Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“I don’t follow, Rafe. Bertha was basically a cultural problem. Nobody thought to talk to her in her own terms.”

“And that includes me. I didn’t mean Rosenhan was your problem. I’m not testing you. I’m testing my former treatment.”

“Well … Okay. I still think you could save me time. Anyway, Gene is convinced his problems are all about work. Actually, I believe work is the one place he’s comfortable.”

She could be talking about me, I thought later. I hadn’t taken a vacation in six years, I hadn’t allowed a woman into my heart since Julie, my friendships were really all professional, my evenings devoted to writing a book about “Timmy” and the Grayson Day Care case. I decided it was time to take time. Besides, I had decided to use half of my ten-million-dollar inheritance from Uncle (obviously, I was not his sole heir) to construct a two-story building to house a clinic for the treatment of abused children and there wasn’t any insight I could contribute to its design and construction.

I also arranged to pay for Isaac’s college education. I told Aaron it was Bernie’s wish — in a sense, that was the exact truth.

Aaron didn’t believe me. “Yeah?” he said. “Show me where it says that in his will.”

“There wasn’t time to change his will,” I said.

“Thank you, Rafe,” Aaron said. “That’s what I should be saying.”

With that off my conscience, I tried again to reach my father in Havana, writing to the last address Grandpa Pepín had for him. (Naturally one of the by-products of Susan’s therapy was that I reestablish contact with my father’s people. Although this irritated Uncle Bernie, my suicide attempt had frightened him enough so that he tolerated it. I was eighteen when I stood on the old porch and made my apology and explanation to Grandpa Pepín of why I testified against his son. He nodded when I was finished and said, “I understand. You were brainwashed by the barbarians.” Confused, I mumbled, “The barbarians?” Grandpa nodded in a direction over my left shoulder. I turned to look. Far in the distance, past the low roofs of what seemed to be miles and miles of modest homes, light in the windows of a new office building twinkled at me. I looked back at Pepín. “You mean the capitalists?” I asked. “I mean the barbarians,” he said and never raised the subject of my treachery again.) This was my fourth attempt to resume contact with Francisco since I petitioned successfully to restore his American passport and again there was no response. For almost a decade he could have returned to the States. To my knowledge, he hadn’t. Through a colleague, I was introduced to the Cuban attaché to the U.N. Other than confirming that my father was alive and well, residing where I had written him, all he could suggest was that I go to Havana to confront Francisco. Since my letters to Francisco were requests to come see him, and I now knew that he had definitely gotten them, I assumed such a visit would be unwelcome. Perhaps I was merely intimidated. From both Grandpa and the Cuban attaché (who claimed to know my father fairly well) I got the distinct impression that Francisco had money problems. I arranged for fifty thousand dollars — an American ransom, the Cuban attaché joked — to be deposited in a Canadian bank in his name. That was a legal and safe way to deal with both America’s and Cuba’s different brands of restrictions. The money wasn’t refused — indeed, a bank official told me the account was immediately activated — yet no letter or phone call was forthcoming. I had asked for forgiveness and received none. Maybe that was just. I didn’t want to seek more punishment, despite my guilty feelings.

The spring and summer of 1988, I made an effort to relax and take care of myself, limiting my hours with the children to no more than eight a day, joining a health club (and using it), and, the most significant change, ignoring my reservations about becoming involved with a co-worker. During the Grayson Day Care case, Diane Rosenberg split up with a man she had been living with since college. We became close, apart from the intimacy of our work. I resisted, for more than a year, risking our friendship by introducing romance, not only because I was putting companionship in danger, I was also chancing the loss of an intelligent and dedicated colleague. I had no illusion that if we were to become estranged lovers we would be capable of returning to the harmony of our platonic relationship.

To be blunt, our first few attempts at sex were self-conscious and a little comic. If, as Freud observed, there are six people in every bedroom — the lovers and the ghosts of their parents — then the bedroom of two psychiatrists is as crowded with spirits as Halloween. I suggested a change of scene might relieve the awkwardness and we took our first vacation in years together. The two weeks in Paris were idyllic in every way. We shed more than our clothes. Assuming the naive skins of tourists, we discovered our bodies could dance in the dark without poltergeists mocking our rhythm.

Taking time away from my work seemed to improve my results. In July, “Timmy” made a series of dazzling breakthroughs — a rapid integration of his multiple personalities that began with a deeply moving and eerie scene in which the various selves were introduced to each other. Also, my book on incest was well received and debated in a healthy way, even by its critics. August brought the opening of the clinic, although some of the construction wasn’t finished; the revelation to our friends that Diane and I had become an item was greeted with less surprise and disapproval than either of us had expected; and I worked hard to finish the book about the Grayson trial, inspired by “Timmy’s” bravery facing his painful memories and what I had learned from his remarkable insights into the methods and motivations of his abusers.

The last week of August, Gene appeared. He had followed his mentor to Minotaur. Its research and development labs were in Tarrytown, thus Gene had moved his family to northern Westchester county. I hadn’t heard from Toni since our Rosenhan conversation. Gene told me she hadn’t been much use to him; he stopped seeing her after only three sessions. “It was a practical problem anyway. I had to make this decision and it was tough. I was scared to stay and scared to go.” He wanted to see me professionally. He felt the new job — he was going to be project director for Minotaur’s new machine — would put him under unbearable pressure. Unbearable was his word.

“I don’t see adult patients anymore, Gene. I’m devoting all my time to the clinic. The few adults who come here will see other therapists. I specialize in working with children who have been severely abused. I’m not up to date treating adults.”

“You mean they’ve made therapy new and improved?”

“There’s always good work going on. It’s no different than anything else. If you came to see me you’d have to play Candyland and draw pictures with Crayolas.”

“Sounds okay to me. I’m pretty good at Candyland. I’m better at Monopoly.”

I laughed. “You sound healthy to me, Gene. Are you sure you really feel the need for therapy? Feeling pressure at taking a new job is realistic, you know.”

“Well … thanks. But …” He sighed. “Forget it.”

“No. I don’t want to forget it. Go on. But what?”

“I remember you saying I could always come and speak to you. For a tune-up, you called it.”

“A tune-up?” That sounded like Rafe the cocksure therapist. As if I were a master mechanic and people were machines that could be regulated with precision. I had promised him I would always be there to listen. He had trusted me with his tenderest feelings and now I was too busy?