by A M Homes
Her sister actually came to visit: “I love Fifth Avenue — are you sure this is really Fifth Avenue? Well, it must be the poor part. And what’s going on in that park, Washington Square? All day today I watched them. People with radios the size of suitcases doing gymnastics, waiting for people to throw money at them. What is that? How can so many people be out there all day long, on a weekday no less? Doesn’t anyone have a job?”
Her mother: “You shouldn’t let the maid call you by your first name. I never did that. You have to keep people in their place. How can you take a month off work every summer? I would think you’d lose your job. Well, I realize you work for yourself, but no one takes August off unless they retire. I don’t know why you always have to do things exactly the opposite of how everyone else does them.”
She thought of her new patient Jody Goodman, who’d just flown out to Los Angeles with her mother, a woman who sounded perfectly wonderful, like a friend. Claire had never talked to anyone about the idea of adoption as replacement. She’d had adopted clients before, but somehow the concept of replacing a lost child had never come up. Maybe that was the best way to do it, mother a stranger. It worked for Claire — a hundred dollars an hour, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. It was a living.
At two in the morning, Claire stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for water to boil, going over notes for a lecture she was supposed to give next week on anxiety attacks and their attachment to loss.
It was Claire’s opinion that anxiety attacks were like allergic reactions. They symbolized the body’s insistence on preserving life and occurred in response to direct-conscious or indirect-unconscious experiences. Situations exposing the patient to death and/or loss — the primal-infantile equivalent of separation — resulted in the patient facing extinction, the feared death of the self, and caused an overwhelming flood of response, a chemical pinball racing through the body, bouncing off nerve receptors, the repetitious, ricocheting ding-dinging driving the score higher and higher. Pulse rises, palms sweat, pupils become hypersensitive to light, breathing becomes shallow and rapid. These signals attract the victim’s attention, alerting him or, more likely, her to the state of the body and mind.
The primal fear of being abandoned was the trigger. Claire imagined apes in the jungle separated from their group having anxiety attacks and becoming ferocious. Unarticulated anxiety existed in everything, Claire wrote; and unfortunately, because it is not in keeping with our conception of what is normal, we are not trained to express our anxious urges. She figured that people were supposed to live in groups and were not programmed for extreme independent behavior. She thought back to an internship she had at Hopkins, when she was finally getting her B.S. She worked in a clinic, interviewing potential candidates for surgical sex reassignment. Often the men who had sex-change surgery became depressed and suicidal. Years after Claire left for New York, Hopkins stopped performing the surgery. All along, Claire had suspected that the depression was the result of severe anxiety stemming from a decision to reject the tribe of birth. And although many of the men saw their surgery as a welcoming of the true self, their core self could not be separated from its historical past, ultimately resulting in a rejection of the self. And so on … Claire stood at the kitchen counter writing for two and a half hours in the middle of the night, drinking cup after cup of instant coffee, thinking each one was the last.
At six Adam climbed into their bed and wedged himself between Claire and Sam. Claire refused to let on that she was awake. It was Sam’s turn; that’s what marriage and family life were supposed to be about, alternating, taking turns. Finally Sam got up, turned on the television, and went back to sleep, leaving Adam at the foot of their bed in a cartoon trance.
At seven Claire woke Jake and made the kids breakfast. By the time she got to her office she was exhausted. Her ten o’clock buzzed at nine-fifty-three. Claire heard her patient crying in the waiting room, but waited the full seven minutes before opening the door, hoping the girl would stop.
“Come in,” Claire said, smiling.
Polly gathered up her purse, her own personal box of Kleenex, and her jacket. “I’m pregnant,” she said before she even sat down. “I can’t believe he did this to me.”
“Are you sure?” Claire asked. It was her job to always remain calm. It was what was expected of her. The girl could get angry and scream right into Claire’s face, but that was part of the job as well, acting like a giant sponge. The trick was not to let it really soak in.
“Positive,” Polly said. “He came over Monday night and got the rest of his stuff and yesterday I realized I’ve been feeling kind of strange, so I bought one of those kits and it was positive, so I went back and bought a different kind and it was positive, and then I went to the doctor and he said definitely.”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
Polly glared at her. “Obviously, I can’t rely on Phil.”
Claire was listening more to the subtext of what Polly was saying rather than focusing on the actual words.
“I can’t rely on Phil,” she said. (Or you, she meant.) ‘I’ll have to deal with it on my own.” (I don’t need your help anyway.)
“I’ll just go and take care of it. I’ll get rid of it.” (And myself too.)
“It’s like poison in my body. I just want to scream.” (Fear and truth.)
“I want to scream.” (What would you do if I started screaming? If I sat here and howled? You’d do something, wouldn’t you? You’d kick me out, I know it.)
“The doctor gave me the number of a place to call.”
“How will you feel if you don’t have this baby?” Claire asked.
“It’s not a baby. It’s nothing.” Polly paused. (I can’t deal with it, therefore I deny it.) “Are you telling me I shouldn’t have an abortion?”
Claire imagined telling Polly the truth according to Claire. It never ends. It’s a recurring nightmare where the baby you killed comes back and does all kinds of things to you. There’s the constant remembering; the possibility of not being able to get pregnant later. Guilt. You didn’t know that when you gave it up once, you gave it up forever. What if she had a baby later and there was something horribly wrong with it? What if it died? It might not be a baby now, but what about later?
“Sometimes,” Claire finally said, “it’s not as simple as getting it over with. People have feelings they may not recognize until later. There can be aftereffects, emotional and otherwise.”
“You’re scaring me,” the girl said.
Claire looked at Polly and remembered when she’d first come in. There were patients Claire looked forward to seeing and others that seemed less important; Polly fell into the second group — the unloved. It wasn’t that Claire hated her; but there were others she enjoyed far more. Claire thought she worked hardest with the ones she liked least and was probably less effective with clients she liked because she was too much like a friend, too easy.
“It’s not my intention to frighten you.”
“I cannot have this baby. I don’t want a baby!” Polly screamed. “Change the subject.”
“You’re very angry.” Part of Claire’s job was to point out the obvious.
“That’s right. I’m pissed off. You’re making me feel like I’m doing something wrong, like I’m screwing up my whole life.”
“How am I making you feel like you’re doing something wrong?”
“You’re asking a million questions. I don’t know what to say to make you happy.”
“You don’t have to make me happy. You have to decide what you want.”
“Do I look like I’m in a position to become someone’s mother?”
“Is there someone who could go to the clinic with you?”
“You know I don’t have any friends anymore. Phil made me get rid of them. We already talked about that.”
“What about a relative? Don’t you have a cousin in town?”
“I just told you, I don’t want anyone to know.” Po
lly started crying again. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. A month ago I was talking about getting married — now I’m sitting here, I don’t even have a boyfriend, and I’m pregnant.”
Watching someone cry was one of Claire’s least favorite moments. She often had the urge to comfort her patients — to squeeze their shoulders, pat them on the back, whatever was necessary — but she knew they had to cry alone. Giving the patient an opportunity to let go was more important than immediate pain relief, so she taught herself to sit like stone when the tears came. Sometimes she handed the patient a tissue, and it came across as a gesture of concern. With certain patients — like Polly — who cried all the time, Claire got frustrated, although she tried not to let on. They came into the office and the first thing they did was burst into tears, every session, for months on end, years. What did they get out of it — release? An excuse not to talk about something? As far as Claire was concerned, the prognosis for a constant crier was not good.
“Would it be helpful if I went with you?” Claire asked, once Polly stopped sniffling. She’d said it before she realized what she was saying. This was the part of Claire that her patients thought made her a great therapist: she was a real person. This was also the part of Claire that was dangerous. As much as she tried to act like Mount Rushmore, they could always see the living flesh in the background.
Polly looked surprised.
“If you need me to go with you, I will.” Claire had done something like this only once before. She’d taken a completely petrified woman to the dentist and sat in the waiting room while the woman had her teeth cleaned and two fillings done.
How can I do this? Claire asked herself while Polly was talking. How can I not? Together they called the clinic, made a time, a date, and a plan.
Claire’s next patient, Bea, was a fifty-five-year-old woman without a life. Unhappily married to someone who was perfectly nice, she’d raised two children, one married, the other at Brown. And now, with no orthodontist appointments, piano lessons, or family dinners to prepare, Bea had nothing to do. She felt as if she were dying. She’d been referred to Claire after spending three weeks in Payne Whitney being treated for depression. The psychiatrists had recommended antidepressants and reeducation via Claire, with the idea being that if Bea developed some interests of her own, her boring marriage would no longer be the focus of her life.
“My classes at Marymount started last night. Herbert was annoyed that I got home late, but I think I enjoyed myself. I’m not really sure. I haven’t been to school in more than thirty years.”
“Did you talk to anyone?” Claire asked.
Bea shook her head.
“Next time, you should try. Ask one of the other women to have coffee with you afterwards and you can talk about the class.”
“Herbert wouldn’t be happy.”
“It’s all right,” Claire said. “Tell him ahead of time that you’ll be out late. A new show opened at the Guggenheim; maybe you could take a walk over there.”
“I still don’t like going places by myself.”
“It takes practice, but it’s near your apartment and should be something you can manage. Have you made any arrangements about doing volunteer work?”
“I decided I don’t want to be around sick people.”
“Plenty of places use volunteers — Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Museum, the Whitney.”
“I don’t want to make a commitment. What if Herbert wants to go away for a few days?”
“Then you tell them you’ll be away. You’re doing them a favor. It’s not a problem if you have to leave.”
Bea’s life was not in crisis, it never was. Twenty years of absolute passivity had claimed this woman, and Claire was trying to wake her, gently. There were times when Claire felt she was expected to be the leader of all women. She was the one who had to nourish them with hidden supplies, goods brought in from the other side, behind enemy lines. She had to give them what they never got. She had to make them strong and teach them to kill.
It was almost noon when Bea left. They’d gone a few minutes over, planning Bea’s activities for the next few days. Claire checked her book and realized that she had a parent/teacher conference at Jake’s school that was supposed to start at eleven-forty-five. She threw her book into her bag and, not waiting for the elevator, ran down the steps and race-walked east across Houston to Lafayette.
The Lang School was the hippest school downtown. Its students were the sons and daughters of gallery owners, actors, name-brand heirs, and rock stars. The twin daughters of Jake’s heavy-metal hero were in his class; every afternoon a cocaine-white limo carried them the seven blocks home to their soundproofed triplex apartment around the corner from Tower Records. Jake swore he was in love.
Claire gave the guard at the front door her name, flashed her Parents of Lang photo ID card, and hurried toward the sixth-grade classroom. The hallways were lined with floor-to-ceiling bulletin boards, plastered with thumbtacks and art that looked exactly like the stuff Claire used to see when she worked with inpatients at Bellevue.
“It really is very nice. You should go sometime,” Sam was saying when Claire burst into the room, panting.
She squeezed herself into a kid-sized desk and tried to catch her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I was with someone. It couldn’t be helped.”
“Il Cantinori,” Sam said. “Tenth, between University and Broadway.” He picked up Claire’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s our favorite.”
“I’ll go this weekend.”
Get a grant first, Claire thought, wondering why Sam had talked the teacher into trying a restaurant she obviously couldn’t afford.
“Sally’s getting married,” he explained.
Sally was the teacher. According to Lang educational philosophy, students called everyone from the principal to the janitor by his or her first name. This was to inspire self-confidence. Claire could never remember Sally’s last name, and it drove her crazy.
“Congratulations,” Claire said.
It was recess. Claire could hear two hundred and fifty kids screaming as they ran up and down the barricaded street outside.
“About Jake …” Sally said.
Claire could feel the other shoe about to fall. Her stomach sank. She leaned forward, subtly tilting her head down, trying to keep from fainting.
“I get the feeling he needs more structure at home,” Sally said. “He needs a clearer idea of what’s expected of him and how he can achieve those goals.”
Sam and Claire nodded vigorously. If Jake were bumped out of this school, they’d have big problems. It would be hard, if not impossible, to get him into another good school; even if they did, one of them would have to drag him uptown every morning and someone would have to pick him up every afternoon. And if he didn’t get in, he’d end up in public school — something to be avoided at all costs.
“What do you suggest?” Sam asked.
“Are his afternoons planned? Does he have any specific activities?”
There was no way to present Frecia as a strong, stimulating role model, or to explain that her job was simply to keep the children alive until Claire or Sam got home. Structure and planned activities were out of the question.
“What I’m thinking of,” Sally said, “is an after-school program. Sports and music — nothing specifically academic.” She paused. “Jake could stand to run around a little. He’s at that age. And he’s not doing nearly as well as he should be or as we’d hoped.”
She didn’t continue. Claire knew “that age” was one where boys were either frenzied or like bumps on a log. Jake was a bump. Perhaps the damage was reversible.
“We do have a program here. I’ve checked and there is space. He could start right away.”
Of course they had a program. And of course the program cost an extra thirty-five hundred dollars a year — on top of the nine thousand they were already paying — and of course Sam and Claire signed him up. Claire imagined that if they sa
id no, the next time Sally would skip the friendly little chat and call the Department of Social Services. She’s a shrink, he’s a lawyer, and their kid’s a little shit. The father’s kind of cute, so obviously it’s all her fault. Arrest her.
Claire and Sam went out the door arm in arm, smiling, whispering. As soon as they were on the sidewalk, Claire pulled away. “What a little bitch,” she said. “It’s hush money. Give us thirty-five hundred and we’ll keep him.”
“It might be good for him.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Sam shrugged. “You want an ice cream?”
Claire didn’t answer. They walked five blocks and couldn’t find a place that made sundaes. Ice cream was too uncool, unhealthy, drippy. They ended up at Mondadori Cafe with the high-cheekboned crowd, cappuccinos and three-berry tart.
9
Wednesday at six-thirty in the morning Jody’s phone rang.
“I had a horrible nightmare,” Ellen said. “Can you have breakfast with me?”
Jody grunted.
“Come on, get up, I’ll take you out. I have to take a fast shower and get rid of someone. It’ll be about twenty minutes. Meet me in the lobby.”
Jody stood up and pulled her nightgown off over her head. “There isn’t a federal law that requires you to notify me every time you sleep with a stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger anymore.”
“You’re right. Bring him to breakfast.”
“I’m not sure he speaks English,” Ellen said.
“So,” Jody said, when they were safely awake, around the corner in the coffee shop. “What did you dream?”
“The bank went under and I had to turn sex into a profession. All my customers were men I’d known all my life — friends of the family, old teachers, the president of the bank. All day I had to fuck and fuck.” Ellen spoke loudly, but no one in the coffee shop seemed to notice. “I had to do all these strange things exactly the way they wanted or I wouldn’t get paid. In the end, I stole a gun from this cop I’m blowing and shot myself in the crotch.”
