Intensive Therapy Part 1

Intensive Therapy.

Jeffrey Deitz.

To JoAnn.

1.

Friday, November 19, 2004.

As Victoria Braun surveyed her closet deciding which suit to wear, she caught sight of the black negligee she had hung on the far side of the rack weeks earlier. She had been hoping to surprise her husband with a steamy night, only that night kept getting pushed back. It's because of all the late afternoon appointments and last-minute conference calls, she tried to persuade herself. But the lawyer in her knew the argument was far from convincing. Her schedule was no more hectic than it had been for years.

Facing her reflection in the makeup mirror moments later, she heard a commotion break out down the hall. Gregory, her ten-year-old son, couldn't budge his older sister, Melinda, from her room, which meant keeping the carpool driver waiting for the third time in five days. Friends Select School, on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, was ten minutes away from the Brauns' townhouse by car, but it was a good half hour on foot, weather cooperating, which it wasn't. An enormous front descending from the Great Lakes through the eastern seaboard had shrouded the Mid-Atlantic sky in battleship gray, with a cold drizzle veiling Philadelphia's gla.s.s towers behind a glaucous scrim.

"Come on, Melinda," Gregory urged, pounding on her bedroom door. "Mrs. Caruso will be here any minute. This time, I'm going whether you're ready or not. Please. I don't want you to be late again!"

"Go away," Melinda grumbled. "Stop bothering me."

"I'm not trying to bother you," Gregory said. "You're in enough trouble already. I hear Mother talk about it all the time; those calls from the guidance office are getting to her. Next thing we know, the school will send a truant officer."

Melinda cracked open the door. "I hate that you and Mother talk about me behind my back. She's such a hypocrite. She's always late herself."

"So? You're in ninth grade; she's finished law school. You know, Melinda, being in the gifted program doesn't mean you don't have to go to school."

"So, now that you're in sixth grade, it's okay for you and Mother to gang up on me?" Melinda said.

"Don't be so paranoid, Melinda. I'm trying to help."

"f.u.c.k all of you," Melinda yelled loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I'm tired of your s.h.i.t."

"Do you hear this, Martin?" Victoria said to her husband, standing next to her adjusting his collar and tie. Something's wrong with that girl. Dammit," she exclaimed when her eyebrow pencil broke. "Now what! Take me away, Martin. Anywhere. I'd be happy with a long weekend."

"Oh Vic," Martin responded kindheartedly. "Hopefully, Melinda's just going through a phase. I know how your mind works. Even if we went away-a.s.suming we could get away-you'd find something to worry about."

"You're probably right. There's just so much to do. It's so dark out. I wish we could get some sun."

"Maybe after Christmas," Martin said.

"Jury selection for Barlow v. Duke's starts Monday," Victoria fretted. "I have to meet with Mrs. Arrestia in fifteen minutes. Then I have to be at Broad Street by ten o'clock to defend Dr. Ramey at the performing arts center deposition. All this rushing ... I hate it."

Martin said, "You know the Colazzo hearing begins at ten o'clock, too. I need an hour to prepare him."

"What's with your outfit?" Victoria teased affectionately, noting Martin's spanking white shirt and red tie dotted with American flags. "You're not running for office, are you?"

Martin Braun, six years older than Victoria-not that anyone could tell because he was so fit-looked especially handsome that day.

"No," he smiled at his wife's comment. "The presiding judge is a World War Two veteran, so I'm leveraging the patriotic look. You like?"

"Very nice," Victoria replied, trying to stay in the moment. Soon she was preoccupied with Melinda and the rush to get to the downstairs office. "If Melinda needs a ride to school, my schedule will be shot. I'll never get to that summary judgment motion that has to be filed before Tuesday."

"If only you'd learn that voice recognition software I got us, you could bang it out in ten minutes."

"Martin, please. Don't get me started," Victoria said. "I'm technologically challenged enough. Thank G.o.d Gregory showed me how to do word-processing and e-mail. I can't possibly manage another thing."

"Okay, okay. Take it easy," Martin said. "Let's send Snyder to the Ramey deposition."

"Snyder? Are you crazy? He's worthless. Chris Buddinger is representing the plaintiffs. One look at Snyder and Buddinger will smell blood. He'll tear Ramey to pieces if I'm not there. I should have listened when you said not to hire Snyder. I can't deal with Melinda this morning. Can you take her to school? It's not fair for Gregory to be late."

"Speaking of fair," Martin said. "Since it's my parents' year for Thanksgiving, they asked us to bring dessert. How about fresh cannoli from the Italian Market?"

"That's another thing to worry about," Victoria said. "No matter what I bring your sisters will give me grief. Sophia and Lydia treat me like a gold digger. I can't help it if your family got here a century before mine. My grandfather waited until Kristallnacht and spent every last penny to get out. At least he got us here. The way your sisters treat me, I wonder if they're sorry he made it out at all."

Approaching from the side, Martin drew his arms around Victoria's waist affectionately, as he always did when she was having a fit. "Calm down, Vic. Calm down," he cooed, peering over her shoulder as she repaired the smudged eyebrow. He stood back to admire his wife's profile. "Look at you," he beamed. "You're radiant. As for Melinda, let it go. Just let it go."

A floor below, the smell of freshly brewed coffee suffused the Braun's Center City townhouse with the aroma of morning. Another level below, a gla.s.s part.i.tion delicately etched with the names Schone and Braun separated their law practice from the privacy of their home. Gail Heath, their paralegal-c.u.m-office manager, was already at work preparing for the day.

Outside, the usual morning cacophony had begun: the groan of a bus on its way up Walnut Street; honking geese gathered by the gazebo on Rittenhouse Square; the whistle of the doorman hailing a taxi for a tenant of The Dorchester. Pots upon pots of yellow and orange mums lined the eight curvilinear steps leading from the pavement to 1912 Rittenhouse Square South's front door.

"I don't believe you, Melinda. I'm leaving," Gregory said as he slung his backpack onto his shoulders. "What a narcissist," he muttered on his way to the stairs.

Victoria stepped to her bedroom door. "What happened?" she asked as Gregory pa.s.sed.

"Melinda. I don't know what's with her," Gregory said. "I feel sorry for you. I tried to get her up and out."

What a dear boy. So considerate, Victoria thought. Gregory Braun was Victoria's nimble skateboarder, merrily grinding his way towards p.u.b.erty. It was far more than his book smarts-he was already in double-accelerated math and science-that Victoria adored. Gregory was so creative. His way with words made Victoria feel that he got her. Gregory was proof she had made the world a better place.

"That's not your job," she said about Melinda. "Is that new?" she asked, pointing at his backpack.

"Martin got it for me on South Street. Look," Gregory said, showing his mother several zippered pockets. "There's room for my laptop, my calculator, and my Palm Pilot."

"Martin? Since when do call your father, 'Martin?'"

"Since today. I'm trying it out to see how it feels. 'Martin,'" Gregory said, mimicking his mother's inflection. "'Martin' sounds more mature than 'Daddy' or 'Dad.' 'Father' is much too stiff. What do you think?"

"I think you're special," Victoria said with a delight she felt only in Gregory's presence. How she wished she could feel that way about Melinda, too.

"I'll p.r.o.nounce it like you do," Gregory said. "You always say 'Martin.' Not 'sweetheart,' not 'dear,' like Mrs. Lester calls Brad's father. Just 'Martin.' Very professional-like your business suits."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I like your business suits. They make you look put-together. Not like my friends' mothers in their sweatpants. I've got to go. Sorry about leaving you with Melinda." Gregory hugged his mother.

"You can still kiss me," she said, offering a cheek.

"I know, but I don't want to mess up your makeup," he said, disappearing down the stairs.

After she finished dressing, Victoria marched down the hall. "Melinda!" she demanded. No response. "Melinda!" she shouted loudly enough to rattle the door. "Get up and get dressed. I have to be downstairs in five minutes, and your father has a hearing at ten o'clock. It's out of his way, but he'll drive you. Do you hear me?"

"Stop trying to run my life," Melinda shouted back. "I'll get dressed when I want to. I don't care what you and Daddy do."

Martin came up behind Victoria.

"Something's wrong, Martin. Something's very wrong," she said over her shoulder.

"Leave it to me, Vic. I'll deal with her. Go downstairs and have your tea."

As she headed down the steps, a horrible feeling overcame her; something Victoria had not felt in more than twenty years.

2.

Friday, September 18, 1981

Descending the creaky stairs of The University of Pennsylvania's College Hall after her last cla.s.s, Victoria Schone was terrified about what was happening to her. Every time she pa.s.sed an emergency exit door, she went into a panic, plagued by thoughts of jumping off one of the tall buildings on campus. These impulses, which had started weeks earlier during her family vacation in Italy, were becoming stronger and more tempting. What is wrong with me? She kept asking herself. The more she focused on the bad thoughts, the more intense they became-racing through her mind day and night, to the point that she could barely sleep.

Although the clock atop the architecture school read 2:30, Victoria's 3:00 PM appointment seemed hours away. She had been counting down the hours for ten excruciating days. Stopping for tea at the student union, she collapsed into an armchair and tried reading her English literature book to calm her mind. It didn't help.

Victoria crossed Spruce Street and entered the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania's Gates Pavilion. She felt nauseated every time the elevator lurched to a stop on its way up to the ninth floor psychiatry clinic. At precisely 3:00 she arrived in the vestibule, where the secretary directed her to room 921, the office of the chief resident, Dr. Jonas Speller. Walking down the narrow corridor, Victoria imagined her doctor-to-be as a bearded, bespectacled nerd-type. Neutral and non-threatening. What will he do? she wondered. Call my parents? Send me to the hospital? Tell me to stop school? Say I'm beyond help?

The last thing Victoria wanted was for her parents to know how badly she felt, which could give them even more ammunition with which to snipe at her for moving into the dormitory. Her relationship with her mother, Lorraine, was already tenuous. Grandma Jeanine, Lorraine's mother, paid for Victoria's room and board, enabling her to leave home against her parents' wishes and to make the appointment at the psychiatry clinic without having to ask her parents for money.

The door to room 921 was open; Victoria peeked inside cautiously.

She was startled. Dr. Speller looked nothing like she had imagined. He was a moustached and vigorous-looking man in his late twenties, dressed in a fashionable checked shirt with a contrasting bow tie. Caught off guard, Victoria felt self-conscious.

"Good afternoon," the man said, as he rose from his desk. "I'm Dr. Jonas Speller. You are ...?"

"Victoria Schone," she said tersely, her fear trans.m.u.ted into resentment that her name had become Dr. Speller's business.

"It's good to meet you," the doctor said, gesturing for her to take a seat. "Make yourself comforta-"

"Is this the only time you can see me?" said Victoria, still standing. "I'm missing cla.s.s."

Dr. Speller seemed unsettled. He remained upright while Victoria looked about the spa.r.s.ely furnished office. He sat down first, withdrawing into his chair-on-rollers, with an expression like the one that usually presaged her father's alcohol-lubricated a.s.saults on her character. The longer Dr. Speller stayed silent, the angrier Victoria became.

"Don't you have anything to say?" she asked.

Dr. Speller asked her to sit. Victoria plopped down onto a chair close enough to his desk that she could rest her right elbow and arm on it. She waited, drifting into a far-off stare, her fingers tracing circles.

"So," the doctor said gently after a few moments, "Tell me about yourself and your situation."

"I don't know where to start." Telling her story felt unfair; revealing the suicidal thoughts was unimaginable. "I wake up every day with a knot in my stomach. I'm always afraid."

"Afraid of ...?"

"I don't know. I used to know. But now it's everything. Everything!"

"Everything? Can you put that feeling into words?"

"It's like dread. Whenever the phone rings, I think it's horrible news. Horrible."

"Horrible as in ...?"

"Horrible as in horrible. I just said that," Victoria barked.

Dr. Speller waited. Sounding more detached and clinical, he said, "This horrible feeling, does it resonate with anything? Does it bring anything to mind?"

Victoria felt she had driven Dr. Speller away. I do this all the time, she thought. "I do this all the time," she whispered aloud.

"I beg your pardon," Dr. Speller said.

She was surprised when he spoke. "What?" she said.

"I thought I heard you say, 'All the time.'"

"It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?"

"Why would it matter?" she said.

"Why would it matter?" he echoed incredulously.

"Yes. Why would it matter?"

"Because I'm interested in what you think and feel," he said.

"What I think and feel? Like you care about what I think and feel. How much does this cost?"