Intensive Therapy Part 6

"I'll think about it, Dr. Amernick."

"It's time you started calling me Stan."

"I'd like that, although it'll take some time to get used to. Meanwhile, there's this new patient I have to tell you about. She's a huge part of what's been happening to me."

"Tell me about her," Stan said.

Jonas grinned. "Victoria is her name. If you took her at face value, you'd say she's a spoiled Jewish princess, but beneath the surface, she's full of fire. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have had the b.a.l.l.s to confront Fowler. There's an amazing connection between us. It's uncanny. I'll be thinking something, and two seconds later, she's saying the same thing. She soaks up my interpretations like a sponge. She came in overwhelmed with thoughts of walking off tall buildings, which stopped the moment I connected the impulses to her rage at her parents."

"She's what I call a sports car."

"Huh?"

"Very responsive to what you say. With all that oomph, she sounds like a Ferrari." Stan chuckled. "The Inst.i.tute drones would call her a 'phallic woman,' jargon for any woman who intimidates them. Does she have a boyfriend?"

"n.o.body's made it past the third date. Says she's a virgin, although she's plenty interested. Dresses royally, too. Always in designer outfits, never without makeup."

"My G.o.d. All detailed and still in the showroom!"

"The first dream she brought into therapy was about a wedding."

"Aha," Stan said. "There it is. She wants a serious relations.h.i.+p. She wants to be the bride. She must feel alone."

Jonas nodded.

"How old?"

"Just turned twenty."

"Are you considering her for one of your control cases?"

"She would do it if I pushed, but I don't want to share her with a supervising a.n.a.lyst I don't know. It would be like throwing her to the wolves."

"How's her therapy going?"

"Just fine. We meet twice a week, face-to-face. She emerged from a big funk after I appeared undisguised in a dream."

"The first dream about the therapist is a hallmark event. So, how did she portray you?"

"At first, Victoria-the-child wanted her favorite sugar cookies, but her mother wouldn't let her. Later, the grown-up Victoria was in a bakery, looking for her own cookies. Guess who the baker was?"

"Sweetness-that's what she wants from you. I bet her mother can be very bitter. And what were her a.s.sociations to you in the dream?"

"That sometimes I sound too detached, in what she calls 'clinical mode.' She likes it better when I'm 'relaxed and conversational.' I think I get clinical when I'm unsure of myself."

"I bet 'clinical mode' is connected with your ex."

"My ex?"

"Your ex-a.n.a.lyst. You've probably been mimicking Fowler's style without realizing it. He's a know-it-all. Don't be afraid to be unsure of yourself with Victoria, with all your patients. It'll make you more human in their eyes. And don't worry. Victoria's not going anywhere as long as you keep doing what you're doing."

"You don't think I should focus on the orality in the dream?"

"Leave that to Phil Fowler and his cronies. They've made their living off those interpretations for the past fifty years. This girl hungers for sweetness and consistency. There'll be sparks between you and her," Stan said, his eyebrows dancing. "But that's how it is in our line of work.

"By the way, Jonas," Stan said as time was running out. "My wife, Marta-she's a psychiatrist, too-and I are having a few couples for Thanksgiving. You'd like them. I hope you can join us."

"Whoa, that's some invitation!" Jonas said.

"Please try and make it. There's someone I want you to meet."

13.

Thursday, November 26, 1981

Jonas was excited about Thanksgiving for the first time since his father died. This would be his first without family.

Stan had invited him for 3:00 PM. They would have dinner later, after several other couples arrived. In the morning, Jonas took off for his run in the bl.u.s.tery wind. As he crossed Broad Street, napkins and hot-dog wrappers from the Thanksgiving parade swirled around the gutters like pigeons scavenging for their holiday meal.

The Amernicks lived on Delancey Street in a landmarked colonial townhouse. Jonas often jogged through the neighborhood, but he had never been inside any of the historic houses.

Barely able to contain himself, he arrived punctually, toting two bottles of Dezaley.

"Make yourself comfortable," Stan said, collecting the wine and Jonas's overcoat.

The Amernick foyer opened into a great room, the kitchen at the rear, a working fireplace on the brick wall to the right. Crackling flames reflected the colors of the holiday table's china, polished silver, and glimmering crystal, making the entire s.p.a.ce glow as if it had been lit by a giant candelabra.

Marta rushed to the door. Stan said, "Jonas, this is my wife, Marta."

Marta smiled. "h.e.l.lo, Jonas. Stan's said so much about you."

"It's nice to meet you. Your home is fabulous," Jonas said. "I've seen these houses for years, but only from the outside."

Stan said, "We bought it for a song in the sixties. It looked abandoned." He turned to Marta, his face full of admiration. "We renovated it over time, room by room. It's been a labor of love."

Professional women usually intimidated him, but not Marta, whom Jonas took to instantly. He said, "Stan's told me about that journal club you're in, and about your training abroad."

"Dezaley!" Marta exclaimed as Stan showed her the wine. "The Swiss hardly ever export local wines. Where did you get these?"

"My brother, Eddie, lives in New York. You can find anything there."

"How thoughtful," she said.

"Remember our first Dezaley?" Stan asked her.

"Who could forget? The night you proposed," Marta said as she caressed the labels. "They're even chilled, too. Is it too early to make a toast?" She moved toward the staircase. "I'll see if Jennie wants some."

Stan took her arm. "She's getting dressed, dear. There's no rush."

"Jennie?" Jonas quizzed Stan.

"It must have slipped my mind," Stan chortled as if he were struggling to keep a straight face. "Jennie's our daughter. She's been staying here. She's on leave from Sotheby's in New York. She's a docent and tour guide for prospective buyers in Europe, mostly France."

Jonas's heart skipped a beat. Jennie; so this was the someone Stan wanted me to meet, he realized. He had never been abroad; the furthest he'd ever traveled was across the country with the Mask and Wig Club during his college years at Penn.

Marta said, "I thought the four of us could have a moment before everyone arrived."

Stan whispered something to her, and she said, "Okay, later."

"Anything to drink now?" Stan said.

"Something soft," Jonas replied, as they headed for the kitchen.

"There's club soda," Marta offered. "We keep it for Cuthbert Boening; Cutty, we call him. He'll be here later. He's on a first-name basis with every neuron in the brain of the sea snail Aplysia."

"What a character," Stan chuckled. "Cutty's in at the same time each day. His rats practically stand and salute when he enters the lab. At twelve-thirty sharp he lunches with the same colleagues before retiring to his favorite chair in the library to review the latest publications."

"Sounds like the man likes order. And predictability," Jonas said.

"Don't we all?" Marta added. "We wrestle with that all the time in the neuroscience group-where we discuss patients and journal articles. It's like a monthly infusion of new ideas. You'd like it, Jonas. Come sometime. Lately we've been wondering, what if people we've been calling 'moody' are not, in fact, dealing with unconscious conflict. Suppose their brains are merely more vulnerable to stressors, like body temperature?"

"I like that a.n.a.logy," Jonas said. "When I was interning, we admitted a prost.i.tute with a burning fever from pelvic inflammatory disease-"

"That reminds me," Stan interrupted. "You heard about those unexplained sarcomas in gay men? It wouldn't surprise me if the cause was s.e.xually transmitted. Sorry for interrupting. You were saying ..."

"The woman's self-esteem was in the toilet. Not one person visited her. But I was nice to her, and she felt better long before the antibiotics could have worked. My resident called it a placebo effect, but I knew my interaction with her made the difference. That's one of the reasons I chose psychiatry."

Marta said, "Wait until you meet Rebecca Kahn. She's coming, too. She's a child psychiatrist who gave up the a.n.a.lytic ghost after eight tortuous years on the couch. She felt well for the first time in her life once she took Lithium."

"Is that where you got the idea to a.n.a.lyze a patient on Lithium?" Jonas asked Stan. "I read that paper after we talked about combining medication and psychotherapy."

"I get a lot of ideas from Marta." Stan turned to her and asked, "Remember the night you came home from group all charged up about a European study of a new drug for depression? Zima ... Zima ... something."

"Zimeledine," she said. "The first drug to specifically increase serotonin. I better seat you and Rebecca at opposite ends of the table," she said to Jonas while basting the turkey, "or you'll monopolize each other all night."

Jonas heard someone approaching.

"There she is," Marta beamed. "We've been waiting for you. Jonas Speller, this is our daughter, Jennie."

Jennie Amernick, around Jonas's age, looked like a tulip curled up against a biting wind. She had dark brown hair and was more slender than her mother, her hips and thighs tapering softly beneath a tailored skirt. She had huge green eyes. Such sparkling eyes-they looked like polished jade. A large emerald pendant dangled from her neck.

"h.e.l.lo," she said to Jonas. "From what he's said, Dad really likes you."

"Well, your father is the best teacher I ever had. Your necklace is mesmerizing. Where did it come from?"

All three Amernicks began speaking at once. Stan broke in, "You tell the story, Jennie. It belongs to you."

Jennie hesitated.

"C'mon, sweetie," Marta cajoled, eyes admiring Jonas. "We're friends."

"You'd have to really know my parents to understand," Jennie said. "My father's the son of a rabbi from Long Island. My mother is German Catholic, one of nine children, raised on a farm in southern Indiana. At Christmas time in 1954, Mom flew home from Switzerland where she was studying medicine. Dad was headed to Kentucky, where he was best man at a friend's wedding. They were both waiting for the same plane from New York to Louisville when a freak snowstorm buried the airport in two feet of snow, stranding everyone. Mom was carrying a duffel bag stuffed with Toblerones. All Dad had was his coat and a psychoa.n.a.lytic journal.

"When Mom saw him reading Psychoa.n.a.lytic Quarterly, they started talking. She shared her duffel bag for him to sleep on. That was it. Their paths crossed once, and from then on, they were inseparable. Dad moved to Switzerland. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been born. It's enough to make you believe in fate. They named me Genevieve after Lake Geneva."

Across the room, a burning log tumbled in the fireplace, unleas.h.i.+ng a brilliant burst of colors. Jennie's pendant gleamed. So did Jonas's eyes.

"My grandfather, Rabbi Amernick, never pestered Mom or Dad about religion. When they saw how happy Dad was, my grandparents loved Mom like their other daughter." Jennie cradled her necklace gently. "As a symbol of acceptance, my grandmother gave her this pendant, specifying it be pa.s.sed on to the first granddaughter. If I have a daughter, the pendant will be hers."

Jonas said, "What a story. I love the part about paths crossing once."

Stan said to Marta, "How about that toast you talked about?" He ushered Jennie and Jonas to the sitting area, and he and Marta conveniently disappeared to the kitchen to open the wine.

Jonas and Jennie sat quietly by the fire. He liked her smile and her soothing tone, although there was a crackle to her voice that told him there was far more to Jennie Amernick than met the eye. In no time, they were talking about all the great opera houses Jennie had seen throughout Europe.

Stan returned with a tray bearing four gla.s.ses of Dezaley. "We have so much to be thankful for," he said, clinking gla.s.ses with Jennie. "Welcome home, sweetie. We're so glad you're here. And," he said, turning toward Jonas while Jennie and Marta smiled, "welcome to our home, Jonas. To the first of many visits."

14.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Victoria went to the ladies' room while Martin waited for the bill. Her face in the mirror was haggard; her mood was worse.

As soon as she got back to the table, her cell phone rang. It was Gregory.