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 think-arounds 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 surfaced his whole schema.
“Your dad’s typical of the people who do this successfully. There are several examples in literature where it’s been converted into a shared event; Jonathan Swift or William Faulkner or, more recently, Tolkien. It takes an extremely intelligent, strong-willed and imaginative person.
“Your father’s used all his tremendous capacities on his dream, totally independent of his daily life. Apparently he could find no use for them there. He’s constructed, created, a personal existence more to his liking. His is a private, complete and apparently satisfying world.”
He leans back farther in his chair and runs his fingers along the arms. A sneak-up smile begins to creep across his face.
“Sometimes already, I’ve had a difficult time keeping distance listening to your father. His fantasy is so compact, so texturally rich and at the same time idyllic. He’s like a medieval spellbinder explaining the nature of paradise. And he’s constructed this fantasy like a novel; one that fulfills his deepest desires. Most people participate in others’ fantasies through films, books or TV, but he has his own and it’s totally personal; more than that, it’s built into his life. I’m not sure he can ever let go, or even should, totally.”
I don’t know whether to ask or not. But this guy’s a psychiatrist, this is what he’s paid for.
“Dr. Delibro, I know this sounds off the wall, but what’s the chance Dad’s on some other time continuum or slipped gears somehow and is really experiencing all this?”
Delibro looks at me carefully. I’m already wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. In one sentence I’ve blown whatever credibility I had.
“I know; it’s hard to believe he’s made it all up. I’ve had the eerie feeling he’s only drawing back a curtain, letting me see something visible to him, something real.”
He stops, stares at his fingertips.
“But we can’t work on that hypothesis, Mr. Tremont. We must work within what we know if we’re going to help. It doesn’t matter much in terms of his immediate problem whether this is a dream construct or some time-warp phenomenon. Let’s not turn your Dad into another Bridey Murphy, OK?”
He looks up at me and smiles. He’s right.
“As I see it, the first thing we want to discover is what’s wrong with his daily life so he feels the need to build this other world.”
He’s getting to the core of things fast. I try not to show much.
“At first, I wasn’t sure if this mightn’t be only a short-duration delusion resulting from the trauma of his hospital experience, his coma and his fear of cancer.
“Has he ever told you about his abnormal fear of cancer? He actually has images of this disease, feelings verging on the psychotic. My background is Catholic and I recognize some of his projections as evil, the devil. He personalizes cancer as an enemy intent on removing him, devouring all he loves.”
Wow, Dad didn’t hold back much. This Delibro’s good if he got him to talk about cancer.
“But I’m convinced now his ‘dream’ has been going on a long time, perhaps thirty years or more. It’s become the mainspring of his inner life. And his inner life has been totally isolated from his outer life. That’s dangerous business, Mr. Tremont; it’s amazing he’s been able to function at all. It’s no wonder his wife’s illness, the shock of the operation, being removed from a stable environment, the news of his cancer caused him to retreat into his available ‘other’ world.”
I’m beginning to worry about Dad out there alone. I’m still carrying in my mind all those disappearances.
“Your father’s a charming man. It’s rare finding anyone over seventy with such a boylike quality, an interest and curiosity in things. I see many old people, and a good part of being old is increased rigidity, loss of vitality and a general decline in curiosity and humor. But wit
h your father this isn’t true. What concerns me most is what forced him to develop his fantasy? What could be so wrong in his life?”
“Doctor, I wish you’d talk to my mother. I think it will help you understand Dad better.”
“I was going to ask if that could be possible. In listening to your father, I sensed theirs has been a close union and she might be able to give me some insights.”
Should I tell him? Would he rather find out for himself? I should at least warn him.
“Dr. Delibro, my mother’s a very difficult woman. I’m not sure I can get her to come.”
He leans forward in the chair. Sherlock Holmes hearing the dog that didn’t bark.
“Please tell me anything about her you think I should know.”
What a great way to put it. That must be a straight textbook phrase. It’s so encouraging and yet so ambiguous. What the hell, anything to help.
“Dr. Delibro, Mom’s already had two severe nervous breakdowns. When she’s threatened she strikes out; and she’s easily threatened.
“She’s convinced that marrying my father was the biggest mistake of her life; still, emotionally, she’s absolutely dependent on him.
“I know this sounds like one more middle-aged man complaining about his mother, but it’s what I feel. To put it succinctly, Mother is hard to live with: intelligent, sensitive, demanding, insatiable and ruthless.”
So it’s out. He brings his two thumbnails up and sticks them between his front teeth. Maybe he’s feeling left out because his teeth aren’t separated. I wait. It’s quiet enough so I can hear the clock tick. Jesus, we’ve been consulting for over three hours; we’ll have to sell the house just to pay the psychiatrist bills.
“Dr. Delibro, another thing. My parents aren’t rich, neither am I. I’m not sure how much psychiatric help they can afford. I hate to be mercenary about this, but what are your estimates in time and money to do some good? If we get Mom involved in this, you’ve got your life’s work cut out.”
He leans his chair back, pushes his palms down on the arms, fingers point out, slightly up. He looks at one set of fingers then the other, he reminds me of a pianist before he attacks the keyboard.
“Both your parents will be covered by Medicare, I’m sure. Perhaps we can get the rest from Perpetual or MediCal. Don’t worry about it. If they can’t come up with the twenty percent, we’ll make it some way. I don’t agree with the Freudian idea you need to make it expensive so the treatment will be appreciated. That’s only a bit of Viennese sadomasochistic nonsense. Don’t worry about the money; I’m not going to sop up their life savings. To be honest, it’s one of the reasons I chose gerontology as a specialty. With Medicare I can choose my patients on a need basis, not just on ability to pay. Eighty percent of my fees keeps me fine.”
We both smile. He couldn’t be franker than that. Dad and Mom are going to get the full upper-middle-class treatment. Coming to see Delibro will be the high point of the week for years; it’ll upstage the “soaps.” I’m beginning to think I might actually get home.
He looks at the clock and stands up. Maybe there are other patients. I stand and we walk out to the waiting room. Dad isn’t there! I almost panic; then I see him in the little alcove with the secretary. He’s sitting at the typewriter. She’s leaning over him. He has his hands on the keys. He looks up when we come over and smiles sheepishly.
“You know, Johnny, I’ve always wanted to learn typing. This girl’s being wasted as a secretary; she should be a teacher. Look, I can already type he is it’ without looking.”
To demonstrate, he stares up at the ceiling and laboriously taps slowly at the keys. He has his fingers awkwardly hovering over the home keys. He looks down.
“See that, I did it again!”
We both lean forward and look. Spread over a page of f’s, d’s, g’s, j’s, k’s and l’s are three copies of his magic sentence. Dad stands up, holding his hands over the keys till he’s standing. The girl helps and gives him his hat. They shake hands; Dad puts his hand over hers.
“Thank you so much, Junko; someday I’ll type out a book and put you in it.”
He comes around the counter. Delibro and I make two appointments for next week: one on Wednesday, the other Friday. If I can get Mother to come on any pretext, I will; if not, Dad’ll take both.
So we drive home. I park and go into the house. Dad goes back to his greenhouse; I think he’s staying away from Mom. He doesn’t want to talk about what’s happening. Maybe he goes back there and trips to Cape May.
I try telling Mother what the doctor said. I tell about the dreams of Cape May, about how Dad still calls her Bess there and that’s why he makes mistakes now. I try giving her some picture of it all, how they’re younger, have two other children; how Dad raises tomatoes and corn to sell in Philadelphia. As I go on, I can see it’s not coming off.
Mom has both hands over her mouth again. She shakes her head slowly back and forth in disbelief. There are tears on the bottom rims of her eyes. Maybe it’s too much, but I can’t think of another way. I should have asked Delibro.
“I knew all the time he was crazy, Jacky. 1 told you. You can’t tell me somebody who thinks he lives in Cape May when he hasn’t ever even visited the place isn’t crazy! How can I live alone with somebody who thinks things like that?”
Then, after the first shock, she seems to relax. Having a professional work on the case appeals to her idea of the way it should be; she doesn’t feel quite so helpless. The movie and TV stars have psychiatrists; she’s a part of the big world now; her husband’s going to a psychiatrist. I review everything again, emphasizing how it’s all only a dream and will go away. I feel more relaxed, too. I’m glad I told her.
Billy comes back from a visit up the coast to some of his friends at Santa Cruz. He drove all the way up and back on my motorcycle.
I ask Billy if he’ll stay around some so I can get down to Venice and paint. I’m feeling a need to let my own id spread around some, bolster up my sagging ego.
While I’m painting, Gerry, the girl in Marty’s new house, comes by a couple of times. She has her little ones with her.
We sit on the beach and I play with her kids. I roll and play bear with them in the sand. Something in me still isn’t ready to be cut out from the parenting role. Maybe I’m only aching to be a grandfather. I’m caught up, beached, between two tides, the old one of fathering-husbanding and the new one of aging-dying.
My whole being is lifted by having those kids rolling, laughing, jumping on me. It could also be a contrast to the sadness and end-of-the-road feeling with my folks. It could be because of Gerry.
She flirts with me in the nicest way, somewhere between a grown girl teasing her father and a woman treating me as an available male. I enjoy responding. My life has been such that this no-holds-barred, minimum-expectation relationship with a woman is tremendously appealing. I feel I don’t have to bring an orchid, take her to the senior prom; I don’t have to buy her an engagement ring, find a cedar chest for the trousseau, hunt living-room furniture, demonstrate I have a job, a car, money in the bank; don’t need a bunch of professional fools from state and church standing around, testifying to our seriousness. It’s only the two of us, on a beach, casually enjoying each other. It makes the head of an older man spin.
But I’m not psychologically ready. I’m turned on, but I’m scared. Also, there’s no room in my life. Still we have some good conversation. The father thing comes up. Maybe it’s part of all her conversations with males but probably it’s my age.
Gerry has a successful father; in her view, very authoritarian. She feels her relationship with men has always been in his shadow, a strike at him or a searching for him. She’s been part of several therapy groups and knows all the jargon. I listen, play with her children and feel sorry for her father. He’s been cornered into thinking he’s done the right thing. He’s tried to give her the illusion he’s effectively, easily, coped with the world; that he isn’t scared, worried, suffering
daily fear and doubt like the rest of us.
It’s an easy mistake, faking this illusion of invulnerability. Some people never penetrate the facade; never see their parents as ordinary people; all other humans seem second class, including themselves. I listen to her and wonder how well Vron and I have handled this part of our lives.
I finish two paintings in Suzanne’s restaurant. One’s from out front through the restaurant and into the kitchen. The other I’m in the kitchen, stove and pots in the foreground tables in the middle ground and the ocean out the front window.
Suzanne serves only breakfast and dinner, so there’s a four-to-five-hour period in midday when I can work. She lives over the restaurant and invites me up a few times. There’s usually six or seven people smoking.
I take a few drags one afternoon when I’m finished. I don’t know why but grass doesn’t lift me; it makes everything very clear and far away. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, only it gets in the way of whatever it is keeps me painting.
Wednesday I take Dad back to the psychiatrist. At home a storm’s brewing with Mom. It’s partly the way she’s acting but she’s also complaining. She’s complaining about Billy about Dad; and I’m sure she’s complaining to them about me.
According to her, I don’t know what Dad’s really like; he’s dangerous and twice in the past few days he’s tried to hurt her. She says once he hit her with his cane and another time he bumped into her and almost knocked her down.
Dad still doesn’t have total control of his body. There are certain almost spastic movements. I listen and try to reassure her; she must be mistaken. He’d never hurt her on purpose.
He’s in with Delibro two hours again.
On the way home in the car we talk. I ask Dad if he’s had any more dreams and he says he has he still goes there nights and it isn’t like a dream at all.
“John, I remember everything afterwards, better than I can remember yesterday. It isn’t only at night either.
“I’ll be sitting there in the rocking chair, not thinking just drifting, and I’ll go. Some big part of me leaves and is in Cape May. I don’t even know how long I’m gone. It happens all the time, whenever I relax, especially out there in the greenhouse.”