Doctors (81 page)

“I’m no longer a wife, Papacito.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“He was a shit,” Laura replied without rancor.

“Oh well, in that case,” Luis responded, “you did well to divorce him.”

“He divorced me.”

This stopped Luis. “I am sorry for you,
niña.
Truly sorry.” But he quickly added, “These days one doesn’t have to be united in the church to have a child, you know.”

She did not know how to react. And then she realized it was not a question but a preamble to a declaration
he
wanted to make.

“You have another sister and a brother, Laura. Very nice children, both of them.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if people did this sort of thing every day.

Laura felt hurt and betrayed.

“Aren’t you still married to Mama?”

Luis shrugged. “I suppose a priest might say so. But in Cuba the Church is just a tolerated ornament.”

Laura asked—as she knew he wanted her to—“Do you have any pictures of your children?”

“Do you really want to see them?” Luis asked gently.

Before she could answer yes, he had his wallet out and was extracting little photographs, which he laid upon the table like a dealer would a hand of cards. One was a picture of herself and Isobel. Another was of Laura alone. Though touched by these, her eyes immediately darted to the boy.

“His name’s Ernesto,” said Luis.

Somehow she knew it was before he said so.

“And of course you call him ‘Ché.’ ”

Luis nodded, smiling. “Of course. The little girl is … Isobel.”

Up till now Laura’s reactions to her father’s revelations had been of astonishment. But now she was actually shocked.

“You named her after—”

Luis nodded. “An act of love, Laurita. I hope you’ll meet her one day.”

Where, I wonder? Laura asked herself—in Gorky Park?

“Tell me about yourself, Laurita. Tell me how you’ve been.”

She looked back at him. His gaze was unmistakably affectionate, compassionate. And for the first time in her life she believed he loved her and he really wanted to know.

And she started telling him everything.

But first she had to weep.

Darkness was falling as they walked back to the Sheraton. The afternoon session was just breaking up. Dain Oliver spied her and looked manifestly relieved. She waved to him as if to say, I’m fine, I hope you weren’t worried. And then she turned to face Luis.

“That’s my boss, I think I’d better go back or they’ll think that I’ve defected.”

“Of course, of course.” Her father nodded. “Just remember
I
am on your team as well.” And then he added parenthetically, “The Cubans are not staying at this place.”

“I guessed as much,” she said. “You’re probably at something like the ‘El Fleabag,’ am I right?”

“Well, fleas are human beings, too,” Luis said, parodying himself. “Maybe some day they too will rise and break their chains.” He then said quickly, “Laura, I must go. I’ve been playing hookey. But write to me at the address I gave you. Do you promise?”

Laura nodded.

“And I promise I will answer—I can send it via Mexico. I want to know your news. And don’t just send me articles. I want a photograph of grandchildren. You hear me,
niña
?”

She nodded once again. Luis opened his arms, wrapped his eldest daughter tightly in them, and whispered something.

Something Laura dared not even think about in her most private thoughts.

She returned to Washington still unaware that for all its power and influence, the nation’s capital was just a simple village where the huts were marble. Its only industry was government,
its only conversation politics, its paper
The Washington Post.

Thus what had seemed to Laura no big deal—for her exchanges with Navarro were insignificant in her mind compared to the reunion with her father—was, for Washingtonian consumption, quite a tasty tidbit. And by the time her plane had landed and she returned to her apartment to drop off her bags, the phone was ringing off the hook.

“Hello Laura, this is Florence at the Pediatrics Institute. Have you seen today’s
Post
yet?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance—”

“Well, look at page fourteen—Maxine Cheshire gives you a lovely pat on the back. Have you got a copy?”

“Yes. Thanks, Florence. I’ll see you in a while.”

Laura started to boil the kettle to make instant coffee and then picked up the newspaper from where it was lying inside the door. Maxine, the doyenne of Washington society, had reported:

She read the item over several times and tried to figure out how she felt about it. Why do they always have to mention my looks? It makes it seem as if I couldn’t have done it if I were Quasimodo.

She was interrupted by an unnerving whistle. She turned and was relieved to see that it was only her kettle.

It was a little before one when she got to the Institute. Dain Oliver was already in the cafeteria.

“It’s the usual Wednesday get-together of the division heads,” Florence explained, “but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went over.”

“I don’t know,” Laura thought aloud, “I guess I should wait, but I really want to see him as soon as possible and assure him that I’m not a publicity hound.”

“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Florence inquired.

“I mean, I don’t want him to think I gave out the story. I have no idea how the paper got it.”

Florence was surprised at her ingenuousness. “Why, Dr. Oliver called Maxine himself, Laura.”

“He did? Whatever for?”

“To enhance our visibility, of course.”

“Why should we need visibility?” Laura asked her.

“Because every time the Senate votes on us for funding, it really helps if members of the Committee can recall that they’ve read something positive about us recently. And let me tell you, Laura,
everybody
on the Hill reads Maxine Cheshire.”

“Oh, I see,” Laura said. And then she remarked, “That makes me think of my old high school. When I ran for office we’d use every trick to publicize my name.”

As she walked out of the director’s office, Laura thought some more.

It really
is
like Midwood in a lot of ways. Was it that we were so mature then, or is this really just an adolescent game?

In the ensuing weeks she would find out firsthand.

At first Laura consoled herself with the thought that her sudden notoriety was just a flash in the pan. Her little verbal tiff with the dogmatic Cuban wasn’t really such hot stuff. Surely journalists had better things to write about—like Congressmen found cavorting with naked playmates in a public fountain near the Jefferson Memorial.

And yet the invitations kept cascading in.

Celebrity is self-perpetuating. Once your name is known in Washington—especially if it is for something that requires brains—you are invited once or twice to find out if you are also a charming dinner partner.

And of course, in Laura Castellano’s case, her personality came wrapped in such a gorgeous package that she soon became a much sought-after guest. It was refreshing to be able to invite a hotshot doctor, especially if hostesses were short of a female to match up with a bachelor Senator (or a married Senator who kept his wedding ring back home and brought it out just for elections).

At first Laura enjoyed it. At least she tried to tell herself that she enjoyed it. She could smile and sparkle, show her sense of humor, charm the others present—male and female. In short, she became The Perfect Guest.

Still, Laura saved all
passion
for her work. Manufacturers of medical equipment were now seeking her out so they could be part of the important breakthrough she was nearing. Though her whirlwind social life had not abated, she sometimes had her
dates drop her at the Institute so she could spend the quiet early hours of the morning working on her data. And while all the party talk was Watergate and whose head would be next to roll, she burrowed on. For infant hemorrhages have no political affiliations.

Her second paper was accepted. And her third. There was no question that she would have her Fellowship renewed. And, despite what was essentially a research appointment, she had the unique gratification of being able to save some newborns in the NIH hospital. In almost every sense she was fulfilled. She was successful and admired. The satisfaction she derived from her work surpassed her fondest hopes.

Everything was perfect. Except she was still unhappy.

T
o the canon of the greatest loves in history—Antony for Cleopatra, Romeo for Juliet, Tristan for Isolde—could now be added the passion felt by Barney Livingston for Shari Lehmann.

The only problem was that Shari was his patient.

For once, an analytic hour was more painful to the doctor than the patient.

Shari was a twenty-five-year-old dancer with the American Ballet Theatre—a sensitive, intelligent young woman with striking Mediterranean looks. Her marriage had disintegrated six months earlier and her depression was so severe that the company physician had suggested she seek professional help. A senior member of the Institute recommended Barney as a potential analyst.

Barney could not help but think that Shari’s case confirmed one of his long-held theories: that it is almost always the less attractive mate who has the extramarital affair. Because unconsciously he or she does not feel worthy of the other partner.

Shari’s husband was a well-respected cellist twenty years her senior, and pathologically jealous.

“I just couldn’t reassure him,” Shari complained, “even
when I offered to stop dancing and go with him on his concert tours. In fact, that’s what made everything explode.”

She always wept when they discussed her break with Leland, which could more accurately be described as his rejection of her.

“Why, Dr. Livingston? If I only knew why. I could come to grips with it and maybe pull myself together. Now I’m just a big neurotic mess.…”

No, you aren’t, Barney thought. The guy who has the problem is your husband.

Meanwhile, Barney’s agony intensified. Why couldn’t he have met Shari socially so he could tell her—without compromising ethics or the Hippocratic Oath—that he was desperately in love with her?

He wished that he could treat the hurt she felt by putting his consoling arms around her, whispering, You’re okay, Shari. What you need is someone who appreciates you.

Me, for instance. I’d do everything to make your wounded, beautiful young soul rejoice again.

But he had to suffer all of this in silence.

What made matters worse, her analysis was going well. Which is to say transference had occurred. The stage in which the patient recreates her neurotic syndromes with the analyst as star of the scenario. She had already confessed with difficulty—but with courage—“Dr. Livingston, I know this sounds silly. But I have this sort of … crush on you. I’ve read your book—and all the articles I could get my hands on. I guess that’s classic in analysis. And anyway, I’ve always been attracted to older men.…”

Her last remark slapped Barney on the ego.
Older men
?

“I mean, I’m sure all of your female patients feel the same way. I took a course in Psych in college and I suppose this is what’s called ‘transference,’ but I feel so terrible just saying this, Doctor.”

As Barney sat dumbly he wondered, Did you also learn about the formidable problem of
counter
transference?

For inevitably, if analysis is to work, the doctor and his patient must establish a relationship. But of course, as Freud observed, the therapist must learn to use these feelings wakened in him for the patient’s good. To draw the line of involvement at “suspended attention” and merely do what Theodore Reik described as “listen with the third ear.”

To put it bluntly, the worst thing a psychoanalyst can do is
take advantage of the privilege that his patient has bestowed upon him—the private key to her unconscious thoughts—and use it to gratify himself.

And for a while it got dangerously close. Barney found himself having “unprofessional” fantasies.
Why
should our relationship—so intimate and caring—not be consummated?

Because it’s wrong.

The pitched battle between his id and superego seemed never-ending. He knew of one or two cases of psychiatrists who had married their patients. Granted, they had been training analysts, but still …

And then he thought of Andrew Himmerman. Oh God, don’t let me be like Andrew Himmerman.

Barney tried to tell himself that this was different. All he wanted was to be with Shari till death did them part.

Week after week he would sit there during Shari’ s hour, never taking notes, for he remembered everything down to the slightest detail.

“The first one is the worst one, Barn.”

This was all he could get from Brice Wiseman, with whom he shared office and coffeemaker.

“You mean you’ve felt the same way?” Barney asked.

“For God’s sake, Barney, we’re not robots. Analysis can only work if it’s an alive and shifting interaction.
You’re
responding to her feelings as well as she to yours.”

“Do you think she knows how I feel, Brice?” he asked.

“I’m sure she does—to some extent. But then she probably tells herself she’s projecting it on you and that it’s all her imagination. That’s the only saving grace.”

Barney shook his head.

“Brice, I’m in trouble. I want to give up everything for her. I’m the only person on this goddamn earth who knows how wonderful and caring this girl is.”

“She’s also beautiful,” Brice commented. “I’ve seen her in the waiting room.”

“Look,” countered Barney forcefully, “I’ve seen ‘beautiful’ in my day. I’m telling you that girl’s real beauty is
inside.
”