“You seem angry.”
“Just answer me one thing, will you? Is psychology or psychiatry over in India twenty years behind the times or something?”
“Why do you ask that, Dominick?”
“Because . . . look, I don’t mean to insult you, but this technique you’re using is a little backward, isn’t it?”
“What technique do you mean?”
“All this family history crap. It’s like we’ve gone full circle or something.”
“Full circle? In what respect?”
“When he was first hospitalized,
way
the hell back, the doctors were always sniffing around this bad childhood stuff. Did he get spanked? How was he toilet-trained? Did she and Ray fight a lot?
She used to come home from those sessions with his doctors and
. . . she’d have to go upstairs and lie down. I’d hear her up in their bedroom, sobbing her head off.”
“Your mother? Why was that?”
More tea, Mrs. Floon?
Yes, thank you, Mrs. Calabash.
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“Dominick?”
“Because . . . because they were always insinuating that somehow or another
she
had caused it. And it wasn’t . . .
fair.
”
“The doctors were suggesting your mother caused Thomas’s illness?”
“Which was complete crap.”
“Yes, of course it was. I’m not at all implying that—”
“I mean, first of all, this kid who she’s
devoted
to, who she’s run interference for all his life . . . first, he cracks up and they cart him off to the loony bin. Then she comes down and visits him every single
day
—has to take the fucking
bus
down there because Ray wouldn’t . . . because he was too ashamed to . . . and then the doctors have to slap this
guilt trip
on her on top of it? It wasn’t
fair
!”
“Dominick, nothing about your brother’s illness is ‘fair.’ If you look for fairness when it comes to schizophrenia, it will be a futile search.
No patient or patient’s family
deserves
this affliction. And I’m certainly not trying to place guilt on anyone. I’m merely investigating—”
“Investigating his past. I
know
that! That’s what I’m saying. It’s what the shrinks were doing twenty years ago when this whole . . .
when this nightmare first started. And then, later on, his other doctors—Ehlers and Bradbury and those guys—when
they
came along, it was like, ‘Oh, no, all that history stuff ’s irrelevant. It has nothing to do with his upbringing; it’s all genetic. We don’t need to figure out the past. All we have to do is focus on the future: how to control his behavior with medication, how to teach him self-management.’
So, I’m just wondering why we’re back to picking apart the past. Is that what they’re still doing over in India?”
“I don’t know, Dominick. I’m not an expert on the current psychiatric practices of my native country. I haven’t lived there in over twenty-five years. Tell me. Are you uncomfortable about remembering the past?”
“Am
I
? No, I’m not
uncomfortable.
I just . . . I was just
wondering.
If it’s all just about genetics and finding the right chemical cocktail so he can go live in a group home somewhere, then—”
“Genetics and long-term maintenance are
certainly
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the whole treatment picture.
Integral
parts, Dominick. I’m not at all in disagreement with Dr. Ehlers and the others about that. And we’re learning new things all the time. Just this year, there have been some exciting developments. The approval of Clozapine for one.
Now, at the present time, it doesn’t seem that your brother is likely to benefit from—”
“We’ve been over that. What’s the other thing?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said Clozapine or Clozaril or whatever it’s called for
one
thing. What’s the other thing?”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that, actually. There’s some fascinating research just coming out of the National Institute of Mental Health. A study involving twins, as a matter of fact. They’ve been looking at the physical differences in the brains of schizophrenics and their healthy twins. Investigating the possibility that the abnormalities they’re seeing might be related to early viral infections or autoimmune disorders. I’ve been in touch with a Dr. Weinberger at the Institute. He’s very interested in you and your brother, as a matter of fact—about the possibility of getting MRIs of you both.”
“MRIs? Are those the things that—?”
“They’re pictures of the body’s soft tissues. Pictures of your brains, in this case. The procedure is completely noninvasive.
Completely painless.”
“We’re not lab rats,” I said.
“No, you’re not, Dominick. And I am not a mad scientist. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, is Dr. Weinberger. I’m not suggesting this is something we should pursue right now. Down the road, perhaps. I only mention it to reassure you.”
“Reassure me about
what
?”
“That I’m not twenty years behind the time.
Despite
the fact I am Indian by birth.”
I looked away. “All I’m saying. . . . I just don’t see why you’re spending all this time. . . . If it’s all about brain abnormalities and these MRI things, then what’s all this taping and talking about ancient history supposed to accomplish?”
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“I’m not sure, Dominick. I’m merely probing—trying to get a fuller picture. Let me put it this way: when he was nineteen years old, a young man walked into the woods and became lost. I have merely gone to the woods to try to find him. Others may be flying helicopters above, analyzing data—using more state-of-the-art methods. But as for me, I’m on foot. Calling out the young man’s name and listening for some response. I can’t give you any guarantees about what I’ll find. If, indeed, I find anything helpful at all.
The process is trial-and-error.”
“Yeah, well, as far as I can see, it’s just a big fat waste of time.”
“Thank you for your opinion.”
I shifted in my chair. Looked up at the clock. “God, where the hell’s Sheffer, anyway? You’d think if she was going to be
this
late, she’d call or something.”
“Perhaps a phone wasn’t available to her. Perhaps she’s on her way back now.”
“Look, I don’t mean to insult you. I know you mean well.”
“You don’t insult me, Dominick. You are merely expressing your opinion. Which is fine. Which is lovely.” She smiled.
I sat back down. “All right, go ahead,” I said. “Play the rest of it then.”
“The tape? You’re sure?”
“Go ahead.”
“
Mr. Birdsey, you said during our last session that your stepfather was
abusive not only to your mother but to you and Dominick as well. Let’s
explore that a little.
”
“
Let’s not and say we did.
”
Another flick of the cigarette lighter. The sound of Thomas inhaling, exhaling.
“
Did your stepfather hit you, Mr. Birdsey?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
Frequently or infrequently?
”
“
Frequently.
”
“Infrequently,” I said, correcting him.
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“
He used to take his belt off and hit me with it.
”
“
Where?
”
“
Anywhere he felt like it. In the kitchen. Out in the garage.
”
“
No, I mean where on your person did he strike you? Where on your
body?
”
“
My legs, my arms, my behind. . . . One time he hit me across the face
with his belt and the buckle chipped my tooth. Here. Right here. See that
little chip?
”
I pointed an incriminating finger at the tape recorder, Perry Mason style. “Okay, right there,” I said. “Thomas chipped that tooth during a sledding accident. We were sledding over at Cow Barn Hill and Thomas hit his mouth on a metal runner.”
“
He never hit Dominick the way he hit me.
”
“
No?
”
“
No. He always picked on Thomas Dirt.
”
“
Thomas Dirt? Why do you refer to yourself in that manner, please?
”
“
I’m
not
referring to myself. I’m Mr. Y.
”
I felt the blood rush to my face. Felt Patel watching me. She stopped the tape. “Is that accurate, Dominick?” she asked. “Was Thomas singled out?”
I cleared my throat. “Uh . . . what?”
“When your stepfather abused or bullied your brother, were you usually spared?”
“I don’t know. . . . Sometimes.” I watched the fists on my knees tighten, relax, tighten. “I guess.”
The old guilty relief: being the one
not
screamed at,
not
yanked by the arm or whacked in the head. “The thing is . . . the thing is, I wasn’t always pushing Ray’s buttons like Thomas was. I don’t know.
It’s hard to explain. You had to be there.”
“Take me there, then, Dominick. Help me to understand.”
“It’s no deep, dark . . . I just knew when to shut up.”
“Yes?”
“And Thomas . . . he just never knew how to play
defense,
you know? I mean, you should have seen him at contact sports. He just didn’t
get
it. And, in a way, it was . . . it was the same with Ray.”
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“Can you explain what you mean, Dominick?”
“You had to play
defense
with Ray. Know when to bluff, when to get out of his way. . . .”
“Yes, go on. This is helpful.”
“When to stand up to him, too. Ray respected that: when you drew the line, fought back. When you showed him you had the balls to . . . the nerve . . . I just . . . God, why is this so
hard
?”
“Why is what so hard?”
I couldn’t answer her. If I answered her, I might start to cry.
“Dominick, what are you feeling right now?”
“What am I
feeling
? I don’t know. Nothing. I’m just . . .”
“Are you afraid?”
“No!”
“Angry?”
“I just . . . that’s just the way it was with Ray. You just had to play
defense.
”
I suddenly saw and heard Ray—red-faced, goading, an inch or two from my face. Driving against me toward the basket he and I had bolted over the garage one Saturday morning. “
De-
fense!
De-
fense! What’s the matter, sissy girl? You want to play basketball or go inside and play with your paper dollies?”
“
Mr. Birdsey, why do you think your stepfather was more harsh with you
than he was with your brother?
”
“
I don’t
think
why. I
know
why. He was jealous of me.
”
“
Yes? What made him jealous?
”
“
Because he realized that God had special plans for me.
”
I rolled my eyes. Shifted in my seat.
They were
Thomas’s
paper dolls, not mine! He’d seen them at the five-and-ten—had begged Ma until she’d finally given in and bought them for him, and when Ray found them, all
three
of us were in trouble: Thomas, Ma, and me. Guilt by association. Guilty because I was his spitting image. Ray had gone bullshit when he saw those things. Ripped their heads off, their arms and legs. . . . And that hoop over the garage: it was supposed to be for both of us, but I Know[264-339] 7/24/02 12:45 PM Page 275
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Thomas would never come out and play. And when he had to—when Ray
made
him come out—he was always missing a pass or something. Taking a ball in the face. Running back inside to Ma, crying, chased back indoors by Ray’s ridicule.
“
And you feel that may have made your stepfather envious? Your special
relationship with God?
”
“
Yes!
”
“
Would you say Ray was a religious man?
”
“
Not half as religious as he thinks he is.
”
“
Could you explain that, please?
”
“
PEACE BE WITH YOU! THE BODY OF CHRIST! MAY
PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON YOU! Just because you’re the
loudest person in church, it doesn’t mean you’re the most holy. . . . He
never even used to go to church at all when we were kids. Not until he
turned Catholic.
”
“
Yes? He converted?
”
“
To please my mother. They were having problems.
”
“
Marital problems? How do you know this, Mr. Birdsey?
”
“
I’m Mr. Y.
”
“
Excuse me. I stand corrected. But how did you know they were having problems?
”
“
Because she used to tell me. I was her best friend. She was thinking
about getting a divorce. Nobody got divorces back then, but she was
thinking about it.
”
“No, she wasn’t,” I said.
“No? Could she, perhaps, have been confiding in your brother about such things and you were possibly unaware? Is it possible that—”
“No.”
“No?”
“
She started going to see the priest for help. Then he started going, too.