The Book of Israela. Rena Blumenthal

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СКАЧАТЬ patient before summoning up a forced nonchalance and sauntering out of my office. I pretended to casually check the papers in my mailbox, then took a beeline out the waiting room to the stairwell beyond.

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      When I returned to the office, I found a fuming Penina Mizrachi beached outside my door. I suggested to Penina, who I now remembered as the fat woman with the garishly dyed and braided hair, that we reschedule for another day, but she would have none of it. Once in my office, she perched on the edge of the patient’s couch, clutching her oversized handbag in her lap, and launched into a long, whiny complaint about the ways in which I—like her husband, grown children, and a random assortment of neighbors—didn’t afford her the respect she was due. She had been on time for her appointment, as she always was, and had seen me ever-so-casually slip out of the waiting room. Why was her time not as important as mine? I might have answered that she, unlike even minimally functioning people like myself, had no job and no schedule to keep, and what difference did it make if she spent her time in our waiting room or sunk in her couch staring at celebrity talk shows? But I held my tongue and watched her substantial bosom heave up and down with the weight of her lot, wondering at the effort and expense and poor judgment that had culminated in her odd coiffure, listening intently to the squeaking sound her breath made on the rare occasions when she took a chance and paused. She needn’t have bothered, as I had no intention of interrupting her numbing monologue. Long ago she had married a man who was unabashedly in love with another woman and had kept the affair going through all the years of their marriage. Saddled with a slew of unruly kids, she had never had the confidence or self-respect to walk out on him. Listening to her, I found myself longing for Nava, thinking about her lithe body and ropy neck, the proud way she angled her head in public. Nava had dignity, self-respect—she wouldn’t put up forever with a no-good philanderer. I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. What had I been thinking? Nava was nothing like this pathetic specimen, this Penina Mizrachi, who had let herself grow fat and lazy and reconciled to a lifetime of neglect and humiliation. I held tight to my rising grief, my face frozen into concerned listening mode, my sympathetic grunts modulating to the wavelike heaving of Penina’s chronic, languishing despair.

      When the session was over, I watched her dutifully get in line at the reception desk to confirm her next visit. I had barely heard a word she had said, yet she was visibly calmer. Was she really so lonely that even this pretense of caring companionship made her life more bearable? I rummaged through the piles on my desk for her long out-of-date chart, then stared at it a while, wondering what I could possibly write about this session. “Patient continues to have symptoms of depression and anxiety. Patient continues to feel unappreciated and unloved. Patient continues to lead a useless, pathetic life. Patient continues to bore husband, children, and therapist to distraction.” I tossed the chart onto the floor in disgust.

      The afternoon dragged on, patient after desperate patient. Jezebel was right that the intifada was causing a dramatic increase in the demand for our services, but I wasn’t nearly as confident as she was that our role in the midst of this social dysfunction was entirely benevolent. Yes, we could sometimes provide superficial relief through medications, or even therapy, but weren’t we just enabling all the feckless politicians on both sides who allowed this insanity to continue? My 3:00 patient was typical—an eight-year-old boy who had stopped speaking and developed violent outbursts after witnessing the Sbarro restaurant bombing in August. More than seven months later, he still hadn’t said a word. His mother, frantic with worry, was herself suffering from insomnia, chronic nausea, and other post-traumatic symptoms, which her psychiatrist had been trying for months to alleviate through the right combination of brightly colored pills. But wasn’t hers a perfectly normal reaction to watching a pizza parlor in downtown Jerusalem, on a hot summer day, suddenly explode into flames?

      At 6:00 I thought I could finally call it a day, but the receptionists had wasted no time scheduling in extra patients, vengefully taking advantage of my predicament. They had assigned me a new patient, of all things, to the 6:00 hour. I hadn’t done an intake in months—if she showed, it would mean reams of paperwork. And, as Jezebel had made abundantly clear, I’d have to complete it, too.

      I petitioned whatever gods might be up there for reprieve, but being the confirmed atheist I was, my plea to the heavens was duly unheard. About ten minutes into the hour, just after I had successfully flung a rubber band over the engraved, ornamental quill pen Yudit had bought me for my forty-fifth birthday, a woman barged into the room. Why hadn’t the receptionist called to tell me she was here? I flung my legs off the desk, knocking a few more charts onto the floor, but she didn’t notice a thing. She was in full story before I’d even stood up.

      “Dr. Benami? Thank God, I finally have someone to talk to.” She was untangling herself from a huge, fringed shawl that wrapped her head like a mummy, talking all the while. “You can’t imagine what it’s like being followed all the time. I can’t take it anymore.” The tears were already starting to spring up—another desperate, weepy broad.

      “Excuse me, but did you sign in with the receptionist? I’ll be needing the intake forms, and—”

      “I was so late, I didn’t want to wait in line,” she said impatiently. Her eyes flicked around the room and finally landed on me, round and dark. “His crazy friends are stalking me again. I have to dodge them whenever I leave the house, taking roundabout routes through back alleys. That’s why I’m late wherever I go, but otherwise they follow me and harass me, you have no idea what it’s like.” She paused to push a long strand of curly black hair out of her face, fixing me with a stare. “You have to forgive me, Doctor, and you such a busy man. I know, they told me—the chief psychologist! They must realize what a tough case this is—everyone in Jerusalem knows about me.” And with this she sunk into my recliner, the tears beginning to gush.

      “I’m afraid you’re sitting in my chair. The patient usually sits—”

      “I know how busy you are, Doctor, but you have to help me!” She launched into another tirade but was so blubbery with tears I couldn’t understand a word. Grandiose, paranoid, hysterical—it was going to be a long hour. I reconciled myself to the stiff couch, a stranger in my own office, noticing that the piles of charts on my desk looked particularly precarious from the patients’ angle. Probably not the most reassuring sight—I made a mental note to at least arrange them into neat stacks. The woman was going on and on, sniffling and blowing her nose, complaining about her husband. Another miserable, tortured relationship. I’d heard the routine countless times from every possible angle. But this was an intake, I reminded myself; I’d have to settle her down and get at least a few details if that paperwork would ever get done. I could always pick up the forms from the receptionist at the end of the session.

      “Uh, Mrs. . . ”

      “Tzur. But please, call me Israela. Everyone does.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears, muddy brown pools of desperation.

      She would have once been an olive-toned beauty. She was still attractive, but her face was prematurely etched with worry lines. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Slim, still dressing like a hippie, in bangles and gold chains and flowing skirts, layers of flouncy material, laced leather sandals. I wondered if she shaved her legs under those billowing skirts; these gypsy types often didn’t. She had dark, curly hair, long and wild, glinted with silver streaks. Her eyes were her most striking feature, large and soupy. And she was built, with full breasts straining at her white, cotton blouse. But there was something peculiar about the way she held herself, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it . . .

      “Doctor, what do you think I should do?” She was staring at me intently.

      “Well, Mrs . . . uh . . . Israela, I think it’s way too soon to start talking about solutions. I’ll need to know a lot more about you before I have any idea how I might be able to help. This is an intake session, which СКАЧАТЬ