Intensive Therapy Part 14

Dr. Speller nodded enough for Victoria to see.

"Look at me, then," she said. "You can't leave me hanging. I never knew where I stood with Lorraine. You have to be honest with me. After all we've been through, you owe me that much. C'mon, out with it."

Dr. Speller's lips moved silently as if he were struggling for words. "Here it is," he said after a moment. "I like you."

"I know. I knew it the day I told you about the dark-haired girl."

"It's more than that. I wonder what would have happened if we knew each other outside this room."

"That never would have happened," Victoria said.

"Probably not, but I think about it sometimes."

"So do I. But here we are, and that's that," Victoria sighed. "Besides, you made all the decisions about us. You set the rules. How close, how distant. Intimacy without being intimate. You know everything about me, but what do I know about you? This was never fair."

"It's not supposed to be."

"Who says? Whose rules are you playing by?"

"I've been trying to figure that out as we've gone along," Dr. Speller said. "You picked up on it long ago when you clued me in about 'clinical mode.' My teachers spouted propaganda about therapists being blank screens on which patients play out their conflicts. I knew they were wrong. It misses what therapy is all about."

"Which is?"

"The relationship between the partic.i.p.ants. I don't have rules for this. I made them up as we went along."

"And 'this' means?"

"You and me."

"You and me?"

"Yes, you and me."

"How can you talk about you and me? I don't even know what to call you. You've always been Dr. Speller to me."

"That's only part of who I am."

"I see," she said. "We're not just talking about 'Dr. Speller' anymore, are we?"

"No, we're not. You're not just a patient to me."

"Well, you're not just a doctor to me. You told me a long time ago that your job was to put things in perspective. So, do it. Do your job. Tell me who you are, what you believe, what you feel about me. Don't you see? I can't leave here without knowing that."

"I agree," Dr. Speller said. He hesitated for one last moment and then sat on his desk, legs dangling as he faced Victoria. "My name is Jonas Speller. I'll be thirty years old on October fifteenth. I was always interested in the mind and the brain, but I didn't figure out what to do with it until I started working in this clinic. I've learned more from you about therapy than in all the courses and supervision I've ever had. As I saw you change, I had the courage to change, too.

"I have an older brother, Eddie, who lives in New York. He has two young children and a wife named Margo. My father died of complications from surgery in my last year of medical school, and it tore me up-which is how I wound up in therapy myself. After we began your therapy, I switched a.n.a.lysts, because I realized I couldn't be as straight with mine, a man I'd seen for three years, as you were with me the first two times we met.

"I come from much humbler surroundings than yours. The closest I ever got to Florence was my art history course. See this blue book?" He pointed to the bookshelf. "It's the score from my favorite opera, Die Meistersinger."

"What's it about?" Victoria said.

"In order to win his beloved's hand, an out-of-towner named Walther has to win a song contest judged by a guild whose rules are rigid and antiquated. Someone helps him transform a dream into a breathtaking song that pushes the rules to the limits but gains the admiration of the townspeople. That's me trying to come up with my own rules for therapy, not just parroting the party line. Making my own music, not singing someone else's. That's us. We've created our own song. Have you heard enough?"

"No, you've got two and a half years' worth of catching up to do! You know everything about my relationships; what about yours?" Victoria pointed to the photograph on the desk. "Who is she?"

"Her name's Jennie. I met her soon after your therapy started."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say something before?"

"I was a young psychiatrist. You were in terrible shape, and you were just starting to get better. I'm your doctor. I would never put your well-being at risk."

"Who would have known?"

"I would have."

"This is f.u.c.ked up. I pay you. Outside of two minutes at a baseball game, I've never even talked with you outside this room."

"I know. I'm always in my therapist mode. I wouldn't be telling you all this if I didn't think it would help you."

"Well, whatever you do, I wouldn't have made all the changes without you. Besides, honestly, would you have done it if I didn't pay? Tell me you would have taken the time to understand that crazed b.i.t.c.h who walked into your life back then."

"I saw something in you from the beginning. You never were indifferent."

"Neither were you. And you have to appreciate what that meant to me, coming from a family where n.o.body gave two s.h.i.ts about the real me. I felt so lonely as a child. So terribly lonely. What about you?"

"This is your therapy, Victoria. Not mine."

"I understand that. I'm asking you to share yourself, like I've done with you. You just said that was what therapy was about. You have to know how much better it makes me feel about myself to know you have issues, that you're not some G.o.d."

"Outside of playing music," Jonas said, "making friends didn't come naturally. I was shy, so I had to work at it. Of this I'm sure: The connection between us is special, something far beyond your being my patient. Look for it with whoever you get involved with."

"Thank you for sharing yourself. I needed that," Victoria said. "You're a brave man, Jonas Speller." She looked out at the bridge in the distance. "I can't ever go back to that awful place I was in before you."

Jonas searched his bookshelf.

"What are you looking for?" Victoria said.

"My Maimonides book, Guide for the Perplexed."

"Oh, I wondered what happened to it."

"I didn't know you noticed it."

"Trust me. I notice everything."

"I took it with me on vacation, the one when you cancelled your session at the last moment."

"I can't believe you remember that."

"Believe me. I remember everything," Jonas said.

They both smiled.

"Are you going to marry her?" Victoria asked.

"Yes."

"I hope you're happy together."

"Thank you."

"Where are you headed?" she said.

"New York City."

"Soon?"

"When I finish training to be a psychoa.n.a.lyst."

"Is it supposed to feel this sad?" Victoria asked, reaching for a tissue. "We're saying good-bye to this whole part of our lives, aren't we?"

Jonas nodded.

Victoria looked toward the descending sun. "It makes me think about a ferry ride to Martha's Vineyard I took when I was little. I looked way off into the distance and thought I saw our destination, but when we got there, it was a mirage and I realized we had more to go."

"We're headed into the unknown," Jonas said.

"Can I call you if I need you?"

"Of course."

Victoria retrieved her gift, which she presented to Jonas, saying, "This is very special to me; it's my favorite poem. Think of it as your diploma."

"Thank you," he said, unpacking a wooden frame that held sixteen lines of hand-inscribed verse on vanilla parchment: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Thank you for being there for me.

Victoria Schone May 21, 1984 Victoria approached Jonas, cautiously. Then, she buried her head against his shoulder and embraced him as though she was afraid to let go. "It's time for me to leave. Good-bye, Jonas," she said. "I like using your first name. It's how I want to remember you," whereupon she departed, head held high, without turning back.

29.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Jonas tried to save the hour between 3:00 and 4:00 PM on Mondays to catch up on patient call-backs and prescription refill requests that had come in over the weekend. Since the conference at Foxwoods started the previous Friday, Jonas's to-do list was longer than usual because of the extra day away.

He wasn't especially pleased when his colleague Christopher Cantley, a.s.sistant director of residency training, stopped in for a curbside consult. Cantley wanted an opinion about which medication to use for a traumatized patient whose wife had died in a gruesome car accident. A recent study had touted Paxil for combat-related posttraumatic stress disorder, but the patient wouldn't take it because of s.e.xual side effects. Cantley wanted to know what Jonas would prescribe.

"Are you sure the man needs medication?" Jonas inquired.

"He says he's having panic attacks," Cantley replied.

"Hmm. s.e.xual side effects ... Is the man dating?"

"Yes. For the first time in three years."

Jonas said, "Maybe that's what has him upset. You know, how old stuff gets stirred up."

"I didn't think about that."

"How often do you see him?"

"Once a month, for medication management."

"You might want to try meeting more often and for longer sessions," Jonas said tactfully. "I treated a widow whose husband died on September 11th. She had a guilty depression once she started dating again. It turned out the new man was much more s.e.xually satisfying than the dead husband. For her it felt like cheating! We met regularly for a while; she got well quickly once we talked it through."

"How often did you meet?"

"Twice the first week. Then once a week for the next couple of months; about ten sessions, that's all it took. It always felt like she was flirting with me, but I just let it be. She kept saying how I was the only man she ever talked with so frankly. How special I was. I was like her summer romance. I remember her last session because she came in dressed to kill. Unconsciously she had acted out the affair with me, got it out of her system and went on with her life. No medication could have done that. Talk about the power of psychotherapy."

"You know," Cantley said on his way to the door, "I think you're onto something. My patient's probably a wreck worrying about s.e.xual performance. Before I prescribe anything I'll tell him to come in and talk about it. Thanks, Jonas."

"Sure thing," Jonas said. "You can always find a medication that doesn't cause s.e.xual dysfunction, but therapy can be just as powerful; besides, I like the side-effect profile a lot better."