Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I explained that I had moved from White Plains. The new clinic was in Riverdale. He said the drive was no problem and that his schedule was flexible, since he was a project director. He came at lunchtime, the hour I took off as part of relaxation from compulsive work. The construction of rooms for monitored interviews started at that hour, since we tried to keep the mornings quiet. The work crews were installing video cameras behind one-way mirrors — to lessen their obtrusiveness and improve the coverage for the sake of testimony. Our objective was to meet the requirements of the law without inhibiting the children. Every minute of contact had to be recorded or we could be accused of influencing the process and yet, particularly for early sessions, the obvious presence of cameras is distracting. We planned to show the children the equipment and the one-way mirror, then go into the regular rooms — they don’t seem much different from a cheerful kindergarten — and forget their existence. (Although some therapists tape without telling the children, I felt that was unfair. Unfair and too similar to the kind of lying typical of abusive adults.) We were going to videotape whether or not the law was potentially involved. How could we know in advance, for one thing, and the tapes should provide a useful tool for therapists to review and evaluate.

Gene recognized the video cables on his way in. I explained over the noise of the drilling and apologized.

“Are we being recorded?” he asked. He was in jeans, a wrinkled white button-down shirt and Top-Siders. His black hair was long, one bang cutting off an eyebrow. The style seemed too youthful for an adult. His face had few lines. With a little hair dye he could pass for an eighteen-year-old. Maybe he wasn’t clinging to youth emotionally; perhaps, chemically, he wasn’t a man yet. How could I know? (Joseph Stein, with whom I had renewed our childhood friendship after a twenty-year hiatus, had become a world-renowned neurobiologist, devoting all his energies — as have dozens of other talented people — to discovering how the brain works. Although Joseph still had faith that one day science would be able to locate the precise mechanism the drives every action, thought and feeling of humans, he frankly admitted to me that, as of today, we know very little; each discovery leads to more questions.) Gene not only wanted to be a boy — so did his body. What, in the end, do we really understand about rates of aging? It so often seems that everything in human nature can end up being argued as to which is first, the chicken or the egg. I wanted to keep an open mind. After years of training and work I was less sure of all theories. And how confident could I be of technique? Gene and I didn’t seem to have changed much. We were back where we started, asking the same questions.

“Recorded?” I stalled.

“I saw video cables and tape machines,” Gene pointed outside.

“That’s for the rooms where we work with children. Unfortunately, with kids, everything becomes a legal issue. We’re required to report to the police any accusation, whether we believe it or not. I want to stop child abusers, of course, but the truth is, I care much more about helping the kids. There’s part of me that wishes we were only asked to ease their pain, not help punish the guilty. The recording equipment isn’t used with adults unless they are accused of hurting kids.” Gene continued to look outside. After a silence, I added, “This is a safe place. What you say to me stays here.”

“I remember you used to say that all the time. But it isn’t true.” Gene smiled in my direction, although his eyes avoided mine. I was pleased that he had chosen to contradict me. In reviewing notes from our earlier work together, I concluded his trouble expressing anger hadn’t been worked through. I had been wrong not to encourage him to resist me actively.

“You don’t feel this is a safe place?”

Gene’s eyes were focused on my shoulder. They briefly scanned my face and settled on a point off to my left. He crossed his legs. “Oh, I guess it’s safe. I didn’t mean that. I meant it’s not true that what I say here stays here.” He paused and added softly, “I’ve read your books.”

I had published only two that contained histories of my patients. Following tradition, I summarized, with the names altered and other details changed for further disguise. Nothing I had written was like this text. Certainly nothing was revealed about me, and little of the real dialogue. Even so, I had asked my patients’ permission first. More to the point, I hadn’t used Gene’s case in any form. “I’ve never written about you, Gene.”

Gene brushed his long bang off his brow and glanced at me. This time, as he smiled, some teeth showed. “The Vomiting Boy?”

“Ah,” I said, understanding.

“You changed a lot, but that was me, right?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not the Vomiting Boy.”

Gene looked directly at me. He swallowed. His Adam’s apple seemed very prominent, more than I remembered. He uncrossed his legs. “Really?” he said, astonished; and a little sadly, I thought.

“It’s discouraging,” I said. “I had the same shock as a medical student. There are so many commonalities in human experiences. Vomiting is often a release of suppressed rage, especially in children. The Vomiting Boy was a different patient. I asked if he minded that I use his story and he agreed, provided I change facts that would identify him.” I paused. Gene continued to stare at me with a mix of confusion and sadness. I added softly, “I would never have written about you without asking first. And of course you could say no.”

“I never want you to write about me,” he said. He pressed his knees together and crossed his arms. He looked at my chest.

“Fine.” An observer might think he was in my office under duress. Of course, I hadn’t asked to see him, I had discouraged him. This apparent contradiction didn’t confuse me. For one thing, I believed he was disappointed that he wasn’t the Vomiting Boy.

“There’s stuff …” Gene looked out my window and fell silent. The Venetian blinds were open. Vans, a Dumpster, and a wheel of electronic cables dominated the view.

“Do you want me to close the blinds?”

“What? Oh. No.”

“There’s stuff — you were saying.”

“That’s why I couldn’t talk to Toni. You know. There’s stuff I just can’t have anyone else know.” He smiled. “It’s not kid’s stuff anymore. Just the work things alone are big secrets. I don’t even want them to know I’m seeing a shrink.”

“No one has to know anything. I won’t write anything about you or discuss your case with anyone. But, as I think I’ve said before, I’m not treating adult—”

“I can’t,” he cut me off. He shook his head well after saying the words, back and forth, again and again, denying it over and over.

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t see anyone else. I don’t trust anyone else.”

“And yet you thought I had betrayed you?”

“No.” He frowned.

“No? You thought I had written—”

“Yes, yes you’re right. Are you always right?” His tone was intensely annoyed. That was new to me.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think you’re always right.”

“Well,” I said, smiling, “you’re wrong.”

Gene didn’t get the joke. “I know. I always seem to be wrong.”

“What are you always wrong about?”

“I’m always wrong with women. Does any man ever win a fight with a woman?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Whom have you been losing fights to?”

Gene shifted in his seat. It was a captain’s chair, comfortable, but plain. My seat was an indulgence, a black leather Knoll Pollack swivel. Behind me were built-in book shelves, to Gene’s right were built-in filing cabinets. The door was solid pine, the walls and ceiling soundproofed, as were all of the consulting rooms. I had grown weary of white noise machines. Gene looked at all these things, as well as the halogen standing lamp, the other armchair. “There’s no couch,” he said, looking out the window. A worker walked past with a take-out container of coffee, smoking a filterless cigarette.