“How did you know I preferred vodka?”
Dr. Abernathy showed his teeth. “You are fair and delicate. I suspect you don’t have the constitution for dark liquors.”
She sipped at the glass. “I rarely drink anything stronger than wine. It’s just that,” her voice trailed off, and then she said, “My mother died in an asylum.”
Dr. Abernathy sat in a chair close to her and leaned toward her. His eyes studied her from behind those handsome glasses. His face remained expressionless. It was uncanny how much he resembled Sven, yet she felt as though she were being interrogated by her father. She couldn’t talk with him sitting so close, staring at her.
She got up and walked to the window, gazing out at the overcast sky. Her legs hurt. She hadn’t realized how tense she had become while talking with Dr. Abernathy.
“I never had a chance to get to know my mother. I was very young when she was sent away. My father was a television producer. I was raised by a succession of nannies, which I suppose would have been the case even if my mother had been in the picture. Many wealthy families raise their children that way. Whenever I look at photographs of my mother and father, or of the three of us together, I’m able to remember that we were once a real family.
“When I was old enough to go to school I was sent to the finest private schools. Somehow a rumor got out that little Betty York’s mother was in a mental hospital. You know how that sort of thing can spread. Someone’s mother or father hears it and tells it to another parent who decides that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and tells their little girl that she can no longer play with Betty York. And when another child asks ‘why not’, she hears that Betty’s mother is in the nut house. Children can be so cruel.
“I asked my father about it. I was thirteen, and I guess he felt I was old enough that it was time I learned the truth. When he told me where she was, I didn’t want to believe it. Sometimes I saw old movies on television with scenes of madmen in straight jackets running through the halls of an insane asylum, pursued by burly attendants who would wrestle them to the floor. Then a doctor or nurse comes and gives the madman an injection, and all the while the lunatic is screaming and thrashing about. I couldn’t imagine that my mother was capable of such things or be in such a place as that.
“So I asked to see her. I didn’t ask. I demanded. She was my mother, and if she was ill and in such a place, I felt I had the right to see for myself.
“I was young, but old enough that I can still remember the sense of futility in that place, the anguish. I heard people screaming. I saw others who sat and stared as if there was nothing in their minds, absolutely nothing at all. I cannot imagine what that must be like, to have a mind that is a total blank. Only now there are days when I wish my mind was a blank so that I didn’t have to keep reliving the memory of what I saw in the living room of our home that night every waking moment of every day.”
She took another sip of her drink and turned to face Dr. Abernathy. He had returned to the chair behind her desk, his attention focused on hers as their eyes met.
Dr. Abernathy said, “And what of your mother?”
“My mother didn’t look at me. Not once. She talked to my father, going on and on about everything she had done that day and about all of her friends and how much she missed him and how she longed to come home. But she never once looked at me. Several times my father said ‘aren’t you going to say hello to Betty?’, but she just continued talking about herself. It was as if I didn’t exist.”
“What about your father?”
“He passed away two years ago. I miss him very much.”
Dr. Abernathy opened a small notebook on his desk and made a note and then he returned the fountain pen to its holder and closed the notebook, precisely, neatly.
“So what do we have: your mother was committed to a mental hospital where she spent the rest of her days, a mother who by all appearances did not love you, and a father whom you loved very much, now gone. Your husband, now gone. You are a lonely woman, Elizabeth. It is painful to have lost so many loved ones at such a young age. But none of this means you are insane, Elizabeth.”
“I’ve heard about the things they do in those places, the shock treatments, the lobotomies.”
“Those are very frightening images, Elizabeth. But as you can see there is nothing of the sort here. No lab tables, no padded cells, no straps. You may have noticed I operate without assistants. No one will chase you through the halls threatening you with a hypodermic needle. You’re a brave woman, Elizabeth, and I am glad you have made the decision to seek therapy. There is a long road ahead of us, some of it may be dark and painful, but together we will make that journey and together we shall nurse your psyche back to wholeness.”
Elizabeth managed a smile. She was glad she had been able to speak about her mother’s incarceration. She was glad to get it off her chest. It was a secret she kept from most people. Gavin and Sven were among the very few who knew that her mother had died in an asylum.
“Are you close to either of your parents, Dr. Abernathy?”
Dr. Abernathy’s head jerked as though a gunshot had sounded beside his ear. His eyes darted away from hers. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between them, but at length he said, “I never had a chance to know my father, though I’m told he was a great man. He died when I was young.”
So you are human after all, Elizabeth thought, and she said, “Then you were raised by your mother?”
“In a manner of speaking. I was born here in Los Angeles. My mother took me to Europe after my father died. There was a governess who looked after me while my mother went about her affairs. When I became older I was sent to boarding school. I’ve spent most of my life in school, it seems. The academic world is a strange one. Many of us know each other or know of each other, much as it is in the world of politics and show business. However, we remain insulated from the rest of the world. I sometimes find it difficult to function in the real world, which is one of my own psychological shortcomings, I suppose.”
“What made you choose to open your clinic in this house?”
Now it was the doctor’s turn to get up and walk around. He placed one foot up on the window ledge and inspected his shoe. Elizabeth was certain he would bring out his handkerchief again, but he lost interest in his shoe and turned his attention back to her.
“This house reminds me of my clinic in Europe. It was in an old chateau on the grounds of the university where I was affiliated. We found that our patients were more responsive to treatment when they were in an atmosphere where they felt comfortable. In Europe I dealt with an exclusive clientele, much as I do here. High profile public figures are often encouraged to deny their true feelings and hide them beneath layers of masks for the sake of their public personas. It is much more challenging to me than to work with the common housewife who has developed a nervous disorder because she discovered that her husband is having an affair with his secretary. I don’t mean to belittle this type of person. Their neurosis is as valid as the next person’s. I feel more challenged and a greater sense of accomplishment when I can take one of our public figures and cure them and send them back into the world with a new outlook on life.”
Elizabeth finished her drink. “All right doctor, you’ve made a sale. So where do we go from here?”
“The next step is therapy, and after that, more therapy. There are seven guests here including you, so I am not always able to spend time with each of you every day, but I guarantee that you will have five in depth sessions with me every week. I am here with all of you twenty-four hours a day including Saturdays and Sundays. If on any given day we do not have a scheduled appointment and you feel an urgent need to meet with me, I will do my best to work with the other guests to rearrange our schedule, as I hope you would also grant us the same courtesy.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
“I also recommend that you begin a series of Morphenol treatments.”
“Morphenol? What
is that?”
“Morphenol is a drug that I developed while I did my residency at my clinic in Switzerland. It was sponsored as a joint study through grants from different European governments. My associates and I had great success with our trials in Switzerland.”
“What does it do?”
“It’s used in conjunction with dream recall. It has the ability to break through the barriers which our conscious minds tend to erect to protect our inner selves. What we do not realize is that in so doing we deny certain facets of our subconscious. In the case of clinical neuroses, this is an unhealthy defense mechanism. In order to assimilate both our conscious and subconscious into a whole being, our goal must be to open a channel and have a clear flow between these two parts of our brains.
“My belief is that you have repressed something very powerful, whether from your childhood or through the experience of discovering your husband’s murder. I suspect it may be a combination of both. It may very well be that during these blackouts your subconscious mind is attempting to force these memories or images into your conscious mind, images that are so powerful that your conscious mind refuses to accept them. Through Morphenol therapy our goal will be to break through this barrier so that we can discover once and for all just what these images are and what meaning they have to your life.”
“It sounds like some sort of truth serum.”
“It would appear like Sodium Pentathol to the layman, but any sort of barbiturate can have that effect on the brain. Under interrogation, a prisoner of war or other subject tells the interrogator what he wishes to hear, whether it is truthful or not.”
“You make it all sound so mysterious.”
“I don’t mean to. Perhaps it will put your mind at ease to talk to some of the other guests about their experience with Morphenol.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. But what does it do? What does it feel like?”
“You won’t notice anything at all while you are awake. It does not make you drowsy or stimulate you in any way. It only works on a subconscious level. You will have a more vivid dream experience. Your dreams will become more lucid and focused. After a few treatments you will begin to experience one hundred percent dream recall.”
“I’ve had dreams I wished I didn’t remember.”
“That’s understandable, Elizabeth. We all do from time to time. The main difference will be in the content of your dreams while under the effects of Morphenol. For instance, one night you might dream that you are being chased through a grove of trees. Then, in your dreaming mind the grove of trees changes and you appear to be running down city streets between towering sky scrapers. To the Freudians and the Jungians, these disparate images represent something specific. The Freudian may point out the phallic connotation of trees and tall buildings, while the Jungian school of dream interpretation would point out the similarities between the tree and the building. Both are objects rooted deep within the earth while at the same time they reach toward the sky. This is not unlike the World Tree from Norse Mythology, the Tree of Life from the Kabbalah, and the Bodhi Tree under which the great Buddha sat. My comparison of the tree to the modern building is a broad analogy, of course. Under the influence of Morphenol your dreams will not experience such abrupt and sudden change. You will experience and remember everything in a logical, linear fashion and be able to recall your dreams from start to finish upon waking in the morning. You will be able to write it in your dream journal or tell it to me in our session.”
“When do we start?”
“I suggest we begin treatment tomorrow morning. I will have to administer the drug intravenously, but rest assured you will not feel anything once the needle has pricked your skin. No drowsiness, no dizziness, nothing like that. Morphenol only works on the subconscious. It may take several days before the Morphenol takes effect, but there are no physical or mental side effects.
Dr. Abernathy stood up from his desk. His mouth opened and he smiled in that disconcerting fashion of his. Elizabeth thought of a savage in the dark of a primeval jungle issuing a challenge to his foe.
He said, “And now,” and gestured with his palm toward the door.
I have been dismissed, Elizabeth thought.
“Thank you, doctor. Will we see you at dinner?”
“You will indeed.”
Chapter Five
What she lacked in personality, Mrs. Valdez more than made up for in culinary skills. As the guests filed into the dining room, they found a large platter laden with a steaming southwestern style meatloaf dripping with cheese, surrounded by yellow peppers stuffed with spicy rice and corn, and bowls with whipped sour cream on the side.
Balthazar Valdez was on hand to serve as waiter and to make sure everyone’s glasses remained full at all times. He was in his early twenties, shy and quiet but handsome in his white shirt and maroon vest and bow tie. Elizabeth eyed him surreptitiously. He was nothing like his grandmother. He seemed a sweet and unassuming boy. The more she studied him the less likely it seemed that he would have played such a cruel practical joke on her.
Elizabeth still felt dazed and disoriented after her lengthy interview with Dr. Abernathy. The other guests appeared boisterous and eager to engage in lively conversation. Elizabeth chose to sit next to Joan Monaghan hoping she would not try to engage her in too much idle chatter. Elizabeth found she was the one who would have to make the first move, but realized it was a good opportunity to direct her focus toward someone else rather than remain consumed by her own problems for the rest of the evening.
Abernathy seemed a little more human to Elizabeth. It was interesting to watch him interact with the other guests as a group of friends who sat down to dinner together.
Still, Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling that the doctor had them all under his microscope, observing each person’s action and reaction in the group interplay, noting every word and gesture and filing it away in that big brain of his for later use during individual therapy sessions.
Elizabeth also met the final guest at the Abernathy Clinic, a young boy in his late teens who recognized her as quickly as she recognized him.
“Wow, you’re Elizabeth York!” he gushed.
“And you’re Bobby Dixon.” Elizabeth winked at him.
Bobby had clear, blemish free skin and a head full of shaggy, light brown hair that gave him a somewhat feminine appearance, which Elizabeth knew was part of his appeal to the legions of teenage girls who plastered their bedroom walls and the insides of their lockers with pinup posters snipped from the pages of 16 and Tiger Beat magazines. Out of all the guests at the Abernathy Clinic, Elizabeth and Bobby Dixon were the two real “stars”, she an actress, and he being this year’s pop singing sensation.
Bobby wore a baby blue silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his smooth chest, the blue shade enhancing the deep blue of his eyes. He was even prettier in person than he appeared on television and on the cover of magazines in the racks at the supermarkets. Elizabeth didn’t care for his brand of sugar coated pop music, but it was easy to see how catchy tunes like Girl Next Door and Daddy’s Little Girl had skyrocketed to the top of the charts. Constant exposure on television talk shows and his weekly series Meet the Morgans, helped guarantee the success of his popularity.
“I saw you in Hamlet. You were terrific! I mean, wow, nude and everything!”
Elizabeth felt her face color a little. She wasn’t ashamed of her performance. After all, she had received the Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress, and the Academy was not known for granting nominations based on someone’s willingness to bare her breasts, but the thought of being leered over by this young boy in front of her was momentarily disconcerting. “You’re not even old enough to see such pictures,” she said.
“I’m seventeen,” he boasted.
“And I wasn’t nude, I was only topless.”
“Nude, topless, what difference does it make,” Jewel spouted from the other end of the table. “It’s all about boobs. That’s all men are intere
sted in. No wonder that movie was a box office bonanza.”
“You won an Oscar for that part, didn’t you Elizabeth?” asked Dakota.
“No, I lost to Estelle Parsons. She deserved it. She was terrific in her role.”
“I love movies,” said Dakota. “Especially the movies coming out these days. They keep getting better all the time.”
“I was hoping I’d meet some big stars here.” Bobby’s eyes sparkled. He was a cute kid, but little more than a boy. He seemed genuinely star struck to meet her, but Elizabeth didn’t want to lead him on. He was closer to her age than anyone else in the room, but she preferred men with more maturity about them.
“I’d hardly say I am a star.”
“Elizabeth Taylor – now there’s a star,” said Jewel.
“How many films have you done now, Elizabeth?” Chet asked.
“Only two. Illumination and Hamlet. I’m on hiatus from my third production to come here.”
Night of the Pentagram Page 7
