The Complete Collection. William Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in but he’d give a signal when I should leave. He’s arranged the room so there’s one chair relatively near the door; I figure that’s mine and sit there. Dad sits in the chair where I sat before.

      Very gently, Delibro speaks with Dad while he goes over the medical records.

      He asks Dad about Mother, her heart attacks; Dad’s operation. He’s full of sympathy and brings it off as real. He’s easing into the situation, establishing rapport, but in such a way it isn’t obnoxious. Dad’s nodding, smiling, listening. It’s not the ‘boss man’ nod. This is different; he’s enjoying being the center of attention.

      It seems like tremendously casual conversation at a hundred bucks an hour but he couldn’t bulldoze into it; Dad would be put off. Then, finally, Delibro comes on.

      ‘Mr Tremont, your son’s told me you feel you have another life. Could you tell me something about this?’

      He smiles and waits. Dad looks at me.

      ‘Sure, Dad. Tell Dr Delibro. Tell him about Cape May; tell him what you told me.’

      He starts off slowly but as he senses the intense, positive interest of the doctor, he warms up. He intersperses his tale with ‘I know this sounds crazy but …’ or, ‘This might be hard to believe but …’ But he’s bringing it out.

      I’m hoping Delibro won’t shoo me. Dad’s telling things he hasn’t mentioned before. More than when he talked to me, Dad’s convinced he’s been in two places at the same time. This bothers his sense of rightness. It violates his perfectionist, logical, engineering instincts.

      At first, Delibro starts out using the standard psychiatrist come-ons: ‘Yesss’ … ‘That’s right’ … ‘Go on’ … ‘Hmmm,’ and so forth; but after five minutes it’s coming without help. This is a whole world wanting to be born; no need for forceps. I’m torn between watching, listening to Dad; watching Delibro; and letting my own head spin. Delibro’s so fascinated his mouth is partly open.

      It’s the completeness of details, the description of making shoes, the box he designed for fitting the last, the leather sewing; there’s the planting of potatoes, watching for the flowering and the harvesting; the tying of onions in a knot so they’ll develop good bulbs. It keeps coming on. It’s clear Dad wants to reveal all this. The combination of his pleasure in it and his guilt about it has been tearing him apart.

      It’s as if a painter spent thirty years painting a masterpiece of a mural in an empty room but hasn’t been able to show it because he painted it with stolen paints on borrowed time in somebody else’s house without their permission.

      And Dad can tell it even more fully to Delibro than he could to me. Just then, I catch Delibro give me a blink of his eye; it’s time for me to go. I try to slip out quietly but Dad picks it up.

      ‘Where’re you going, Johnny? Is it time to leave?’

      ‘I’m only going for a drink of water, Dad; I’ll be outside in the waiting room. You stay here and talk to the doctor some more.’

      He accepts this easily and I leave. I sit and wait. I read all the magazines but they’re in there almost two hours. Thank God, this guy doesn’t have much business. I talk to the secretary; she’s a Japanese girl, studying psychology at UCLA. She has some of the same professors I worked with twenty years ago. A university is a place where time seems to stand still.

      I have an enormous temptation to get up and pace back and forth like an expectant father. I can’t help wondering about the lack of patients. Maybe this time of day is slow for ‘crazies’.

      This office alone, in this building, must cost a fortune; then a secretary; some overhead. I’d worry myself into a loony bin in a week.

      Finally, they come out. They’re chatting and laughing.

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont, I must say your father’s story is one of the most interesting things I’ve ever heard. I honestly don’t think most people have as much reality in their daily world as he has in his Cape May existence.’

      I’m shocked. Here the secretary’s sitting there listening. I’ve been conditioned to the idea of psychiatrists as mysterious super people delving secretly into the inner workings of the subconscious. Delibro’s talking about Dad’s delusion as if they’ve just come out of a good movie. It takes me three thinkarounds to realize he couldn’t take a better approach with Dad. The main thing is getting this all in the open so it can be defused. The way he’s treating Dad as just another case, maybe an interesting, original one, but nothing to wet your pants about, is probably right.

      Delibro gently puts his hand across Dad’s shoulder. He does it nicely, nothing patronizing. He’s the same height as Dad.

      ‘We’ve talked about this, and your Dad understands it’s all a dream; he has no confusion in this area at all. It’s an ongoing, long dream he’s made up for himself.’

      He takes his hand off Dad’s shoulder and looks at me carefully.

      ‘I’d like to see your father again, soon as possible. We need to work on putting together what’s real and what’s the dream; what’s possible and what isn’t. The important thing is to find ways he can bring into his daily life the best parts of his dream.’

      Dad leans toward me; he’s watching carefully to see how I’m taking it. He’s proud of himself; it shows in his stance, his smile: the artist revealed. Delibro is grinning at both of us.

      ‘There’s no reason why Mr Tremont shouldn’t put this all together. Over the years he hasn’t been getting enough pleasure from his daily life and he’s isolated his greatest joys into a dream. Since his recovery, all that’s changed. In the past weeks he’s been a happy person; the walls broke down and he’s bringing into this everyday life the joy in living he’s kept separate for so long.’

      Delibro asks Dad to stay in the waiting room for a few minutes while he talks to me. Dad smiles and backs himself into a chair. The secretary is smiling and I know he’ll be talking to her soon as we leave. I ask Dad if he’ll be OK.

      ‘Oh, I’m fine. Maybe the doctor can explain things better to you than he can to me. It’s all so complicated I still don’t quite understand what’s going on. You listen to what he’s saying, then tell me.’

      We sit and Delibro interlaces his fingers across his chest. He asks if I have any experience with the analytic approach, if I’ve ever consulted a psychiatrist or done much reading on the subject. I figure now there’s no backing out. He seems so reasonable I’m sure it won’t matter.

      ‘I’m a sort of fall-away psychologist, Doctor. I haven’t practiced in over twenty years, but I did my Ph.D. in educational psychology. I’ve done some reading in analysis but I’ve never been analyzed.’

      ‘Then I can speak in relatively straight terms. I think your father is a successful schizophrenic. Do you know the work of R. D. Laing?’

      I nod. It’s someone I’ve read, at least his Politics of Experience.

      ‘Well, I subscribe to his idea of schizophrenia as a potential alternate coping system. It’s rare to find such an overt example as your father. Either people can’t keep it together, thereby becoming nonfunctional, or they keep their delusion intact till death, inviolate, unknown. The trauma of your father’s hospital experience apparently СКАЧАТЬ