Critical Judgment (1996) (12 page)

The back door to the house was open. The kitchen had been treated as rudely as the Jeep. It smelled of alcohol and stale food. A wrapper from a sub shop was
crumpled on the table along with two half-eaten Hostess cupcakes. Josh was enough of a health-food nut to patronize a sub shop only as a last resort. The cupcakes simply didn’t compute at all. Next to the sink were bottles of Tylenol, Fioricet, and Ibuprofen. Their caps were off, but none of the bottles was close to empty. Beside the pills, on its side, was an empty pint bottle of tequila.

Fearing the worst, she called out his name once, then again. The second time, from the living room, he moaned. He was on the couch, passed out, but in no obvious danger. He had on jeans, a sleeveless T, and his high-cut hiking boots. All were filthy. There were muddy tracks on the carpet.

Abby checked his pulses, which were strong, and his pupils, which were somewhat dilated. Two and a half years together, and she had never seen him drunk. In fact, she always teased him about being something of an alcohol snob, preferring to savor his microbrewed beer from a tall glass or stein while she drank Bud from a can. Now he reeked of alcohol. Looking down at him, she felt no anger—only the concern of a physician and the sadness of a woman watching the love relationship that had meant so much to her slip away.

Without trying to rouse him she checked the answering machine. The only message was from someone at work, calling a half hour ago, wondering where he was.

Numbly, Abby went to the kitchen and began to clean up, playing the nightmare scenario over in her mind.

Could it possibly have turned out worse?

When the moaning from the living room became louder and more purposeful, Abby wet a dish towel and brought it in. She wiped his face. His reddened, rheumy eyes fluttered open. He struggled to focus on her.

“They’ve called from work looking for you,” she said, surprised by her first words and the coolness in her voice.

He pawed at his eyes and tried to moisten his lips
with his sandpaper tongue. It took several seconds for his condition to begin to register. As it did, there was no mistaking his confusion.

“What time is it, Abby?”

“Nine-thirty … 
A.M.”

“I never oversleep.”

“You do when you’re smashed on tequila and pills and out driving all night in your Jeep.”

He struggled to a sitting position and surveyed himself again.

“I never went driving off-road.”

“I think the Jeep would beg to differ. Go look at it.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed at his eyes. “All I remember is this headache. Right here.” He pointed to the middle of his forehead.

“Sounds like you were in a blackout. The Jeep is filthy. Mud all over it.”

“I … I don’t remember going out at all.” He brushed at the filth on his boots. “But I guess, if you say so.”

He stumbled to his feet, nearly falling over the coffee table.

“Josh, you need help. I’ve been telling you that for weeks. I want to call Dr. Owen right now and have him see you and order an MRI or CT scan.”

“No! … I mean, I’ve already scheduled an appointment with him. I’m okay now. I just had a little too much to drink. I’m no big drinker, and it just got the better of me. Now, I just need to get cleaned up and get into the office. I have a report to do and—”

“Josh, I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself—destroy us—like this.”

“Dammit, Abby, why in the hell can’t you see what your part is in all this?”

“
My
part?”

“Yes, your part.”

He was pacing now, as agitated as she had ever seen
him. His voice was getting louder, shriller. For the first time in their life together Abby felt a spark of fear.

“You work all night,” he ranted on. “You study when you’re not working. You sleep when you’re not studying. You have no idea the stress you’re causing around here. And then, just because I’m having some headaches and get a little drunk, you come home and demand that I go and see a goddamn neurologist on top of the shrink you’ve already told me to see! Why can’t you understand the stress
I’m
under? Why can’t you see that I have needs, too?”

For the briefest moment the attack worked. Abby felt herself weaken.

“Josh, I meant what I said.” She forced the words out.

“Well, I meant what I said, too, dammit.” He was screaming now. “And no one’s going to tell me what to do. No one! Especially not you!”

She glared at him and then turned away. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. His eyes were glazed with anger. Remote. Almost unseeing. Reflexively, Abby braced herself to be hit. Instead, Josh whirled suddenly and slammed his fist through the living-room wall. Then he stumbled out to the backyard and threw up on the lawn.

Shaking from the assault, Abby started out to comfort him. Then she stopped by the doorway, held in place by a powerful feeling of distance and detachment. Shutting out his retching as best she could, she raced to the small guest room and threw herself onto her bed. She had played her last card in their relationship. Now it was up to him.

P
sychiatrist Graham DeShield cherished his reputation as the therapist to the stars. Whether it was a football superhero, a movie star from Carmel, or any number of San Francisco’s elite and powerful, DeShield would see them at whatever hour and place their notoriety required. He was not at all bothered that some in his field disparaged him as a social climber with minimal academic credentials, while others made light of his “cheerleader” approach to psychotherapy and even of his intellect.

His professional plate was full and fascinating, and his successes, especially in dealing with phobias and narcissism, were well publicized and substantiated. The key, he knew, was prescreening. If a case was too mundane, too complicated, or held little chance for recovery, he would simply be too busy to take it. If the prospective patient was of sufficient stature or resources, he might agree to institute therapy, provided the grimness of the prognosis was clear.

Today DeShield had just finished a Bay Club luncheon at which he was the featured speaker. Later in the afternoon he would be having an initial evaluation appointment with Bebe Washington, the actress. He had
seen several of her films and had to agree with those who put her among the most beautiful women in the world. Her agent, also a patient, had referred her.

Unfortunately, sandwiched between his luncheon talk and Bebe Washington was twenty-seven-year-old Ethan Black. As the son of Ezra Black, one of the wealthiest men in the country, Ethan was automatically accepted as a patient. That he had failed, so far, to respond to treatment was a source of frustration and even angst for DeShield. Black Ezra, as his father was known, had a legendary, hair-trigger temper and a reputation for utterly destroying people who crossed him in business or disappointed him in any other way. Of course, there were others who were set for life because they had, for whatever reason, ingratiated themselves with the man.

DeShield heard the door to his waiting room open and close, and knew it was Ethan. He took a few final seconds to gaze out at the panorama from his twenty-third-story office—views of Alcatraz, the bay, and the Golden Gate—and then reviewed his notes.

Ethan Black was working as comptroller for some sort of family-owned company up in Patience. His psychiatric history dated back only a year or so. Following an automobile accident in which he sustained some head trauma and multiple minor lacerations, his passive, introspective personality underwent a radical change. After a number of fights, including one in which he’d bludgeoned a man with a baseball bat, he was referred to DeShield and placed in the Hempstead Institute just outside the city.

All neurologic tests and scans had been negative, and postconcussion syndrome seemed the obvious diagnosis. The prognosis for that condition was excellent. Just the way DeShield liked it.

In each of their previous sessions, DeShield had outlined what seemed to him to be a reasonable therapeutic program for Ethan to use in dealing with his aggression, hostility, and acting out—a program calling for the
summoning forth of Ethan’s inner child. Each time, it seemed, there was complete understanding between them. Each time Ethan left with the promise that he would employ his mental exercises and avoidance maneuvers before lashing out at anyone. Each time, when Black Ezra phoned to check on his son’s progress, DeShield had given him a hopeful response. And each time Black’s scion had gone right out and hurt someone. Money had been able to smooth over the damage so far. But Ezra Black clearly hated paying off anyone. And more and more DeShield sensed the man was blaming him for the failures.

Referring Ethan to another therapist was, of course, out of the question. Black Ezra had hired him because of his reputation as the best. How could there be anyone better?

With a sigh DeShield pushed himself back from his desk and opened the door to the waiting room. Ethan was there with his driver/bodyguard, smiling the same bland smile that the therapist had learned not to trust at all.

“Ethan, please, come in. Come in.”

Black was five nine, but built like a wrestler. He had thick, curly dark hair, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. In truth there was nothing about the man DeShield liked. His appearance and demeanor annoyed the doctor to distraction. His high-pitched voice sounded like a perpetual whine.

“I had more headaches,” Black said.

“Tell me about it.”

DeShield glanced at his desk clock and tried to will a faster sweep to the second hand.

“Well, you know those dreams? The ones where I lose an arm, then a leg, then the other arm and leg, and then my penis and my balls, and finally my head?”

“Yes, Ethan, I remember.”

How could I not when you tell it to me every session?

“Well, I’ve been having them every night. Bloodier
and more painful than ever. They’re horrible. Really terrifying. I think what you’ve been telling me is true.”

“What’s that?”

“That the villain in the dreams—the one chopping my parts off—is me.”

“Of course it is. But you can overcome that sense of low self-esteem by simply employing the positive-mental-attitude exercises I have taught you.”

“PMA. I know. I’ve tried. Really, I have. Well, I think the dreams set me up again, because yesterday and again this morning the headaches hit.”

“Tell me about them.”

Tell me about them. Tell me about them
. DeShield wondered how many more times he would have to say the words before the hour was over. He began thinking about Bebe Washington.

“The same as all the other times, only maybe worse. First there’s the smell I told you about, sort of like rotten eggs. Sulfury. As soon as that hits, I know I’m in trouble. The smell gets worse and worse; then, after twenty or thirty minutes, my head explodes.”

“Ethan, did you hurt anyone this time?”

“I … um … I got sick.”

“But did you
hurt
anyone?”

“I think I hit a guard.”

DeShield felt his stomach knot. Another ten or fifteen thousand in hush money from Black Ezra. Another black mark on Graham DeShield’s scorecard.

“Ethan, Ethan,” he said, summoning his strength for one more all-out attack. “Let’s try some relaxation exercises.”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Now, close your eyes and concentrate on my voice. You must believe in me, Ethan. You must believe that I love you, that I believe in you.”

“You believe in me,” Ethan murmured.

“That’s it. Okay, now picture yourself on a mountaintop. A beam of shimmering golden light is shining
down on you from beyond the clouds, bathing you in its warm glow. Can you feel it?”

“I can feel it. I can feel it.”

Ethan stood up. Arms spread, eyes still closed, he turned slowly, basking in the golden light.

From behind his desk, feeling vaguely nauseous, DeShield watched him, thinking about how absolutely ridiculous he looked—the pirouetting hippo in
Fantasia
.

“That’s it, Ethan. Feel the warmth. Feel your inner child take over.”

Ethan continued his slow spin.

“The inner child, Ethan. Listen to your inner child and do as he says.”

“Okay,” Ethan said.

He stopped, hands on hips.

“Okay what?”

“I hear my inner child. I know what he’s telling me to do.”

“Wonderful. That’s wonderful.”

Ethan’s expression seemed more animated. His body posture more confident.
Hang in there with me, Black Ezra
, DeShield thought. Maybe this really was a breakthrough.

“Dr. DeShield?”

“Yes, Ethan.”

“Tell my father you tried.”

With two strong steps Ethan hurled his stocky body upward against the huge picture window. The glass shattered almost noiselessly as he hurtled through it. He fell without uttering a sound. In an instant, there was only silence—silence and the rush of warm summer air into the air-conditioned office.

Numbly, Graham DeShield moved to the window. He had always suffered from vertigo when looking down from any height, and he had to hang on to the wall to peer at what remained of his patient. His phone had rung several times before he noticed it.

“H-hello?” he heard himself say.

“Dr. DeShield, Ezra Black here. I’m sorry to disturb your session, but I need to speak with my son.”