her girlfriend who had so shirked her duties I could not tell).
As I sat listening, I considered how odd it was to know such intimate details about a person’s life yet have no context in which to place them. The voice that emanated from Room 804, the characters described, the situations and events—it was as if I were tuned to a radio play, a disembodied story floating in the quickening of my imagination. And what an odd narrator this story had, how risky, from a critical point of view; how much more conventional if she were only a financial analyst, or only a lesbian, or only an adoptee, if she did not have this odd mélange of characteristics living uneasily inside her. As the minutes went by, I kept pondering this, and saw the great difficulty in the work of the therapist: making a whole from the evidence of the broken pieces we bring them, these disparate stories that hold dark meaning for us, these unhappiness samples.
The patient was quiet for some seconds. Then:
Pretty dull stuff? she said to her therapist.
Not at all (lied the doctor).
But I suppose you’d like me to talk about what happened last week.
Silence from the therapist.
About my running out, the patient went on.
Dr. Schussler still said nothing.
You know, said the patient, I wasn’t late because of last time.
The therapist gave a little laugh. No, she finally said. Of course not.
It wasn’t … Oh, all right. Maybe. Maybe it did. I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to get here.
A long pause ensued.
It’s that adoption business, the patient finally said. You’re driving me crazy over it. It’s not like I haven’t looked at it before. There were times when I tried to find out about my past. I mean indirectly, in my own way, as I had to.
When Dr. Schussler gave no response, the patient went on:
I looked into the process of adoption, when I was young, thirteen, still in boarding school. It’s a good story. I’m assuming you’d like me to tell it.
But of course, said Dr. Schussler.
I thought you would, said the patient.
Dr. Schussler did not reply.
I thought you’d be overjoyed, said the patient. I thought you’d be encouraging, pushing, probing.
The doctor laughed. What can I probe, since you have not yet said anything?
Yes, yes, all right. I’m sorry. I’m playing games, aren’t I?
Well, no, said the doctor after a pause. I do not think it is a game at all. I think you are doing exactly what you need to do. I think you sense, correctly, that this subject will be unsettling to explore. And that you will explore it how and when you are able.
The patient gave a little hum. And I could feel the waves of gratitude pouring forth from her. (If only my own therapists had been so giving! I thought.) Thank you, the patient said at last. Because I’ve been feeling you’ve been short with me, that you’ve been disapproving of me. As if you’re getting bored with me. As if I couldn’t be an interesting client if I didn’t explore my “mysterious origins.”
Dr. Schussler inhaled sharply, and for some time she said nothing. I heard her shift in her chair; there was a crinkling sound; and I knew it could only be the Viceroy pack she was seeking: a cigarette, to help stave off the next thing that must happen. For everything now depended upon her reply. If Dr. Schussler did not admit to her own failings and humanity—if she hid behind the therapist’s ridiculous game of asking, So why do you think you thought that I had disapproving thoughts about you?—this therapeutic relationship, like so many of my own, would die.
The pause went on: eight seconds, ten, twelve. A fire truck wailed below then dopplered off.
Yes, Dr. Schussler said at last. I may have been … perhaps I …
She fell back into the cushions of her chair.
You know, she said, in our profession … it is often hard to know when to press on and when to let go.
(Mirabile dictu!)
Now the patient drew a breath. Do you think … she began.
Yes? asked the analyst.
Do you think it’s time …
What?
That I dealt with—
Your adoption? I do, but—
Find my mother? Do that whole nasty thing where I blow up my family and hers, and make everyone unhappy?
No, no, no. Not that—
Then what?
I mean—
What else can you mean? Once you open this door, you know there’s no way in hell to close it.