was sleek and she had the slightly upturned nose of a Connecticut socialite who debateslong and hard about having rhinoplasty but never does. He recalled that Patsy’d told him her weight was never a problem: she’d hire a personal trainer whenever she gained five pounds. She’d said—with irritation masking secret pride—that men often tried to pick her up in bars and coffee shops.
He asked, “You say this’s happened before? Hearing the voice?”
Another hesitation. “Maybe two or three times. All within the past couple of weeks.”
“But why would Peter want to drive you crazy?”
Patsy, who’d come to Harry presenting with the classic symptoms of a routine midlife crisis, hadn’t discussed her husband much yet. Harry knew he was good-looking, a few years younger than Patsy, not particularly ambitious. They’d been married for three years—second marriages for both of them—and they didn’t seem to have many interests in common. But of course that was just Patsy’s version. The “facts” that are revealed in a therapist’s office can be very fishy. Harry Bernstein worked hard to become a human lie detector and his impression of the marriage was that there was much unspoken conflict between husband and wife.
Patsy considered his question. “I don’t know. I was talking to Sally. . . .” Harry remembered her mentioning Sally, her best friend. She was another Upper East Side matron—one of the ladies who lunch—and was married to the president of one of the biggest banks in New York. “She said that maybe Peter’s jealous of me. I mean, look at us—I’m the one with the social life, I have the friends, I have the money. . . .” He noticed a manic edge to her voice.She did too and controlled it. “I just don’t know why he’s doing it. But he is.”
“Have you talked to him about this?”
“I tried. But naturally he denies everything.” She shook her head and tears swelled in her eyes again. “And then . . . the birds.”
“Birds?”
Another Kleenex was snagged, used and shredded. She didn’t hide the evidence this time. “I have this collection of ceramic birds. Made by Boehm. Do you know about the company?”
“No.”
“They’re very expensive. They’re German. Beautifully made. They were my parents’. When our father died Steve and I split the inheritance but he got most of the personal family heirlooms. That really hurt me. But I did get the birds.”
Harry knew that her mother had died ten years ago and her father about three years ago. The man had been very stern and had favored Patsy’s older brother, Stephen. He had been patronizing to her all her life.
“I have four of them. There used to be five but when I was twelve I broke one. I ran inside—I was very excited about something and I wanted to tell my father about it—and I bumped into the table and knocked one off. The sparrow. It broke. My father spanked me with a willow switch and sent me to bed without dinner.”
Ah, an Important Event. Harry made a note but decided not to pursue the incident any further at that moment.
“And?”
“The morning after I heard my father’s ghost for the first time . . .” Her voice grew harsh. “I mean, the morning after Peter started whispering to me . . . I found one of the birds broken. It was lying on the living room floor. I asked Peter why he’d done it—he knows how important they were to me—and he denied it. He said I must have been sleepwalking and did it myself. But I know I didn’t. Peter had to’ve been the one.” She’d slipped into her raw, irrational voice again.
Harry glanced at the clock. He hated the legacy of the psychoanalyst: the perfectly timed fifty-minute hour. There was so much more he wanted to delve into. But patients need consistency and, according to the old school, discipline. He said, “I’m sorry but I see our time’s up.”
Dutifully Patsy rose. Harry observed how disheveled she looked. Yes, her makeup
He asked, “You say this’s happened before? Hearing the voice?”
Another hesitation. “Maybe two or three times. All within the past couple of weeks.”
“But why would Peter want to drive you crazy?”
Patsy, who’d come to Harry presenting with the classic symptoms of a routine midlife crisis, hadn’t discussed her husband much yet. Harry knew he was good-looking, a few years younger than Patsy, not particularly ambitious. They’d been married for three years—second marriages for both of them—and they didn’t seem to have many interests in common. But of course that was just Patsy’s version. The “facts” that are revealed in a therapist’s office can be very fishy. Harry Bernstein worked hard to become a human lie detector and his impression of the marriage was that there was much unspoken conflict between husband and wife.
Patsy considered his question. “I don’t know. I was talking to Sally. . . .” Harry remembered her mentioning Sally, her best friend. She was another Upper East Side matron—one of the ladies who lunch—and was married to the president of one of the biggest banks in New York. “She said that maybe Peter’s jealous of me. I mean, look at us—I’m the one with the social life, I have the friends, I have the money. . . .” He noticed a manic edge to her voice.She did too and controlled it. “I just don’t know why he’s doing it. But he is.”
“Have you talked to him about this?”
“I tried. But naturally he denies everything.” She shook her head and tears swelled in her eyes again. “And then . . . the birds.”
“Birds?”
Another Kleenex was snagged, used and shredded. She didn’t hide the evidence this time. “I have this collection of ceramic birds. Made by Boehm. Do you know about the company?”
“No.”
“They’re very expensive. They’re German. Beautifully made. They were my parents’. When our father died Steve and I split the inheritance but he got most of the personal family heirlooms. That really hurt me. But I did get the birds.”
Harry knew that her mother had died ten years ago and her father about three years ago. The man had been very stern and had favored Patsy’s older brother, Stephen. He had been patronizing to her all her life.
“I have four of them. There used to be five but when I was twelve I broke one. I ran inside—I was very excited about something and I wanted to tell my father about it—and I bumped into the table and knocked one off. The sparrow. It broke. My father spanked me with a willow switch and sent me to bed without dinner.”
Ah, an Important Event. Harry made a note but decided not to pursue the incident any further at that moment.
“And?”
“The morning after I heard my father’s ghost for the first time . . .” Her voice grew harsh. “I mean, the morning after Peter started whispering to me . . . I found one of the birds broken. It was lying on the living room floor. I asked Peter why he’d done it—he knows how important they were to me—and he denied it. He said I must have been sleepwalking and did it myself. But I know I didn’t. Peter had to’ve been the one.” She’d slipped into her raw, irrational voice again.
Harry glanced at the clock. He hated the legacy of the psychoanalyst: the perfectly timed fifty-minute hour. There was so much more he wanted to delve into. But patients need consistency and, according to the old school, discipline. He said, “I’m sorry but I see our time’s up.”
Dutifully Patsy rose. Harry observed how disheveled she looked. Yes, her makeup
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