by Tom Bierdz
I was awakened by a dream where I was sitting on the shore, reading a book on ethics by Aristotle, when I heard a woman scream. Dropping the book, I jumped up and dashed to the edge of the water, peering in the direction of the sound. But the screams seemed to come both from the left and the right of me, far out in the distant water. I dragged a rowboat into the water and rowed with all the muster I could manage straight out to sea, between the screams, expecting to accurately veer towards the troubled woman once I observed her. Her screams were horrifying. Earth-shattering. I was convinced she would drown if I didn’t reach her in time. My breathing strained, and sweating profusely, I rowed as fast and as hard as I could, nearing exhaustion, for what seemed forever. Then finally I spotted them. Two women, panicky and treading water, on the verge of going under. One to the right of me, one to the left, separated by the length of a football field. My arms froze up, making it near impossible to row. I didn’t know if I could reach either of them in time. Certainly not both. I was forced to choose which one to try to save when I awoke with a sweat.
You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to interpret the dream. The ethics book related to my dating Megan. She was one of the drowning women; Hanna was the other. Both were drowning and needed me to save them. I had to choose. Shaky and nauseous I plodded to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face. I hated those kinds of dreams, my super ego stirring up everything I had neatly pigeonholed, forcing me to sort it all out again, put it in its proper box. Well, that would have to wait. I refused to analyze my dream on my way to work since I needed to be fresh for my patients. The brain-racking stole a lot of energy.
Carrie was on the porch smoking her cigarette.
“I missed you the last couple of days,” I said. “Almost thought you gave up smoking.”
“Wished it were so,” she said. “I’ve been smoking more. Dad had a relapse.” She shook her head. “No, I said it wrong. That’s not right. It’s just taking him longer to recover. Golfing set him back. The doctor said he needed to be more patient, take it slower. He used a cart. He’d probably been all right if he stopped at nine holes.”
I smiled. I couldn’t imagine Mike slowing down for anyone. He was a type A, full of energy.
“He’ll learn. He’ll have to. It’s amazing what we can learn to adapt to.” I ambled over to her. “You okay?”
“More or less.” She smiled. “Can you join me for a drink?”
“Definitely, but not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you.”
“Thanks. I’ll plan on it.”
I entered my office and saw a couple of patients. Mid-morning I checked with Bobby, “Any messages?”
Yeah, a Doctor Isley Hodges called. He’s a new psychiatrist in town. Wants to meet with you.”
“Did he say what for?”
“No.”
“If my ten o’clock is still open tomorrow, put him in there.” I didn’t know we needed a new psychiatrist in town. With my sub-par patient load I didn’t relish the competition, an inner-child response on my part. Realistically, with the metropolitan area we served, we could take on several more psychiatrists before we became saturated. And, if I conducted therapy successfully, and stayed out of the media with DUIs and the like, I’d have more patients than I could handle regardless of the number of shrinks in town.
After lunch, I taxied to the group home. Carlos was talking to one of the staff in his office with the door closed when I arrived. I had noticed the young lady in the building on another occasion, assumed by her youth and provocative tight clothing that she was a visitor. While her head hung down in shame or regret, Carlos signaled to me he’d be with me shortly. I took a seat in the waiting room and hadn’t even a chance to scan the magazines when the young lady, dressed in a tight top that revealed her midriff and a short skirt, came out crying. As I watched her walk away, Carlos peeked out of his door, waved me in.
“You’d think by now I’d have learned not to compromise my principles,” he said, topping off his coffee cup. He offered me a cup, held up the pot in his hand, and poured when I nodded. “My wife begged me to hire her niece, Allison, who after getting a two year community college degree, decides she wants to be a social worker.” He placed the pot back on the burner, sat, his face etched with frustration. “First of all, I don’t need anybody. All my positions are filled. But more to the point, this babe is hot. You saw her, Doc. If I were single and in my twenties, I’d chase her myself. I got a household of boys with raging hormones. Two, who already got in trouble for sexually acting-out.” He paused. “Well, I don’t have to lay it out for you. I gave in to my wife, hired Allison as a girl ‘Friday’ for fifteen, twenty hours a week. I repeatedly warned her about dressing so provocatively. She claimed she wore what everyone else wore. What the stores sell as clothes nowadays is another story. Anyway, I had to fire her. She was caught kissing one of the boys in his room.”
He took a long john out of a bakery box, jammed half of it into his mouth, and shoved the box toward me. I grabbed a jelly filled Bismarck. “You did what you had to do,” I said.
“Yeah, but you have no idea the flak I’m going to get from my wife and her sister,” he muttered through the mouthful of bakery. “Allison’s already blaming it on the boy. But, like I said, had I stuck to my principles I’d have never hired her in the first place.”
I knew all about compromising principles. Was there a message for me here? “Greg tells me his mother was in to see you about wanting him home.” I bit into my Bismarck.
“Yeah. I told her I didn’t think he was ready to come home, but it wasn’t up to me. I told her to go see his social worker, Bertha.” He put his finger to the edge of his mouth. “You got something there.”
I wiped off the jelly with my handkerchief. “I’ve never met the mother. Give me your impressions.”
He leaned back, thought about it. “She’s a mixed bag. She’s probably near forty, but looks older. Her features are pretty, but she looks haggard, worn down by life. She smiles only with her mouth. Never with her eyes. Very nervous. Hyper. She was polite. Somewhat timid. I felt she really cared for Greg, but her push for his return was financially motivated as well. Her grant was reduced.”
“She doesn’t work?”
“She does part-time at a drugstore. Probably minimum wage. She said she had a possibility as an apartment manager where she would have free housing and get off the dole.”
“That could be wishful thinking.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I talked to Bertha. She believes it would be premature to send Greg home now. She’d like to hear from you.”
I wondered why Bertha didn’t call me direct rather than send a message through Carlos. “I’ll call her after I see Greg. How’s he been?”
“Great! Problem free since he’s been back from the detention center.”
“Did you know he came to see me?”
Carlos stared at me blankly. “I don’t remember.”
That wasn’t important. What was important if Greg had talked to Carlos about not wanting to leave the group home as he was requested to do. “Did he tell you he wanted to stay here?”
Carlos smiled. “Yes, I was rather surprised by his initiative. With me it’s usually avoidance or a simple hello. I remember it well because he said if he went home, he didn’t think he could stop himself from striking out at his mother if she got on his case. He was assuming responsibility for his behavior. A big leap, I thought.”
“Impulse control,” I said, delighted. “We’ve been working on it. Well,” I said, edging to the front of my seat, “unless you have something else, I’ll go see Gregory now.”
“Don’t forget about Brenda.”
“I’m on it,” I said, standing.
Headphones on his ear, Greg sat at his desk working algebra problems when I entered his room. He didn’t hear me knock. I could never understand how young people could concentrate with music beating on their brains. Kevin also played loud music when
he did his homework. Somehow they were able to compartmentalize. Since my arguments about concentration didn’t work with Kevin, I tried appealing to his potential hearing loss. In retrospect with Kevin it didn’t matter.
Catching me in his peripheral vision, Greg ripped off the earphones, greeted me with a smile that faded as he checked me out with his eyes. “The camera’s in the car?”
“I didn’t bring it,” I said, noting his disappointment. “We need to follow up on your visit the other day. Should we stay here or would you prefer to walk?”
Greg grabbed a hooded sweatshirt. “Walk. Justin will be here any minute.”
It was cool and windy outside, still a nice day for a walk. We headed to the city park a few blocks away. Two youths on skateboards barely avoided a car crossing at the crosswalk. I caught myself about to drop into father mode and preach to Greg about the dangers of skateboards and not paying attention. Instead, I said, “Mr. Gutierrez said you told him you wanted to remain at the group home. He was pleased with your initiative.”
“Yeah, it went okay.” He covered his head with his hood, shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Did you talk to your mother?”
We waited for the walk sign, crossed the street to the park.
Greg picked up a couple of acorns, flung them. “I talked to Mom. It didn’t go as well.”
We sat on a park bench, the wind at our back.
I waited.
He pulled on his ear. “I tried to tell her like you told me, said I was doing well in school, staying out of trouble. She said she was glad, but she needed me home, that the State cut her check, and she couldn’t buy food and make the rent with what they gave her.” He bent down, picked up some pebbles, and shook them in his hand. “Then she did this whole thing about my father, how irresponsible he was, how he always didn’t send in the money for my keep. How tough it was to be a single parent, and how much she sacrificed for me.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Like shit! I mean, I’m tired of listening to her sob stories, making me feel responsible.”
“You feel responsible?”
“I mean, I know I’m not. I didn’t get her into this mess, but she makes me feel like I’m at fault.”
“And you feel guilty.”
“Yeah.” His eyes clouded up.
“The only person you’re responsible for, Greg, is yourself. That’s the only person you have any control over. You’re not responsible for your mother. Your mother is responsible for herself and she has a parental responsibility for seeing to your care. The State has assumed some of that responsibility for you since your parents have not done a very good job. You’re sixteen, at an age when you need to separate from your parents and become your own person.” I put my arm on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but you need to ignore your mother’s protests. Take care of yourself. You can work things out with your mother at a later time.”
My words seemed to make him feel better. “Does that mean I can stay at the group home?”
“Yes, both Bertha and Mr. Gutierrez believe you should have the opportunity to continue with the progress you made, and I agree.”
We visited in the park for a while, got a sandwich at the diner, and made plans to go birding with the camera again.
22
Isley Hodges arrived precisely at ten the next day. Had there been anybody else in the waiting room, I would never have guessed the tall hombre with the ten gallon hat and the cowboy boots was a psychiatrist. Maybe, somebody wanting to sell me tickets to a rodeo.
“Dr. Isley Hodges?” I asked.
Smiling broadly, he shot up and shook my hand. It was firm. Calloused.
I led him into my office, motioned for him to sit, as I sank down behind my desk. “Bobby says you’re a psychiatrist.”
“Yes,” he said, removing his hat and hanging it on his knee, on the crossed-over leg. His straw colored hair sat high on his forehead, and was swept straight back, and flattened a little from his hat. He was handsome, with weathered chiseled features, and a mouthful of perfect teeth. Had he been an actor he’d be perfect for the leading man in a Western. “I go by Lee. Isley looks good on my letterhead, gives me sort of an intellectual aura, but Lee is more personal.” He spoke with a Texas twang.
I’m not that good on accents, but I thought I pegged his. “Where in Texas are you from?”
“Amarillo. Grew up on a ranch. My Daddy still has a thousand acres. Raises horses. A real horse whisperer.” Then half under his breath, he added, “Better with horses than people. Probably one of the reasons I went into psychiatry.” His grin seemed to say he wouldn’t normally share that information with anyone. “When my brothers got old enough to help on the farm, I went to U-Dub med school.”
I was impressed by his openness, but hoped he didn’t expect the same from me. “Seattle is a long way from Amarillo. What brought you here?”
“I fell in love with this little filly...two-legged type...followed her out here. Tragically, she died in an accident.” Sadness blanketed his face. “I grew to like it out here, made some connections, thought I’d stay and set up my practice here. Besides, it’s a long way from Amarillo.” He crossed his long legs, revolved his hat in his hands, running the brim between his fingers. “That brings me to my visit. I’m needing a place to start. Can you take on another psychiatrist? I can help you with your overhead.”
I knew where he was coming from. Starting a practice in a city where you lived, and knew a lot of people, was hard enough. Hanging your shingle and putting a listing in the yellow pages, rarely brought you patients. Psychiatry was a referral business. You had to be known and liked by the professionals in the community, and then later, by the patients you helped. Although I felt for him, I couldn’t help him. “This has always been a one man operation, Lee, and I intend to keep it that way. Truthfully, I can’t even keep a full calendar for me right now. But I appreciate your reaching out to me.”
He stood. “Well, it was worth a try. If nothing else I got a chance to meet you. If you get real busy you can send some referrals my way. Do you know of any other psychiatrists who could take on another?”
“I don’t. We get busy with our practice and don’t interact very much. You might try the local APA.”
“I have. Nothing going. I didn’t want to use Daddy’s money and go cold turkey. It would have been nice to develop a practice gradually. We’ll see.” He offered his hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”
I wished him good luck. At least he had a good go to source with his father if worse came to worse. I figured his looks would be enough to get him a good female patient base. I didn’t know about the western gear.
After he left I drifted back to when I began my private practice. It was an exciting time. I was the first in my family to go beyond a basic college education, and I was proud of my achievement. Hanna and Kevin shared my excitement. They had supported me and seldom complained about the time I spent away from them meeting my commitments; the long hours of study, the intensive residency, the patient calls at all hours of the night. They were there for me. I couldn’t have done it without their cooperation.
We functioned as a team. And when I finally set up shop, Hanna and Kevin helped me decorate it.
And Mike McBride rented me the upstairs on a ballooning scale where I paid the barest minimum for rent for the first three years until I got established. He also sent me many referrals as did friends I made in the community. I had a whole team behind me. Dr. Hodges scenario was substantially different.
Megan invited me for dinner. She looked fantastic, her hair down, sprung with curls, packaged in soft pink, satin lounging pajamas, and greeted me with a Rob Roy. Soft music played in the background. Candles burned on the glass coffee table. Welcoming me with a kiss, she directed me to the sofa where she ran her hand through the back of my hair. “You look tired,” she said. “Hard day?”
“I’ll recover quickly. I just saw this couple for the third time, and I’ve
not been able to get them past blaming one another for their situation. They refuse to consider what part they play. I’ve used every technique in my bag of tricks and I’m totally frustrated. I’m beginning to think therapy was for show that they already made up their mind to divorce.”
“You’re always the caretaker, Grant. You need someone to nourish and take care of you.”
The impact of her statement was powerful. Although it was said casually, I sensed its depth, filling me with conflicting feelings. On the one hand, I yearned for the comfort of a partnership and all the pleasantries it entailed, but didn’t like the pressure closing in on my chest. I smiled, got lost in her sapphire blue eyes. “It does feel good to unwind.” I sipped my drink. “And you do make the best Rob Roys.”
“Exactly like you taught me.”
“And how was your day?”
“Good,” she said, getting up and retrieving her martini from a side table. “I read, took a long walk.” She sat back down next to me.
“I like the outfit. Very sexy.”
“I got it for you.”
I took a long pull on my drink, noticed that Megan seemed to drift away momentarily, her mind focused elsewhere. “It looks like we’re getting a new psychiatrist in town.”
“Really?” Megan said, her ears perking up. She jumped into the present. “How do you know?”
“He came in to see me. Would have liked me to take him on, give him a start.”
“You’re not, are you?”
“No, I’m scrounging for patients. And, even if I weren’t, I like my one man operation.”
“What’s his name?”
Smiling, I teased, “Why, you going to see him?”
“Simply curious, Grant, but,” she added, sitting on my lap, “since you won’t see me anymore.”
She kissed me, got up and moved away.
“Come back here.” I reached out with my arms.
“Later. I have to check the roast.”
She re-entered the room wearing an apron that said, ‘Fuck the Cook’. “You didn’t tell me his name.”
