Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Well … it might only be for a session or two, you know. Don’t go to too much trouble.”

Yeah, why go to any trouble? It’s only your mental health. I was annoyed. Passivity and the self-defeating fear of satisfying his needs — his symptoms were back, full-blown. Maybe Gene had been right to be afraid to ask me for help; my vanity didn’t seem to be taking it well. “No trouble,” I said. “You know, Gene, I don’t really think merely taking some sleeping pills will help. You might need only a few sessions, but if this has been going on for months, there’s more to it than getting a night’s sleep.”

“Oh,” he said and was quiet.

“I’ll get you some names and call you back.”

Once again, I felt there was an odd connection between Gene and myself, and I was relieved I could pass him on to another therapist. The timing of his reappearance felt provocative. That very day Uncle Bernie was in the Tower at New York Hospital, about to undergo a gruesome radical treatment for advanced pancreatic cancer. His doctors planned to flood his body with a massive dose of chemotherapy, dangling him over the edge of death. His appendix and spleen were to be removed. His kidneys would be continuously filtered, a respirator would breathe for him, his blood would be changed many times over. For three days he would run a fever of one hundred and four. He would probably need to be packed in ice to keep it that low; any higher and there would be brain damage. And throughout this there would be excruciating pain, none of it able to be relieved with morphine; Uncle would have to endure unaided. Basically the idea was to kill all the stem cells, followed by a bone-marrow transplant from his daughter. If he survived, presumably the cancer would be permanently gone. The treatment was a roll of the dice. To me it sounded like the old joke: if the medicine didn’t kill him, he would be cured. This procedure had been tried only six times. Four were a success — in the immediate sense, since the survivors had been in remission for merely a year. The two failures died within twenty-four hours. Of course the numbers were too small to be meaningful. The rationale for its horrific risk was that Bernie was doomed anyway.

Before leaving for the city, I had a free half hour to call a friend from Hopkins, Bill Roth, now at Cambridge Hospital. I assumed he could recommend psychiatrists near Gene in Massachusetts. I was in my office in White Plains, used as a base for our work with abused children. We were minutes from a state-run child welfare center where Diane, Ben and I were on the staff, our prime responsibility. The Grayson Case continued to keep at least two of us traveling to Boston, now for the sake of treating the children rather than satisfying the law. Thus, things were backed up at the welfare center and I was going to lose at least three more days because of Bernie.

“Is your ex-patient a serious fruitcake?” irreverent Bill asked. “Or just a whiner?”

“I think he could use some grief work, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve been out of touch.”

“Oh, you want a hugger. How about Toni? Remember her?” She was an excellent psychologist we knew at Hopkins. “She’s somewhere in the Massachusetts burbs now. She could make anyone feel glad to be alive. Press against her melons and you could watch your house go down in flames without a peep.”

“She only hugged you, not her patients. Also, my patient wants a psychiatrist to write prescriptions. He thinks he needs sleeping pills.”

“And you approve?”

“I’m hoping the genius you recommend will see through my patient.”

“I’m looking at the map. Toni can’t be more than half an hour from this guy. Why don’t you tell your patient that if Toni thinks he needs downers, you’ll write the prescription?”

“I thought of that. But I assumed you’d call me a control freak.”

“What’s wrong with being a control freak?”

Toni was a good choice, in many ways a better choice for Gene than I was, certainly now that Gene was an adult. I tried her, but she was out. Getting to her and then to Gene would have to wait. It was time to drive into the city to gather with what was left of the Rabinowitzes at New York Hospital. More to the point for me, I needed to make what might be my farewell to Bernie.

When I got off the elevator on Bernie’s floor, Aunt Sadie was there, leaning on a cane. She had broken her hip two years ago in Palm Beach, chasing after Daniel’s firstborn near the pool. She walked without a limp, using the cane when she felt tired. She feared another fall; it offered security more than support. “Oh, Rafe,” she said. “I was just going for coffee. They won’t allow any food in there.”

I hugged her. Her cane tapped against my side. She was clear-eyed when I first saw her. While we embraced, I felt her head tremble against my chest. Sure enough, as we broke the clinch, there were tears.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Of course I was coming.”

“I thought you’d get stuck somewhere with your work.”

“Sadie, what’s wrong?”

Her old face was soft and benign: padded cheeks, eyes uncertain, mouth slack. Uncle Leo had died suddenly five years ago, a massive coronary. Her sons and grandchildren lived in Houston and Chicago. She saw them only a few times a year. And the hip, too, of course. She was sarcastic: “You’re asking what’s wrong?”

“I mean, is there something new?”

“She’s here.” Sadie said the pronoun with scorn. “She” was my uncle’s second wife, Patricia, about twenty years his junior, a sharp-tongued real estate broker who sold Uncle his home in Palm Beach and then sold herself to him. The family, meaning Sadie and Bernie’s daughter, believed Pat was more interested in Uncle’s money than in him. They had been married for a decade, and happily so far as I knew.

“Well, she is his wife.”

“Can’t stand her. Not now,” Sadie added, pulling away from me, brushing lint off her blue blouse.

“Don’t you see her all the time in Florida?”

“Not if I can help it.” Sadie narrowed her eyes. The look reminded me of my mother. “She’s counting his money right now.” But here was a difference between my mother and her sister. The stern, suspicious look evaporated and Sadie laughed at herself. “Don’t listen to me. I’m crazy. Old and crazy. She deserves his money. She’s been good to him.” She moved to the elevator, focused on her cane, which she wielded more like a toy than an aid, jabbing the floor, using its handle to press the button. “He’s my baby brother,” she said, her throat clutching on the word baby.

I studied her face. It was placid. “He’s a strong man,” I said. “He could make it through this.”

“Doctors are crazy. They like to torture you before you die. What do they care? It’s all about money.”

“You sound like a communist, Aunt.”

“I didn’t mean you, dear. You’re a saint,” she said with absolute seriousness.

I laughed and then sang softly, “El veinticuatro de octubre, el dia de San Rafael.”

Sadie smiled. “What’s that?”

“The twenty-fourth of October is the day of Saint Rafael,” I translated. “My saint’s day. My grandmother Jacinta used to call me on the twenty-fourth and sing it.”

“Was she religious?”

“No.”

Sadie frowned. The elevator arrived. She entered. Behind her was a tired orderly in a dirty smock, a mop and bucket beside him. He leaned against the back, eyes closed, ignoring us. Sadie pressed a button, still frowning, preoccupied. “Your mother used to say she was a sweet lady.” The doors closed on her.

I found Uncle in a huge corner room, commanding a sweeping view of the East River and Manhattan. His wife, Pat, was with him. She was tanned and fashionably skinny, dyed black hair brushed back flush to the scalp, and dressed with understated elegance: white blouse, black skirt, and a rope of simple but expensive pearls around her neck. She said, “Here he is,” as I entered. She kissed the air near my cheek, a hand squeezing my forearm. “He’s been driving me crazy waiting to see you.” She went to the door. “I’ll keep everybody out until you’re done with Rafe.” She left, shutting it behind her.