with a “preponderance of them.” And the fight we had over the “papist cultists.”
The patient continued in this light—the man named O’Reilly, the Irish mafia, the summer camp across the lake, that “Danny Boy” song—butterflying from one reference to the next. She and the doctor had evidently dissected these incidents many times before, so no clarifying information was forthcoming, and I therefore tried to listen as I had done in the past: letting the unexplained names and events go by without heed, allowing myself to be soothed by the sound of the patient’s voice.
But as the references went on—that girl in school, the professor, the people on the next block, the wedding, the sweet-sixteen party, that shop lady—I grew increasingly annoyed at the cryptic turn this session was taking. The patient had gone away without explanation—tortured me with her absence—only to return and make it clear she had a life I could not comprehend. She owed me an explanation! How dare she simply run on—the summer in Utah, the couple at the hotel, my friend’s best friend—with all these trinkets, these little pebbles of life! I understood: Yes, her father hated Catholics. She has proven her point. Must she keep going on? Why wouldn’t Dr. Schussler stop her? What pettiness the patient was displaying! She was supposed to be my champion, my athlete in the arena, strong in her battle against the mere situation of birth. But she would not get far if she did not move on from this pitiful evidence-gathering!
Then all at once I was frightened. How quickly I could come to hate her—she who was moments ago my icon of self-creation. I must be careful, I thought. I have traveled this path before. I must not go there. I therefore forced down my anger; sat still as my annoyance ebbed. It took all my self-control, but I succeeded, congratulating myself that I had changed, that I could be otherwise than I’d been. I tuned my ear to the lovely pitch of the patient’s voice, her beautiful whiskey alto, and once again let it play above me as music, staccato now, legato then, piano and forte. My dear patient, I thought, forgive me! And how my heart contracted when she suddenly sobbed and cried out:
I don’t understand! How could they get me from a place they hate? How could they? I know it sounds crazy, but I feel I’m tainted. That Father looks at me and sees this mark: Catholic.
But you are not changed, said the therapist. Your being, your self, is the same, whether you came from a reed basket, a Protestant church, or a Catholic agency.
This has nothing to do with who I am! shouted the patient. It’s a mark on me before I was anyone. No matter what I am!
She was breathing forcefully, and I thought she would finally cry. But she contained herself and fell silent.
Seconds passed. Traffic noise rose as if to fill the gap.
She was lying, of course, said the patient at last.
Your mother, said the doctor.
Yes. Mother. I could tell she knew a lot more than she was saying. But I couldn’t get anything more out of her. She just did her dahling thing and brushed me off—ha! Like the skirt.
The patient paused.
And why did she tell me just that one detail, she continued, the Catholic agency, and nothing more? To get back at me. Get back at me for bringing up the forbidden subject of adoption.
It’s not allowed, you see. Adoption. Forbidden. I’m not to remind her of something—I don’t know what it is, but the adoption brings up something she hates too. Something bad happened. Something bad she wants to forget. So she had to hurt me. For bringing it up. Hurt me.
The patient stopped, breathing very hard now, nearly crying, but again containing herself. Five seconds went by. Then she burst out:
Why did I ever get into this? I told you I didn’t want to! I knew it would be bad—knew it. Why did you—you!—get me into this?
The therapist said nothing.
Is the hour over? asked the patient.
If you wish, said the doctor. We only have a minute or two.
Then it’s over, said the patient, who strode out the door and slammed it shut.
Even before the elevator arrived, Dr. Schussler was on the phone, trying to reach that Dr. Gurevitch.
19.
Oh, my poor patient! What a force of anger thundered in her steps as she passed my door! I could hear her breathing—steaming with the tears she would not shed—coming