into his dysfunction but I couldn’t recommend myself to be his doctor. In fact, I felt I had work to do with Susan about my inappropriate reaction to Gene. “Well, this was a preliminary interview. I’ll discuss with Susan Bracken — she’s my boss — who’s best to see you. And you also get a vote. If you don’t like the therapist we pick, you can tell us.”

“Can’t you?” Gene sounded frightened. His lips pushed in and out. “Can’t you be it?”

“I might be able to.” I knew I ought to ask him if he wanted me to be his therapist, but I didn’t. My reluctance, it seemed to me, was another proof I shouldn’t. “Why don’t you put your sneakers on and get your mother? Come back and we’ll all discuss it.”

Gene obeyed silently. He moved slowly, as if his muscles were exhausted and sore. That, I had noticed, isn’t unusual when a patient has had a productive session. It’s hard work, exercising our heaviest emotions. At least I hadn’t totally failed.

I was curious to meet Gene’s mother, the forgotten object, as it were, of our session. I saw immediately that he had learned his meek mannerisms from her. Her head appeared at the edge of the plasterboard door — so flimsy a sound insulator we kept a white noise machine on all the time in what we laughingly called the waiting room, really a converted closet. They took their time before coming in; presumably Gene gave her a thorough report. Her hair was much curlier than Gene’s and a different color, an unnatural reddish brown. Dyed to cover premature graying, I decided. They had the same big dark eyes. Hers were bright and eager to please. Her mouth was wide like Gene’s, but the lips were thin. They shared the aquiline nose, although hers was perfectly centered.

“Hello?” her head said and then more of her appeared as I got up. They shuffled in together, Gene almost hiding behind her. She moved in sideways toward the couch, then sideways toward the desk, a silly maneuver of indirection. She was skinny, with a girlish figure, and her shoulders, like Gene’s, were broad and bony. She hung her head between them, somewhat like the submissive approach of a friendly dog. “I’m Carol, Gene’s mother,” she said. Her voice was a pleasant surprise, deep, mellifluous, and confident.

“Nice to meet you,” I said and shook her hand. It was limp and soft, begging to be taken care of. I let go quickly.

“Gene enjoyed talking to you, Doctor. We’re both grateful you spent so much time with him.”

I gestured for her to sit. “Gene, why don’t you pull up that folding chair?” I sat down. Gene obeyed with excessive haste. Carol perched on the edge of her chair, eyebrows up, expectant. Her facial expressions were cartoonish, exaggerating the feeling she wanted to express; they left an impression of disingenuousness. This family just wasn’t my cup of tea. I experienced a moment of inner despair, a weakness of mine that a good Self-Psychologist would have wanted to investigate, that I can best summarize as a feeling of fraudulence and hopelessness. I felt I had no business trying to be a healer, that I simply wasn’t compassionate or smart enough for the job. I had been analyzed, however, and I knew what had triggered this feeling: first, that I hadn’t immediately corrected the many mistakes I made in the session, and second, that I was in the process of lying — the truth was that Gene had already been assigned to me. Covering up mistakes and telling lies were bad for my Self. “I think Gene would benefit from coming here three times a week, say Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, probably after school if that fits into his schedule.”

Carol nodded her agreement throughout my speech, well before I was done, bobbing her head like a doll with a spring for a neck. It was annoying, conveying a blind desire to please rather than genuine agreement. “Great, okay, that’ll be fine,” she said all at once when I paused.

“I’ll discuss with Dr. Bracken who should be his therapist and then Gene could meet—” I stopped because Carol had her hand up, like a student eager to be called on.

“Gene told me he really wants you to be his doctor,” she smiled at me regretfully, head cocked to one side, as if to say — What can you do? In fact, she was making a demand. Here was the source of his passive-aggression. “Of course it’s not up to us. I explained that to Gene. After all we’re not paying, and I’m sure you’re very busy, but don’t you think it’s a good idea for him to have a doctor he likes?” Gene stared straight down at the floor, embarrassed. She grimaced helplessly as if she were also embarrassed.

“It’s more than a good idea,” I said. “It’s necessary.”

Carol nodded and smiled approvingly at me. She glanced at Gene. He still had his head down. “You see,” she said to him. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“But Gene hasn’t met any of the other therapists. He might like someone else even better.”

Carol’s eyebrows came down to frown, her wide mouth shrank into a pout. “He couldn’t like anyone better than you,” she said. “He was completely comfortable with you.”

“It’s not really my decision to make unilaterally. I have to discuss it with Dr. Bracken.”

Carol’s hand was up again. “Enough said,” she said. “I’m sure it will work out.” She leaned so far forward she seemed almost to be on my desk. “One other thing,” she lowered her voice, although not enough for Gene to be excluded. “We haven’t told Gene’s father about this and I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell him about Gene coming three times a week. Not for a while. I only bring it up because if you send any mail or need to phone about Gene I’d like you to send it to my office or call me there, okay?” She put on her mask of a regretful smile again. Her hands went up and out to show her helplessness, her embarrassing, but inescapable need.