"Call me Claude, of course." I said. smiling. I couldn't stop petting her and bringing my lips to her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.
"I won't call you that unless we're alone," she said.
This complicates everything, Grace. I promise you that if I come to believe it will hurt you. I will not be your therapist any longer. Promise me you will understand. Please," I begged her.
She promised, but it was one of those promises both people knew was impossible to keep. They make it just to get temporary peace.
I remained beside her, speaking softly to her, kissing her but doing no more. Finally I told her good night,
"Now I know I can sleep," I said. "I'm not keeping it all bottled up inside me. I have followed the advice I give to my patients."
She said nothing. I was afraid I had
overwhelmed her. After I slipped out of her room. I started quickly down the corridor. Nadine Gordon stepped out of Sandy's room just as I had passed it and called to me. When I turned, she approached, her forehead creased as she brought her eyebrows together with her puzzled look.
"I looked everywhere for you, Dr. De Beers. Is everything all right?"
"Yes. Ms. Gordon. Everything is all right. How is Sandy?"
"She's sleeping better, but that is about all the improvement I've noticed." she replied curtly. "I think she might require more of your time. Doctor. Perhaps it was not so wise to reassign her to Dr. Price."
"I think he and I will be the best judges of that. Nadine," I said. Whenever she did get to me, annoy me, or displease me in any way. I referred to her by her first name. It was something I know wasn't lost on her.
"Of course. I'm just giving you my most professional opinion, but only to assist you. Doctor, and certainly not to be critical." she added.
I could never tell if Nadine Gordon liked me or disliked me during those earlier days. Sometimes I could actually feel her critical eyes looking over my shoulders, even when she wasn't in the room. No one lived more by the book than she did. I often would wonder what her personal life was like. To me she didn't seem to have any. All I knew was she lived in a single bedroom apartment, had no family in the state, and was unmarried with no prospects lurking in the wings.
She did little to make herself attractive on the job. Her hair was always severely tied back to the point where her skin looked stretched. She had faint freckles over her forehead and very tiny patches of them along her temples with a few dripping down to the crests of her cheeks. Her hair was a shade darker than rust, and her lips were more toward orange than red. I never saw her in anything but her uniform, even when we had a small cocktail party far some dignitaries a year after we began the clinic. She was a full-figured woman with hips a bit too large and hands that were somewhat puffy. Because of her thick shoulders. Ralston joked that she was a man in drag, despite her abundant bosom.
"Thank you. I'll confer with Dr. Price tomorrow," I told her.
As you wish," she said. She glanced back toward Grace's room and then narrowed her eyes a bit when she turned to say good night to me.
I could feel her staring after me, and as ashamed as I am to admit it. Willow. I walked faster. Imagine, the head doctor being terrorized by his nurse. You'll understand a bit more after you read more.
Miles was waiting for me outside. Alberta was right about his history with me, of course. He had been a patient of mine, thrown into a serious depression after he had caused a car accident that had resulted in the death of his daughter. He had been drunk and was unable to forgive himself. I never told Alberta the full extent of his problems, how many times and in how many different ways he had attempted suicide. but I was confident that he was well enough to take on responsibilities, and he and I had developed an unspoken, almost brotherly trust.
"You all right, Dr. De Beers?" he asked after I had gotten into the car and we had started away from the clinic.
"Yes, fine. Miles."
This was the first time I had asked him to drive me back to the clinic this late in the evening. He was a man of few words now, but he didn't require much conversation to communicate. He watched over me far better than I watched over myself and knew my moods, my emotional status, better than anyone. Certainly, he knew me better than Alberta.
"I heard you lecturing that young Dr. Wheeler the other day," he said. For Miles, that was truly a mouthful,
"Oh?"
"That business about getting so involved with your patient's problems, how you could take them onto yourself almost like a contagious disease."
I laughed, "You were listening carefully, Miles. I am impressed."
"You're not guilty of doing what you warned him about doing, now are you. Dr. De Beers?"
"No, Miles."
"I hope not. Doctor. I don't know enough yet to be your therapist," he added and I laughed.
We both laughed.
It felt wonderful. Willow, it was as if the world was in the process of changing completely for me, shadows moving off of beautiful places, colorful places. I noticed the stars. I took pleasure in the ride home, the road, the foliage, and the trees. I suddenly became aware of my surroundings, and not just the grounds of the clinic or the grounds of our home. For too long those two places had been my entire world. Now the whole world was my world.
And all because I had come face to face with the truth of my heart. Willow.
I was in love, as deeply and terribly in love as anyone ever was.
Impatience set in. I couldn't stand the idea of having to spend the whole night away from Grace. Sleep was an annoyance. I tossed and turned and must have looked at the clock a dozen times, each time disappointed in how slowly time passed. You're mad, I told myself repeatedly. It will come to no good, I warned myself, but it was that abandon, that great risk that made it all even more exciting. Willow, and up until that moment there wasn't any excitement in my life that could possibly compare.
Courting Alberta and marrying her had been so safe, just another step in my progress toward being the most respected, successful psychiatrist in our state and then the country. I truly was as she accused, following steps in a textbook. As a result I had all the trappings of a successful professional man. The wonderful and impressive home, the fame, and the seemingly perfect wife. I had everything I should have, except I didn't have love.
Before Grace. I didn't think it mattered. I didn't even think it truly existed!
I have to pause. Writing all this has taken away my breath for the moment. I am positive that when you read this, you will think another man wrote it. These are not the words and deeds of the father you have known. Are we all schizophrenics? I'm laughing so hard at that possibility that tears are coming.
What I can assure you of now, what I hope you feel in my words, is the fact that you were born out of love, not lust. You were born to be living proof of what Grace and I had together. No. Willow, you will never, ever be thought of as a mistake in my mind or your mother's. Anything resulting from pure and sincere love has to be good.
A few kisses, holding each other, whispering secrets to each other are not enough to justify those words: I am in love. I knew that. but I was worried that Grace did not. She was, after all, still in some mental anguish and turmoil. All I might have done that night was confuse her further.
What began then was a careful, at times meticulously careful, construction of a secret relationship in a place where secrets were meant to be uncovered and purged. Everything we psychiatrists did at the clinic was designed to get our patients to reveal themselves, either through art or dance or words themselves. Together, with their therapists, they had to open those closets and cabinets, put on lights to wash away the darkest places, and confess aloud the deepest, most hidden actions, even things they did not consciously remember. Every layer of their very being had to be stripped away until they stood naked and trusting and began to rebuild themselves.
What had I done, after all, but add another layer of words and actions that must never be exposed? In other words.
Willow, the doctor in me was in a rage. If I seemed in any way distracted before, and of course Alberta considered me mentally and emotionally away for quite a while now. I certainly must have appeared more so. Troubled by my actions and confessions. I walked about like a zombie, barely noticing where I was going. Only Miles noticed anything and continually asked me how I was or if there was something else he could do for me.
One day he actually came out and asked, Are you having money troubles. Dr De Beers, because if you are, you can hold off paying me for a while. I'm fine."
"No, of course not. Miles, but thank you for the offer," I told him. Nothing I told him could be more true.
The clinic, being private, was always profitable, but beside that, my sister Agnes and I had inherited a considerable fortune. There was never a time in my life when money was a concern. I had a good business manager, lawyer, and accountant. If anything. I was oblivious to my finances and probably will be to the day I die. My father was far more of a businessman than I am. He knew where his money was to the penny and always had a concept of what things should cost him. If our electric bill or gas bill went over his estimate, he invoked economies, complaining about lights being on unnecessarily or areas of the house having thermostats set too high. He tried to teach me to be a good economist. but I was a poor student, and eventually he gave up and declared I was lucky I was becoming a doctor.
"You'll look after the health of people, and healthy people will look after you," he told me. How wise he was.
I guess what I am telling you is I have been and always will be a man of some contradiction. I spend my working life in the abstract world, searching and analyzing feelings, emotions, dreams, and
subconscious thoughts. The physical and material world is mundane to me. Alberta has always complained about my lack of interest in my wardrobe, criticizing me for not keeping in style or wearing shoes and suits until they look ready to be given to charity. She would be the one to stop, look at me, and say. "Time to get a haircut. Claude, and if you are going to wear a beard, you could at least take care to have it trimmed neatly. I'll be too embarrassed to be seen with you, not that I am very much these days." she would mutter.
Her conversation with me became almost rote, a memorized list of comments and sarcasms that I could always anticipate. However, if she didn't point out these things about myself to me. I probably would have gone on and on neglecting them. Suddenly a real change came over me, and it never occurred to me that she would take any notice. That caught me by surprise.
Grace was the first patient with whom I had developed so strong an emotional tie, of course. I wanted to look good for her.
Consequently. without Alberta's prodding. I looked after my own appearance, had my hair styled, my beard finely' trimmed, and bought some rather attractive new suits, new shoes, and new shirts and belts. I spent more money on my wardrobe that particular week than I had during, the last few years.
"Well. well," Alberta said one afternoon when she saw me come home. "When did you buy that suit?"
"Oh," I said, stumbling for an answer. "Ralston had bought something similar and I thought--."
"You thought you were a slob and you should clean up your act, but not for me. Oh, no, for your precious clinic and your nutcases instead."
"If I've told you once. I've told you a million times. Alberta, do not refer to my patients that way, even in jest. Someone will hear you say it, and if the wife of the head doctor says such things--"
"I know, I know, I know, Do you think I even mention the clinic when I'm with people? Whenever anyone brings it up. I tell them I know very little about your work. You're so brilliant. What could a poor, normal person like myself understand? It's not exactly like awning a fine hotel. I tell them, and they appreciate my position. So don't get yourself all worked up and concerned. Claude. I won't embarrass you All I ask is you give me the same consideration."
"All right, Alberta," I relented. "Thank you."
"And you got yourself a haircut. too. I must say. Claude, you can be a handsome man when you make a little effort."
She smiled and I thought how strange and ironic. my wife is attracted to one because l'm making myself more attractive to another -woman, the -woman I love. Suddenly Alberta was in her own Southern style more flirtatious. Consequently, my guilt made me want to please her more than ever, and I even forced myself to attend two charity events in a row with her,
Whenever I am at any of these occasions, the people who know what I do for a living ask me the most inane questions about my work and my patients. I find I also make people nervous, especially at dinner parties. Alberta has told me that I intimidate some of her friends. They are afraid to speak because they think I will analyze them and find something wrong.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked her.
"Stop being so serious. Tell jokes and never, never look at anyone too intensely." she prescribed. I was never good at telling jokes. but I actually practiced some just to please her.
Willow. I think anyone else would have realized her husband was acting strangely and would have become suspicious. Alberta never did, not even afterward when I had to convince her to take you into our lives.
But I am leaping ahead again. I'm writing this so fast at times, my wrist aches. Ifs as if I'm afraid I will die before it's completed and you will get only half the story and never know the things I want you to know.
For a while after the night I confessed my love to Grace, we tiptoed around each other. Very conscious of the possibility that Alberta would see something telling in my actions after I declared my love for Grace. I was even more sensitive to the possibility my associates, Ralston especially, would see something very unusual in my relationship with her, Consequently. I know I leaned too far in the opposite direction, which in itself is revealing behavior to a good analyst
Whenever I spoke to Grace in front of others, my voice was sharp, hard, and almost impatient. I tried to be as formal as I could. I avoided her in the cafeteria and barely acknowledged her in the corridors or in the recreational room. I wrote lengthy reports about our sessions and had Ralston review them, and, for a short period, I did not take her for any walks.
To her credit. Grace understood and never complained. It was enough for us to occasionally exchange a warm, knowing look with each other outside my office. She also appreciated the fact that when she was in my office and we were having a therapeutic session, we should do everything in our power to keep it professional. For a while we were able to do that, and perhaps because Grace trusted me even more now, she was more and more forthcoming.
At a session nearly two weeks later, she confessed her nagging guilt for what had happened between her and Kirby Scott, her mother's third husband, a man I hope you never encounter. I must admit that when she spoke about him in these sessions. I felt terrible pangs of jealousy, Willow.
"Kirby was and I'm sure still is a very handsome, charming man." she told int. "I couldn't help but fantasize about him. He spent a great deal of time with -me, always claiming he was doing his best to get me to become more social. more assured of myself when I was with men. My mother even thought it was nice of him to take such an interest in me. Can you imagine?"
"I guess he was a great con man."
"More than just a con man. The devil himself." she said. She shook her head softly. "He would make it all seem instructional." she told me, a faint smile on her lips.
Was it a smile of irony or a smile of real appreciation and excitement? I wondered.
"Why do you smile after saying that?" I asked her, my heart beating with anticipation. There were so many questions I wanted to ask.
And yet how delicate I had to be with her. Willow. How careful about my intonation, my choice of words, my expressions, for how could I do her any good as a therapist if I came at her like some jealous new lover?
"I smile because I can't help thinking how charming and beguiling he was. Claude. He had a way of sneaking up on me, taking me completely by su
rprise."
"Explain that." I asked. pulling myself together and turning the page of my notebook,
"Before he did something, said something, he would tell me this was how he won the love of a woman, and he would ask me for my reactions as if he were testing himself to see if he was still good at what he did. He made me feel as if I was part of some love practicing so that I wouldn't think of him touching me as me. especially. Do you know what I mean?" "I think so," I said.
"Then he would take on this very serious expression like a Don Juan instructor or something, 'You can be shy. Grace,' he would say. 'Men like a woman to have same shyness, but you don't want to appear incapable or so innocent they will feel they are taking advantage of you.' which, of course, was exactly what he was doing, 'Flirt, if you like, but at the end of every promise. Grace,' he would say. 'there has to be some delivery. You don't want men to think of you as a tease. Reward the man you love with the warmest part of yourself.'
"He would kiss me and then he would pull back and look as if he was deciding if I had done it right. I would hold my breath for his judgment. and then he would smile and nod and say something like. 'You are getting the idea.'
"He made me feel like I was becoming a woman, a woman in every sense of his definition. a woman like the sort of woman he would marry."
"You were becoming like your mother, then, mature, beautiful, capable?"
"Yes," she said. "Exactly. I so wanted to be like her. She was independent, strong, and despite all the terrible things that had befallen us, she was able to compete and go on and continue to be strong for the both of us."
"I see." I said.
"Do you. Claude?" Her eyes were filling with tears. "Because I can't stop thinking about it."
"You can't blame yourself for what happened because of that. Grace. He had no business coming into your bedroom and doing what he did."
We stared at each other, pages and pages of thoughts falling around us.
"Maybe... maybe I'm no better than he was," I muttered.
Hidden Leaves Page 7
