Self-Defense (14 page)

“Crosstown.”

“I interned crosstown. Are you in
Psychiatry?”

“Pediatrics. I’m a child psychologist.”

She gave me a curious look and we sat
down. On her tray were a tuna sandwich, coleslaw, red Jell-O, and milk. She
unwrapped her utensils and spread her napkin on her lap. “But Lucretia
was
your patient?”

“Yes. Once in a while I see
adults—short-term consults, usually stress-related. She was referred by the
police.”

Another curious look. She couldn’t have
been more than a year or two out of residency, but she’d learned her therapeutic
nuances.

“I consult to the police occasionally,” I
said.

“What kind of stress had she been
through?”

“She was a juror on the Bogeyman trial.”

She picked up her fork. “Well, that could
certainly be difficult. How long did you treat her?”

“Only a few sessions. She came to me
because of sleep problems. A recurrent nightmare and, later, some
somnambulism.”

“Walking in her sleep?”

“At least once, before the suicide
attempt. She woke up in her kitchen. I guess, looking back, it can be seen as a
rehearsal for the attempt. She also had an episode of something that looked
like narcolepsy—falling asleep at her desk at work and waking up on the floor.”

“Yes, she told me about that. Said you’d
sent her to a neurologist and he pronounced her healthy.”

“Phil Austerlitz. He’s on staff here.”

“Did he come up negative, the way she
claims?”

“Yes. He thought it was stress.”

The fork dipped into the coleslaw. “That’s
what the neurologist at Woodbridge said, too. Interesting, though, the
somnambulism. Do you think the suicide attempt could have occurred during some
sort of sleepwalking trance? I’ve read case histories of self-destruction
during arousal from deep sleep. Have you ever seen anything that extreme?”

“No suicide attempts, but I have treated
children with night terrors who hurt themselves thrashing and walking around. I
even had a family where the children
and
the father had terrors. The
father used to try to strangle the mother in his sleep. And there are cases of
people committing murder and claiming somnambulism.”

“Claiming? You don’t believe it’s
possible?”

“It’s possible, but it’s rare.”

She ate some slaw, looked at her sandwich,
then at me.

“It’s a strange case. Her denial’s so
absolute. Usually, with attempters, you see just the opposite: guilt,
confessions, promises never to do it again, because they feel physically lousy
and want to get out of hold. The really severe ones—the ones who’re
sorry
they failed—either get really mad or go mute. But Lucretia’s cooperative and
articulate; she understands why she has to be observed. Yet she remains
adamant
that she never tried to kill herself. Which would be a dumb
approach to take if you were trying to convince your psychiatrist to let you
go, right? In the wrong hands you could be tagged as delusional.”

“You don’t see her as delusional?”

“I’m not sure how I see her yet, but she
sure doesn’t look crazy. Maybe I’m missing something, but I think she truly
believes, on a
conscious
level, that she didn’t make an attempt.”

“Did she give you an explanation for what
happened?”

“She says she fell asleep and woke up in
the hospital and that her first thought when you told her why she was there was
someone had tried to kill her. Now that she’s fully awake, she realizes it
makes no sense. All in all, she’s pretty confused. I could be missing the boat
completely, but I don’t see any schizophrenic output. Just depression—but not
the crushing depression you’d associate with an attempt. I had our psychologist
test her for a bipolar disorder. She seems to have such a big stake in keeping busy,
I thought maybe there was some mania going on and the daytime sleep was
crashing after an episode. He found her MMPI somewhat elevated on depression
and anxiety but no hint of anything manic. And her Lie Scale was normal, so she
seemed to be telling the truth. He said unless she’s been tested a lot and
knows how to fool the instruments, there’s no serious personality disturbance.”

“She’d have other reasons to be anxious,”
I said. “Just before the attempt, we got into some areas that upset her. She
had a very isolated childhood—a mother who died when she was an infant, a
highly troubled relationship with an absentee father. But she was always
coherent, and if she was really disturbed I doubt she could have lasted three
months on that jury.”

“What areas upset her?”

I described the dream.

“Interesting,” she said. “Any indication
he molested her?”

“She denies ever being with him, but her
brother told me she spent a summer up at his place when she was four. So she’s
either denying
that
or she’s repressed it completely. As to what
happened up there, I don’t know.”

I told her about Trafficant, emphasizing
how speculative everything was.

“Well,” she said, “at the very least it
sounds like lots of garbage coming to the surface. Going to take a long time to
sift through. This is one where we’ll have to tread carefully.”

“Adding to the garbage, she had a brief
episode of working as a prostitute when she was eighteen. She denies any guilt,
but there’s probably lots. And she developed a crush on one of the detectives
who worked on the Bogeyman case, the one who referred her to me. He’s gay.”

She put the sandwich down. “Just a few
sessions and all
that
came out?”

“Most of it during the last one,” I said.
“Too much, too soon, but I couldn’t stop her. That night she put her head in
the oven.”

“Lovely.”

“Are you planning to let her go after the
seventy-two’s up?”

“She’s not psychotic or violent, I can’t
see a judge giving me any more time. But she sure needs careful outpatient
follow-up.... A prostitute—she seems so prim. How long is brief?”

“Part of a summer. She claims she’s been
celibate since. And Phil Austerlitz said she had a real aversion to being
touched.”

She put her hands together. “I can see
what you mean about that summer with her father.... Despite all that, she relates
well to a male therapist—talks very fondly about you. Are you planning to
follow her?”

“The last thing I want is for her to be
abandoned again,” I said, “but I may not be right for her. The policeman she
likes is a close friend.”

I recounted Lucy’s request for permission
to love Milo. My silence. The reaction.

“So she doesn’t know he’s gay.”

“Not yet.”

She opened the milk carton. “I don’t want
to get personal, but is he your lover?”

“No, just a friend,” I said. Adding, “I’m
straight,” and wondering why it sounded so defensive.

“I can see what you mean by
complications.”

“It might be in her best interests to
transfer her care, if it can be done without traumatizing her. When I heard she
was going to be seen by a woman, I was glad.”

“We seem to have a good rapport,” she
said. “She cooperates, appears to be relating. Then I review my notes and
realize she hasn’t told me much.”

“I felt the same way about her in the
beginning,” I said. “Like I said, most of the substantive material came out in
the last session.”

“Maybe it’s her family style. I spoke to
her brother, and he didn’t tell me much of anything either. Given the
situation, you’d think he’d want me to know as much as possible.”

“He doesn’t know much about her himself.
He’s a half brother, hasn’t seen her in over twenty years.”

“No, I’m not talking about the one who
brought her in. This was the other one, Peter. He phoned me this morning from
Taos. Said he’d heard about Lucretia from Ken. Very upset about not being able
to be with her, but he couldn’t fly back. And when I tried to ask questions, he
backed away, like he was in a big hurry to get off the phone.”

“Why can’t he be with her?”

“Business obligations. I called Ken—he’s
gone back to Palo Alto. He knew nothing, like you said. Pretty nice of him to
pay for her care.”

“I got the sense he wants to make
contact.”

“Me, too. He offered to handle
everything—he seems to have money. Lucretia has no insurance because she quit
her job, so that’s lucky. The hospital looks askance at doctors who treat
nonpaying patients. Nowadays, we have to be bookkeepers, too, right?”

I nodded.

“Anyway,” she said, “sounds like a
complicated family. Are there any other relatives in town for support?”

“In town,” I said. “But not for support.”

I told her who Lucy’s father was, and she
reached for her Jell-O without registering much reaction.

“I was a math major, never much for
fiction,” she said. “Then you get into med school and your whole world really
narrows.... So the pain of abandonment would be that much worse. He’s available
to the whole world but not to her... and now that dream, that’s pretty darn
Freudian. This is starting to sound like old-fashioned psychiatry. I don’t get
much of that.”

“What do you do mostly? Medication?”

“Almost totally. I attend at six different
ER’s and I rarely get to do any follow-up. So yes, if Lucretia’s willing to see
me, I’d be very interested. She’s an interesting woman.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Tarzana. I rent space from another
psychiatrist.” She gave me her card. “Where are you?”

“Malibu.”

“Not too shabby. I would like you to stay
closely in touch. We need to make sure she doesn’t see you as yet another man
who’s walked out on her.”

“I was planning to visit her while she’s
in. When would you like me to start?”

“Any time you’re ready. I’ll leave your
name with the charge nurse.”

She ate some more Jell-O and finished her
milk, wiping away the white mustache. “While you’re there, though, I’d keep it
casual. Especially in terms of your gay friend. I’d just as soon hold off on
any more surprises until I have a better feel for what’s going on with her.
Make sense?”

“Yes, but once she’s out, she’s likely to
seek him out. She views him as a protector.”

I described how Lucy and Milo had
connected at the trial.

“Well,” she said, “for now I’d tell him to
keep a low profile. What she needs is protection from her own impulses.”

I drove home thinking Wendy Embrey might
be very good for Lucy. But I wondered how Lucy would react to a change in
therapists.

I had conflicts of my own about the
transition: relieved at the chance to get out of a mess, but more than a bit
guilty at how good that freedom sounded. And I still wanted to know what had
happened that summer. For her sake or mine? The answers weren’t comforting.

I put on some music and drove like a
robot. When I got home, surfers’ vans were parked all along the turnoff to the
public beach.

When I opened the door, the phone was
ringing.

My service with a long-distance call from
Ken Lowell.

“Hi, doctor. Anything new on Lucy?”

“She seems to be holding her own.”

“I spoke to Dr. Embrey and she sounded
pretty sharp, but I’m a little confused. Who’s going to be Lucy’s doctor?”

“As long as Lucy’s in the hospital, Dr.
Embrey’s in charge.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t seem to reach Dr.
Embrey now. Are you going to be speaking to her? If you are, I’d like to pass
something along. I think she should know.”

“Sure.”

“I got a call from my brother early this
morning, explaining why he hadn’t shown up for dinner. Some sort of business
emergency. In Taos, New Mexico, of all places. I told him what had happened to
Lucy and he really went ballistic. But then he said he couldn’t come back
because he was tied up.”

“He said the same thing to Dr. Embrey.
Must have called her right after he spoke to you.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. Because
when we met last week he wasn’t involved in any business—told me he’d been
unemployed for a long time. So what was so urgent?”

“I really don’t know, Ken.”

“No, no reason for you to.... I have to
tell you, doctor, he sounded very edgy. I can’t help thinking he’s in some kind
of trouble. I was just wondering if Lucy said anything to you that you could
divulge without breaking confidentiality.”

“She really didn’t, Ken.”

“All right. Thanks. I’ll be back and forth
to L.A. for the next few weeks. Would visiting Lucy be appropriate?”

“I’d talk to Dr. Embrey about that.”

“Yes, of course. I have to tell you,
doctor, this is strange.”

“What is?”

“Instant family.”