Intensive Therapy Page 6

  “When I started analysis I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

  “Well you do now! Scott’s the man I would have recommended for your training analyst. His wife, Johanna, plays cello for the Philadelphia Orchestra, and he’s a decent pianist. They play duets, which says a lot about how the man relates. He’d be perfect for you. I’ll call him and tell him about you, okay?”

  “What a relief. And here I was worrying the Institute would throw me out.”

  “I see potential in you, Jonas. Strength, courage, and imagination. But I know how the psychoanalytic gristmill works. If you’re not careful, it can grind away your creativity and churn your interpretations into aphorisms. Look at Fowler, a brilliant mind trying to cram his point of view into other people’s mindsets. His daughter’s a mess, while he plays word games. Plummer, Fowler, they’re hanging on by a thread. Once word gets around about you leaving Fowler, you’ll be more of a threat to them than they are to you.”

  “Really? I never looked at it that way.”

  “Define life for yourself, Jonas. Don’t live someone else’s. When I was your age, I lived in Switzerland for a time. What an eye-opener. My patients stopped being obsessives or hysterics; they became people. I stopped analyzing solely in terms of ‘intrapsychic conflict’ and began helping them find their way. There were two men there who changed my life. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. It’s quite a story.”

  “I’ll think about it, Dr. Amernick.”

  “It’s time you started calling me Stan.”

  “I’d like that, although it’ll take some time to get used to. Meanwhile, there’s this new patient I have to tell you about. She’s a huge part of what’s been happening to me.”

  “Tell me about her,” Stan said.

  Jonas grinned. “Victoria is her name. If you took her at face value, you’d say she’s a spoiled Jewish princess, but beneath the surface, she’s full of fire. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have had the balls to confront Fowler. There’s an amazing connection between us. It’s uncanny. I’ll be thinking something, and two seconds later, she’s saying the same thing. She soaks up my interpretations like a sponge. She came in overwhelmed with thoughts of walking off tall buildings, which stopped the moment I connected the impulses to her rage at her parents.”

  “She’s what I call a sports car.”

  “Huh?”

  “Very responsive to what you say. With all that oomph, she sounds like a Ferrari.” Stan chuckled. “The Institute drones would call her a ‘phallic woman,’ jargon for any woman who intimidates them. Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Nobody’s made it past the third date. Says she’s a virgin, although she’s plenty interested. Dresses royally, too. Always in designer outfits, never without makeup.”

  “My God. All detailed and still in the showroom!”

  “The first dream she brought into therapy was about a wedding.”

  “Aha,” Stan said. “There it is. She wants a serious relationship. She wants to be the bride. She must feel alone.”

  Jonas nodded.

  “How old?”

  “Just turned twenty.”

  “Are you considering her for one of your control cases?”

  “She would do it if I pushed, but I don’t want to share her with a supervising analyst I don’t know. It would be like throwing her to the wolves.”

  “How’s her therapy going?”

  “Just fine. We meet twice a week, face-to-face. She emerged from a big funk after I appeared undisguised in a dream.”

  “The first dream about the therapist is a hallmark event. So, how did she portray you?”

  “At first, Victoria-the-child wanted her favorite sugar cookies, but her mother wouldn’t let her. Later, the grown-up Victoria was in a bakery, looking for her own cookies. Guess who the baker was?”

  “Sweetness—that’s what she wants from you. I bet her mother can be very bitter. And what were her associations to you in the dream?”

  “That sometimes I sound too detached, in what she calls ‘clinical mode.’ She likes it better when I’m ‘relaxed and conversational.’ I think I get clinical when I’m unsure of myself.”

  “I bet ‘clinical mode’ is connected with your ex.”

  “My ex?”

  “Your ex-analyst. You’ve probably been mimicking Fowler’s style without realizing it. He’s a know-it-all. Don’t be afraid to be unsure of yourself with Victoria, with all your patients. It’ll make you more human in their eyes. And don’t worry. Victoria’s not going anywhere as long as you keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “You don’t think I should focus on the orality in the dream?”

  “Leave that to Phil Fowler and his cronies. They’ve made their living off those interpretations for the past fifty years. This girl hungers for sweetness and consistency. There’ll be sparks between you and her,” Stan said, his eyebrows dancing. “But that’s how it is in our line of work.

  “By the way, Jonas,” Stan said as time was running out. “My wife, Marta—she’s a psychiatrist, too—and I are having a few couples for Thanksgiving. You’d like them. I hope you can join us.”

  “Whoa, that’s some invitation!” Jonas said.

  “Please try and make it. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  13

  Thursday, November 26, 1981

  Jonas was excited about Thanksgiving for the first time since his father died. This would be his first without family.

  Stan had invited him for 3:00 PM. They would have dinner later, after several other couples arrived. In the morning, Jonas took off for his run in the blustery wind. As he crossed Broad Street, napkins and hot-dog wrappers from the Thanksgiving parade swirled around the gutters like pigeons scavenging for their holiday meal.

  The Amernicks lived on Delancey Street in a landmarked colonial townhouse. Jonas often jogged through the neighborhood, but he had never been inside any of the historic houses.

  Barely able to contain himself, he arrived punctually, toting two bottles of Dezaley.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Stan said, collecting the wine and Jonas’s overcoat.

  The Amernick foyer opened into a great room, the kitchen at the rear, a working fireplace on the brick wall to the right. Crackling flames reflected the colors of the holiday table’s china, polished silver, and glimmering crystal, making the entire space glow as if it had been lit by a giant candelabra.

  Marta rushed to the door. Stan said, “Jonas, this is my wife, Marta.”

  Marta smiled. “Hello, Jonas. Stan’s said so much about you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. Your home is fabulous,” Jonas said. “I’ve seen these houses for years, but only from the outside.”

  Stan said, “We bought it for a song in the sixties. It looked abandoned.” He turned to Marta, his face full of admiration. “We renovated it over time, room by room. It’s been a labor of love.”

  Professional women usually intimidated him, but not Marta, whom Jonas took to instantly. He said, “Stan’s told me about that journal club you’re in, and about your training abroad.”

  “Dezaley!” Marta exclaimed as Stan showed her the wine. “The Swiss hardly ever export local wines. Where did you get these?”

  “My brother, Eddie, lives in New York. You can find anything there.”

  “How thoughtful,” she said.

  “Remember our first Dezaley?” Stan asked her.

  “Who could forget? The night you proposed,” Marta said as she caressed the labels. “They’re even chilled, too. Is it too early to make a toast?” She moved toward the staircase. “I’ll see if Jennie wants some.”

  Stan took her arm. “She’s getting dressed, dear. There’s no rush.”

  “Jennie?” Jonas quizzed Stan.

  “It must have slipped my mind,” Stan chortled as if he were struggling to keep a straight face. “Jennie’s our daughter. She’s been staying here. She’s on leave from Sotheby’s in New York. She’s a docent
and tour guide for prospective buyers in Europe, mostly France.”

  Jonas’s heart skipped a beat. Jennie; so this was the someone Stan wanted me to meet, he realized. He had never been abroad; the furthest he’d ever traveled was across the country with the Mask and Wig Club during his college years at Penn.

  Marta said, “I thought the four of us could have a moment before everyone arrived.”

  Stan whispered something to her, and she said, “Okay, later.”

  “Anything to drink now?” Stan said.

  “Something soft,” Jonas replied, as they headed for the kitchen.

  “There’s club soda,” Marta offered. “We keep it for Cuthbert Boening; Cutty, we call him. He’ll be here later. He’s on a first-name basis with every neuron in the brain of the sea snail Aplysia.”

  “What a character,” Stan chuckled. “Cutty’s in at the same time each day. His rats practically stand and salute when he enters the lab. At twelve-thirty sharp he lunches with the same colleagues before retiring to his favorite chair in the library to review the latest publications.”

  “Sounds like the man likes order. And predictability,” Jonas said.

  “Don’t we all?” Marta added. “We wrestle with that all the time in the neuroscience group—where we discuss patients and journal articles. It’s like a monthly infusion of new ideas. You’d like it, Jonas. Come sometime. Lately we’ve been wondering, what if people we’ve been calling ‘moody’ are not, in fact, dealing with unconscious conflict. Suppose their brains are merely more vulnerable to stressors, like body temperature?”

  “I like that analogy,” Jonas said. “When I was interning, we admitted a prostitute with a burning fever from pelvic inflammatory disease—”

  “That reminds me,” Stan interrupted. “You heard about those unexplained sarcomas in gay men? It wouldn’t surprise me if the cause was sexually transmitted. Sorry for interrupting. You were saying …”

  “The woman’s self-esteem was in the toilet. Not one person visited her. But I was nice to her, and she felt better long before the antibiotics could have worked. My resident called it a placebo effect, but I knew my interaction with her made the difference. That’s one of the reasons I chose psychiatry.”

  Marta said, “Wait until you meet Rebecca Kahn. She’s coming, too. She’s a child psychiatrist who gave up the analytic ghost after eight tortuous years on the couch. She felt well for the first time in her life once she took Lithium.”

  “Is that where you got the idea to analyze a patient on Lithium?” Jonas asked Stan. “I read that paper after we talked about combining medication and psychotherapy.”

  “I get a lot of ideas from Marta.” Stan turned to her and asked, “Remember the night you came home from group all charged up about a European study of a new drug for depression? Zima … Zima … something.”

  “Zimeledine,” she said. “The first drug to specifically increase serotonin. I better seat you and Rebecca at opposite ends of the table,” she said to Jonas while basting the turkey, “or you’ll monopolize each other all night.”

  Jonas heard someone approaching.

  “There she is,” Marta beamed. “We’ve been waiting for you. Jonas Speller, this is our daughter, Jennie.”

  Jennie Amernick, around Jonas’s age, looked like a tulip curled up against a biting wind. She had dark brown hair and was more slender than her mother, her hips and thighs tapering softly beneath a tailored skirt. She had huge green eyes. Such sparkling eyes—they looked like polished jade. A large emerald pendant dangled from her neck.

  “Hello,” she said to Jonas. “From what he’s said, Dad really likes you.”

  “Well, your father is the best teacher I ever had. Your necklace is mesmerizing. Where did it come from?”

  All three Amernicks began speaking at once. Stan broke in, “You tell the story, Jennie. It belongs to you.”

  Jennie hesitated.

  “C’mon, sweetie,” Marta cajoled, eyes admiring Jonas. “We’re friends.”

  “You’d have to really know my parents to understand,” Jennie said. “My father’s the son of a rabbi from Long Island. My mother is German Catholic, one of nine children, raised on a farm in southern Indiana. At Christmas time in 1954, Mom flew home from Switzerland where she was studying medicine. Dad was headed to Kentucky, where he was best man at a friend’s wedding. They were both waiting for the same plane from New York to Louisville when a freak snowstorm buried the airport in two feet of snow, stranding everyone. Mom was carrying a duffel bag stuffed with Toblerones. All Dad had was his coat and a psychoanalytic journal.

  “When Mom saw him reading Psychoanalytic Quarterly, they started talking. She shared her duffel bag for him to sleep on. That was it. Their paths crossed once, and from then on, they were inseparable. Dad moved to Switzerland. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been born. It’s enough to make you believe in fate. They named me Genevieve after Lake Geneva.”

  Across the room, a burning log tumbled in the fireplace, unleashing a brilliant burst of colors. Jennie’s pendant gleamed. So did Jonas’s eyes.

  “My grandfather, Rabbi Amernick, never pestered Mom or Dad about religion. When they saw how happy Dad was, my grandparents loved Mom like their other daughter.” Jennie cradled her necklace gently. “As a symbol of acceptance, my grandmother gave her this pendant, specifying it be passed on to the first granddaughter. If I have a daughter, the pendant will be hers.”

  Jonas said, “What a story. I love the part about paths crossing once.”

  Stan said to Marta, “How about that toast you talked about?” He ushered Jennie and Jonas to the sitting area, and he and Marta conveniently disappeared to the kitchen to open the wine.

  Jonas and Jennie sat quietly by the fire. He liked her smile and her soothing tone, although there was a crackle to her voice that told him there was far more to Jennie Amernick than met the eye. In no time, they were talking about all the great opera houses Jennie had seen throughout Europe.

  Stan returned with a tray bearing four glasses of Dezaley. “We have so much to be thankful for,” he said, clinking glasses with Jennie. “Welcome home, sweetie. We’re so glad you’re here. And,” he said, turning toward Jonas while Jennie and Marta smiled, “welcome to our home, Jonas. To the first of many visits.”

  14

  Friday, November 19, 2004

  Victoria went to the ladies’ room while Martin waited for the bill. Her face in the mirror was haggard; her mood was worse.

  As soon as she got back to the table, her cell phone rang. It was Gregory.

  “Hello, Gregory. Are you all right? How’s Melinda?”

  “I’m fine, Mother. It’s quiet. Melinda’s in her room. When will you be home?”

  “Soon. We’re leaving the restaurant. Why?”

  “Brad invited me for the weekend. His family’s going to Mount Snow. It’s been cold enough to make snow in Vermont. Brad snowboards, and he says I’ll pick it up right away. If we leave now, we’ll beat the traffic and be settled in early tonight, so we can be there when the lifts open in the morning. The lifts close at four on Sunday, so I’ll be home by ten. I’ll do my homework in the car. Can I go? Please?”

  “I’ll ask your father. How can you read in a moving car? The thought makes me nauseous.”

  “I researched your condition online, Mother. It’s a neurological disorder called benign positional vertigo. There are exercises you can do to make it better. We’ll work on it together if you like. I’ll e-mail you the link.”

  Such an amazing child, Victoria thought. She and Martin agreed that Gregory could go on the trip.

  “They can get me in fifteen minutes. So I might not see you. Is that okay?”

  “All right,” Victoria replied. “Make sure you wear your helmet.”

  “You worry too much, Mother. Google ‘progressive muscle relaxation.’ It’ll help you control your mind.”

  “Wear your helmet. Promise or I won’t let you go.”

  “Okay. I’ll take my sk
ate helmet with me.”

  “Promise you’ll wear it. Swear.”

  “I swear. Progressive muscle relaxation, Mother. Promise me you’ll do it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Swear.”

  Victoria laughed. “I swear I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Stop being a lawyer, Mother, and swear.”

  “Okay, I swear.”

  “I’ll do my homework, but you have to do yours. Fair?”

  “Fair is fair. Have a wonderful time, Gregory.”

  “Love you. Tell Martin I love him, too. Bye.”

  When Victoria and Martin returned home, Gregory was gone. He had made his bed, straightened his desk, laid out his clothes, and arranged the pillows and throws precisely the way she preferred.

  Victoria tapped gently on Melinda’s door. No answer. She knocked harder; still nothing. It took four more tries, each progressively louder. Finally, she hollered, “Melinda, open this door now.”

  “What is it?” Melinda responded lethargically.

  “Melinda, honey, there’s something we need to discuss.”

  The knob twitched, setting the door ajar. Looking at Melinda’s room made Victoria’s stomach turn. Dozens of books lay strewn about. Melinda hadn’t touched dinner, which she’d deposited on the floor next to two half-empty yogurt containers and a banana skin. Melinda’s shoulders slumped, and her skin looked pasty.

  “Cut the ‘honey’ crap, Mother,” sneered Melinda, sitting crosslegged by her bed. “You say ‘honey’ whenever you’re going to complain about me.”

  “Melinda, you have to get to sleep early enough to get up on time for school. You’re up all hours with the iPod piped into your headphones. And that disgusting sound your phone makes croaks all night long like a bullfrog.”

  “No way. You shut off the Internet at eleven.”

  “We’re not morons, Melinda. We know about text messages. There were hundreds a few months ago.”

  “Admit it,” Melinda snarled. “You hate me.”

  “Hate you? This isn’t about me liking you or not. It’s about life in our house.”