Intensive Therapy

by Jeffrey Deitz

  “Yeah, as sure as anyone my age could’ve been. Listen, I’ll stand by you, brother, no matter what you decide. I just want to make sure you have your eyes wide open.”

  After Eddie left, Jonas unwound with the late news. That night, he dreamt about Jennie. In the dream, she wore a Phillies cap.

  Since the Sunday game didn’t start until 4:00 PM, the foursome gathered for a late brunch.

  “That was fun last night,” Pete said over his omelet.

  “Victor’s is always fun,” Jonas said. “How’d you like it when the waitress broke out with Un bel di? I love that aria.”

  “You and your opera,” Pete said. “Give me Simon and Garfunkel, a fireplace, and a good Burgundy.”

  “I’d just as soon go to a Stones concert,” Steve said.

  “I was twenty-two during Woodstock,” Eddie said. “You three were riding three-speeds while we were scared shitless about Vietnam.”

  Jonas said, “My generation’s nightmares are about AIDS. There’s no test for it yet.”

  “You’re the last bachelor. Doesn’t it scare you?” Steve asked.

  “You bet,” Jonas said.

  “What do you tell your patients?”

  “Wear a condom and know who you’re sleeping with. Better yet, take a sexual history. How’s that for foreplay!”

  “In college they ran us around so much in basketball practice,” Pete piped in, “that by the time we finished studying, we couldn’t get it up enough to beat off, let alone get laid. Thank God I met Beth before AIDS came along.”

  “What a fun conversation,” Eddie said. “I’d rather talk about the death tax.”

  Late that afternoon the Orioles won the World Series, as Jonas’s youth slipped beneath the horizon along with the October sun.

  When Jonas hugged his brother good-bye at the Thirtieth Street Station, he knew his grief for Willy Speller was finally over.

  26

  Monday, November 22, 2004

  For Victoria, the rest of Sunday felt like a vigil. On Monday morning, Melinda refused to leave her room, but Victoria had to work. The voir dire for the Duke’s case turned out to be even more contentious than Victoria had imagined, with Denise Mather challenging potential juror after another. When the judge adjourned court at 3:00 PM, Victoria returned home immediately and sequestered herself in her office, wondering what was ahead. It was more—far more—than just fear about how he would react to her after all these years. Did she really want to open up about her mother and about her own mothering? Not to mention her feelings about Martin and what was and wasn’t happening inside their bedroom. Old wounds, newer wounds, already inflamed and oozing.

  One look at the most treasured document in Victoria’s life aside from Gregory’s birth certificate, even more precious than her marriage license, convinced her to reach for the telephone. The last thing Victoria looked at before dialing was her college diploma.

  27

  Sunday, May 20, 1984

  Victoria’s commencement day was gloriously sunny. She was graduating summa cum laude, with a GPA of 3.98. She had one B+—in Biology.

  She scanned her cheering section of friends and family, including Lorraine and Morris—his last drink two years ago—and Victoria’s surviving grandparents, Grandma Jeanine Cohen and Grandfather Samuel Schone, who had battled prostate cancer to the bitter end to see his granddaughter graduate from an Ivy League school. When she saw Dr. Speller smiling through the crowd, she approached him, sheepskin in hand.

  “I felt your presence,” she said.

  “Congratulations, Victoria,” he said, eyeing her cap and gown. “Look at you. You look like a nun.”

  “Fat chance. You know me better.”

  “You worked incredibly hard.”

  “So did you,” Victoria said. “I couldn’t have survived those awful days without you. At graduation from therapy tomorrow, I’ll have something special for you.”

  A handsome couple edged toward them through the crowd. Dr. Speller said, “Your parents, right? Weren’t you with your father that time at the baseball game?”

  “I can’t believe you remember that. Look at him; I’m so proud. He has his life back. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “It’s why I do what I do,” he said. “You’ve gotten a handle on yourself, and the effects rippled through your entire world. The Talmud says, ‘Save a life, save the world.’”

  “Who was that?” Lorraine said after Victoria rejoined her family.

  “Oh, that’s Dr. Speller,” Victoria said. “He’s my … my advisor.”

  “He’s obviously fond of you. Judging from the look on your face, I’d say you feel the same about him.”

  “What look?”

  “I know that look. I looked at your father that way when we first met. He was so handsome.”

  “Was? Look again, Mother. Besides, Dr. Speller is much more than a handsome face. Without him I’d never have become the person you see today.”

  “Ah, young love,” Lorraine sighed. “To project onto your beloved the power to make all things possible. He becomes the blank canvas onto which you paint your hopes and dreams.”

  “My beloved? You know nothing about him, Mother. Or me.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” Lorraine said with a duplicitous lilt. “All this, because I said something about your handsome professor. You don’t think you’d be the first girl who had an affair with one of her teachers?”

  “An affair? That’s ridiculous. Besides, he has someone.”

  “Silly goose; since when did that keep a professor from plucking a blossom from his garden? You could at least introduce us.”

  “Why? So you can bat your eyelashes and hurl your innuendos at him? It would be humiliating.”

  “Come on, Victoria. We’re grown-ups now. Why don’t we let bygones be bygones and be friends? I’ve missed you since you moved out.”

  “Missed me? What did you miss?”

  “Our talks.”

  “Our talks? They upset me for days. I’m different now. Same with Daddy, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “There you two are,” Morris interrupted. “It’s so nice to see you two talking, just like the old days.” Victoria turned to her father without flinching. “Time to celebrate, everyone,” he added. “There’s a table waiting for us at Bookbinder’s. Off we go.”

  28

  Monday, May 21, 1984

  Victoria walked into her final therapy session toting a brown-paper-wrapped rectangle the size of a small picture.

  “This is for you,” she said, placing the package on the couch. “So you don’t forget me.”

  “How could I forget you, Victoria, after all that we’ve been through?” he said.

  After he had finished residency training, Dr. Speller moved across the hall into a larger office with a huge picture window that faced south. The décor was the same except for the addition of a couch and a larger desk. On it rested a portrait of a smiling woman with dark hair, her arms draped around Dr. Speller’s neck from behind; the same woman from that night at the pizzeria.

  Victoria looked out at an airplane disappearing behind the sea of oil tanks dotting the confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. At twilight, she could make out the Walt Whitman Bridge.

  “What are you looking at?” he said.

  “Airplanes. Bridges. The future, I guess.”

  “Journeys and connections,” he said in a distant voice.

  “Is something bothering you?” she asked.

  Dr. Speller looked out the window.

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about how much I’m going to miss you. You have such a way with words and ideas. Your mind works so fast. And you have a terrific sense of humor.”

  “God knows where it comes from,” Victoria said. “Abington felt like growing up in a funeral home.”

  Dr. Speller’s head drooped, and his eyes, usually so lively, gravitated toward the window.

  “Hel
lo, anyone home?” Victoria said, rapping her fist against an imaginary head. “What’s going on in there?”

  Dr. Speller remained silent.

  “What is it you aren’t saying?” she said. “You’re not dying, are you?”

  Dr. Speller grinned, then shook his head.

  Victoria said, “Look, you’ve always told me to be honest. And I’ve upheld my end of the bargain. No one knows better than you how hard, sometimes humiliating, it’s been to tell you the truth. This doesn’t have to do with me, does it?”

  Dr. Speller nodded enough for Victoria to see.

  “Look at me, then,” she said. “You can’t leave me hanging. I never knew where I stood with Lorraine. You have to be honest with me. After all we’ve been through, you owe me that much. C’mon, out with it.”

  Dr. Speller’s lips moved silently as if he were struggling for words. “Here it is,” he said after a moment. “I like you.”

  “I know. I knew it the day I told you about the dark-haired girl.”

  “It’s more than that. I wonder what would have happened if we knew each other outside this room.”

  “That never would have happened,” Victoria said.

  “Probably not, but I think about it sometimes.”

  “So do I. But here we are, and that’s that,” Victoria sighed. “Besides, you made all the decisions about us. You set the rules. How close, how distant. Intimacy without being intimate. You know everything about me, but what do I know about you? This was never fair.”

  “It’s not supposed to be.”

  “Who says? Whose rules are you playing by?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out as we’ve gone along,” Dr. Speller said. “You picked up on it long ago when you clued me in about ‘clinical mode.’ My teachers spouted propaganda about therapists being blank screens on which patients play out their conflicts. I knew they were wrong. It misses what therapy is all about.”

  “Which is?”

  “The relationship between the participants. I don’t have rules for this. I made them up as we went along.”

  “And ‘this’ means?”

  “You and me.”

  “You and me?”

  “Yes, you and me.”

  “How can you talk about you and me? I don’t even know what to call you. You’ve always been Dr. Speller to me.”

  “That’s only part of who I am.”

  “I see,” she said. “We’re not just talking about ‘Dr. Speller’ anymore, are we?”

  “No, we’re not. You’re not just a patient to me.”

  “Well, you’re not just a doctor to me. You told me a long time ago that your job was to put things in perspective. So, do it. Do your job. Tell me who you are, what you believe, what you feel about me. Don’t you see? I can’t leave here without knowing that.”

  “I agree,” Dr. Speller said. He hesitated for one last moment and then sat on his desk, legs dangling as he faced Victoria. “My name is Jonas Speller. I’ll be thirty years old on October fifteenth. I was always interested in the mind and the brain, but I didn’t figure out what to do with it until I started working in this clinic. I’ve learned more from you about therapy than in all the courses and supervision I’ve ever had. As I saw you change, I had the courage to change, too.

  “I have an older brother, Eddie, who lives in New York. He has two young children and a wife named Margo. My father died of complications from surgery in my last year of medical school, and it tore me up—which is how I wound up in therapy myself. After we began your therapy, I switched analysts, because I realized I couldn’t be as straight with mine, a man I’d seen for three years, as you were with me the first two times we met.

  “I come from much humbler surroundings than yours. The closest I ever got to Florence was my art history course. See this blue book?” He pointed to the bookshelf. “It’s the score from my favorite opera, Die Meistersinger.”

  “What’s it about?” Victoria said.

  “In order to win his beloved’s hand, an out-of-towner named Walther has to win a song contest judged by a guild whose rules are rigid and antiquated. Someone helps him transform a dream into a breathtaking song that pushes the rules to the limits but gains the admiration of the townspeople. That’s me trying to come up with my own rules for therapy, not just parroting the party line. Making my own music, not singing someone else’s. That’s us. We’ve created our own song. Have you heard enough?”

  “No, you’ve got two and a half years’ worth of catching up to do! You know everything about my relationships; what about yours?” Victoria pointed to the photograph on the desk. “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Jennie. I met her soon after your therapy started.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I was a young psychiatrist. You were in terrible shape, and you were just starting to get better. I’m your doctor. I would never put your well-being at risk.”

  “Who would have known?”

  “I would have.”

  “This is fucked up. I pay you. Outside of two minutes at a baseball game, I’ve never even talked with you outside this room.”

  “I know. I’m always in my therapist mode. I wouldn’t be telling you all this if I didn’t think it would help you.”

  “Well, whatever you do, I wouldn’t have made all the changes without you. Besides, honestly, would you have done it if I didn’t pay? Tell me you would have taken the time to understand that crazed bitch who walked into your life back then.”

  “I saw something in you from the beginning. You never were indifferent.”

  “Neither were you. And you have to appreciate what that meant to me, coming from a family where nobody gave two shits about the real me. I felt so lonely as a child. So terribly lonely. What about you?”

  “This is your therapy, Victoria. Not mine.”

  “I understand that. I’m asking you to share yourself, like I’ve done with you. You just said that was what therapy was about. You have to know how much better it makes me feel about myself to know you have issues, that you’re not some god.”

  “Outside of playing music,” Jonas said, “making friends didn’t come naturally. I was shy, so I had to work at it. Of this I’m sure: The connection between us is special, something far beyond your being my patient. Look for it with whoever you get involved with.”

  “Thank you for sharing yourself. I needed that,” Victoria said. “You’re a brave man, Jonas Speller.” She looked out at the bridge in the distance. “I can’t ever go back to that awful place I was in before you.”

  Jonas searched his bookshelf.

  “What are you looking for?” Victoria said.

  “My Maimonides book, Guide for the Perplexed.”

  “Oh, I wondered what happened to it.”

  “I didn’t know you noticed it.”

  “Trust me. I notice everything.”

  “I took it with me on vacation, the one when you cancelled your session at the last moment.”

  “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Believe me. I remember everything,” Jonas said.

  They both smiled.

  “Are you going to marry her?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’re happy together.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are you headed?” she said.

  “New York City.”

  “Soon?”

  “When I finish training to be a psychoanalyst.”

  “Is it supposed to feel this sad?” Victoria asked, reaching for a tissue. “We’re saying good-bye to this whole part of our lives, aren’t we?”

  Jonas nodded.

  Victoria looked toward the descending sun. “It makes me think about a ferry ride to Martha’s Vineyard I took when I was little. I looked way off into the distance and thought I saw our destination, but when we got there, it was a mirage and I realized we h
ad more to go.”

  “We’re headed into the unknown,” Jonas said.

  “Can I call you if I need you?”

  “Of course.”

  Victoria retrieved her gift, which she presented to Jonas, saying, “This is very special to me; it’s my favorite poem. Think of it as your diploma.”

  “Thank you,” he said, unpacking a wooden frame that held sixteen lines of hand-inscribed verse on vanilla parchment:

  Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

  By Robert Frost

  Whose woods these are I think I know.

  His house is in the village though;

  He will not see me stopping here

  To watch his woods fill up with snow.

  My little horse must think it queer

  To stop without a farmhouse near

  Between the woods and frozen lake

  The darkest evening of the year.

  He gives his harness bells a shake

  To ask if there is some mistake.

  The only other sound’s the sweep

  Of easy wind and downy flake.

  The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  Thank you for being there for me.

  Victoria Schone May 21, 1984

  Victoria approached Jonas, cautiously. Then, she buried her head against his shoulder and embraced him as though she was afraid to let go. “It’s time for me to leave. Good-bye, Jonas,” she said. “I like using your first name. It’s how I want to remember you,” whereupon she departed, head held high, without turning back.

  29

  Monday, November 22, 2004

  Jonas tried to save the hour between 3:00 and 4:00 PM on Mondays to catch up on patient call-backs and prescription refill requests that had come in over the weekend. Since the conference at Foxwoods started the previous Friday, Jonas’s to-do list was longer than usual because of the extra day away.