The Naked Lady Who Stood on Her Head (28 page)

“I inherited my father’s traits?” Hank laughed. “That’s a good one.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“I was adopted, Dr. Small. My brother and sister don’t know because my father didn’t want them trying to push me out of my inheritance.”

I laughed. “You definitely know how to keep a secret. But there isn’t any controversy over the estate now, so why not tell them?”

Hank smiled. “I suppose it’s childish of me to withhold the truth, but Father didn’t want to tell, and I guess I do get some pleasure from their envy of how close Father and I were. And the fact that they believe I’ve inherited his talent and even his weaknesses probably gets their goats too.”

“But keeping this secret also serves to keep you apart,” I said.

“I hadn’t considered that,” he said.

After breakfast, Hank’s internist came by the house with a copy of his medical records for me to review. I discussed my findings with him, and he performed an electrocardiogram before starting Hank on Zoloft that afternoon. I reached one of the behavior therapists I knew in the area, and he agreed to come up to see Hank the next day to begin desensitization therapy. The rest of the afternoon I helped Hank begin his list of anxiety-provoking situations, as well as determine their rankings.

At that point I considered heading home but felt we had made so much headway, that perhaps one more day would really make a differ
ence. Also, I could meet with the new local psychiatrist and fill him in. Hank understood that his panic disorder was very much a medical as well as a psychiatric condition, and I hoped that some of the stigma he felt around it had lifted. He seemed optimistic about the treatment plan, and the timing might have been right to try to repair the family rift.

“Hank, how would you feel about Carolyn and William visiting you up here?” I asked.

“Well, I’m just starting my treatment,” he said. “Do you think it’s a good idea so soon?”

“You seem to understand that there’s nothing about your symptoms to be embarrassed about. It’s really a medical condition—your body is low in the chemical transmitter serotonin, and Zoloft replenishes that serotonin in your brain so you won’t feel so panicked.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“I think now might be a good time to have them come up and break the ice, especially while I’m still here.”

He thought for a moment, and then said, “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

THAT EVENING BACK AT THE LODGE, I
called Gigi to let her know I’d be staying another night. The phone wasn’t answered immediately, so I thought I would just be able to leave a message. I suppose I felt a little guilty because I was beginning to think about getting in a quick hour or two of skiing while I was up there.

Just as I thought the voice mail would pick up, Gigi answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey, how are you?” I asked.

“Good. I got a lot of work done today,” she said. “The kids and I are negotiating bedtimes. I thought you were coming home.”

“I have to stay another night, babe. I’m really sorry,” I said.

“That’s okay, I’ve got to work tonight anyway,” she said. “But listen, I’m on a deadline, and I won’t have time to get to the market tomorrow. Do you think you could stop for some milk on your way home from the airport?”

“No problem,” I said, imagining myself getting off the Dunlop private jet and asking my chauffeur to stop at the 7-Eleven and wait while I ran in.

It was another perfect morning up at Hank’s compound, and we were finishing breakfast when Ahmed announced that Miss Carolyn had arrived without Mr. William. I was getting so used to hanging out with Hank, I almost blurted out, “Thank you, Ahmed, that will be all.” Instead, Hank replied, “Please send her back here, Ahmed. Maybe she’d like some breakfast.”

“I wonder what happened to William,” I said.

“He left a message that he couldn’t pull away from some important meeting,” Hank said.

We could hear Carolyn walking down the hall. “Henry? Hank?” she called out from the hallway. “Are you back here?” She paused at the doorway. She looked anxious, worried about what she might find.

Hank got up to go meet her. “Carolyn, you look terrific.”

“So do you,” she said. Hank wrapped his arms around her and they hugged. I could see tears of relief in her eyes.

“Come sit down and have some breakfast,” he said.

As she put her bags down, she noticed me for the first time, “Dr. Small, I don’t know what you did, but thanks so much for getting Hank to let me come up here.”

“It was his decision,” I said.

Hank passed Carolyn the bread basket and said, “I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you about things, things I should have told you years ago.”

She smiled. “Me too.” She reached for her purse and pulled out a bag filled with freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. “We can share these while we talk.”

He took a cookie and his voice cracked. “I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.” As he bit into it, he looked happier than I’d seen him yet.

I got the feeling that they wanted to talk alone, so I excused myself and made a few phone calls in the other room. As the day went on, Caro
lyn and Hank talked, laughed, and cried a lot. The local behavioral psychiatrist arrived, and I briefed him on my findings and the progress we had made. I wanted to get back to Los Angeles in time for dinner with my family, so I told them I would be heading home. They thanked me, and Hank said the jet was fueled and waiting.

As I flew back to Los Angeles that afternoon, I thought about the Dunlops and their complex family dynamic. William might have been the one to pull Carolyn away from Hank when they were young, and to have kept stirring up the rivalry with an undercurrent of greed as they got older and more distant from their father. But they were adults now, and it appeared that at least Hank and Carolyn wanted to act like it.

Growing up in my own family of three kids, we had sibling rivalry too. It seemed we were always bickering about something. Usually it was two against one. The teams would change from hour to hour, but my older sister always remained on the winning team. I thought of my own two kids when they were younger and would fight over who got to sit closest to Daddy on the couch. It’s almost as if bickering over a parent’s attention, the last French fry, or the front seat was hardwired.

I felt encouraged that at least Hank was on his way to recovering from his agoraphobia. Perhaps with Carolyn’s support he would be able to leave Colorado for a while.

I walked into my house at seven and put my things down in the entry hall. Our Labradoodle came charging at me as I heard Gigi yelling out to the kids, “Come on, guys. Wash your hands. Daddy’s home and it’s time for dinner.” She pushed our giant dog aside and gave me a kiss. “I’m glad you’re back, sweetie. And you know I was just kidding—you could have skied.”

“I know,” I said. “But I didn’t have time anyway.”

“Good. I would have killed you,” she said. “I hope you’re in the mood for Chinese because I ordered in.”

“Chinese sounds fantastic. I’m starved.” I followed her into the kitchen carrying a plastic bag with a half gallon of milk in it.

Summer 2008

I PULLED MY TOYOTA HYBRID SILENTLY
into a space in the V.A. parking lot by the Brentwood golf course. My old mentor, Dr. Larry Klein, was standing by his car waiting for me. It was a hot July morning in Los Angeles, and the temperature had already reached ninety degrees. Larry, a tanned sun worshipper, was sweating in the sun, rather than taking two steps to the left and sitting on a bench in the shade.

I hadn’t seen him for some time. He was wearing his oversize glasses and signature bow tie, and despite losing more of his gray hair, he still looked spry at seventy-one. He glanced right and left—I guessed it was to make sure I hadn’t been followed. I wondered if age had worsened his paranoid tendencies, or maybe I’d just forgotten how wacky he was.

“Thanks for meeting me here, pal,” he said and gave me a hug.

“No problem, Larry,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Let’s walk,” he said as he took off at a good clip, but not quite as fast as in the old days. “I’ve got a problem, and I can’t talk to anybody else about it.”

“I’m your man, Larry. What’s going on?”

“No, Gary, I mean
talk…
on a regular basis.”

“Hey, Larry, we’re friends. We can talk every day if you want.”

He stopped and turned to me. “You don’t get me. I’m dealing with something right now and it’s making me a little meshuga. I need therapy, Gary. And I want you to be my therapist.”

I was thrown. Here was the best mentor I’d ever had in my career, and he was coming to me for psychotherapy? What could I possibly tell him that he didn’t already know? The man was a genius whom I had kept on a pedestal for twenty-five years. “I can’t be your therapist, Larry. I’m your friend, your student.”

“Bullshit. You’re the only person in this city who I trust, so you’re the only one for the job. You have to do it, period. End of story.”

I was sweating—not so much from the heat but from the idea of hearing Larry Klein’s innermost secrets. “I’m touched, really, that you trust me. And I’d be happy to talk about any issue that’s eating at you. But you know that you can’t really be in psychotherapy with someone you have a personal relationship with.”

“That’s a crock—just because Freud said so? Who gives a shit? You’ve been brainwashed by those psychoanalysts, and I know it, because I am one.”

The written and unwritten rule about psychotherapy for as long as anyone could remember was that therapists had to maintain a professional, not personal, relationship with their patients. In social friendships there is a give and take, where both people share opinions, advise, and help each other. A psychotherapeutic relationship is one-sided: the therapist is designated to help the patient only. If the patient knew personal details of the therapist’s life, it could interfere with the therapy’s natural development of transference and countertransference, and working through those distortions is key to helping the patient heal.

“But Larry, you know me,” I said. “You know my weaknesses, my struggles, and I’ve looked up to you for years. How could there be any meaningful transference?”

Larry stopped and wiped his brow. “Therapy is not all about this
transference crap. A lot of good can come from talking with someone you trust, who understands you.”

I was about to continue my protests, but he went on. “I don’t want to discuss it anymore, Gary. It’s a done deal. Think of it this way: you and I are going to have a regular get-together three times a week—we can get coffee, walk the golf course, whatever.”

I caved. “Fine. But I’m not taking any money,” I said adamantly.

“So what. I’ll be making monthly donations to your Center on Aging, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said, grinning.

The next day was Saturday, and I slept in. Stumbling into the kitchen at about nine-thirty, I could hear the kids outside in the backyard already. It was nice to have them around. Now that Rachel was driving and Harry had gotten serious about his skateboarding, they didn’t seem to be home much.

Gigi was sitting outside on the patio with her laptop, probably working on her blog for
Psychology Today
. Her editor, who obviously had a sense of humor, called it “The Simple Life.” I poured a cup of coffee, grabbed the
New York Times,
and joined her outside in the shade.

“Good morning, baby. Nice day,” I said.

“Hi, honey. Ooh, is there still coffee? Give me a sip,” she said.

Rachel called out from her lounge chair in the sun. “Dad, come here and help me with this crossword puzzle.”

“Can’t, honey—too sunburned. Besides, the
L.A. Times
Saturday puzzle is too easy for me. You know that.”

“That’s funny stuff, Dad,” Harry said while wrestling the dog on the lawn. “Maybe you should go on Conan.”

“How did you get that sunburn?” Gigi asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well?”

“I’ll tell you,” I said. “But you can’t put it in your blog.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “Like anybody would actually be interested in reading about you.” She stopped typing and looked at me. “No, really, what happened?”

“I had a chat with one of my old mentors out on the golf course, and I forgot to wear sunscreen.”

“That’s a long story?” she asked.

I knew that even without naming names, Gigi would know who I was talking about. I flashed to a recent conference of psychiatric leaders, where many admitted that on occasion, they confided in their wives about their patients. I wanted to get some perspective and I trusted Gigi, so I said, “Look, I’m not going to mention any names.”

“Of course not,” Gigi replied.

“But of all the teachers I’ve had in my life, he stands alone. He’s a brilliant psychopharmacologist, and he’s probably published at least five hundred research articles. He’s also an amazing psychoanalyst. He seems to really understand what makes people tick—even the very sick ones. I’m telling you, he’s been more than just a teacher and a friend—he’s like a father figure.”

“What’s the story?” she asked.

“He’s having some kind of life crisis and wants me to be his ‘therapeutic friend,’” I said.

“That’s flattering,” she said. “Your mentor came to
you
for therapy.”

“Yeah, but it’s awkward. I mean, I know him and he knows me. How can I be objective?”

“You do it all the time with me and other people. I know I used to give you a hard time for playing therapist when we were younger and you would hide behind that ‘how does that make you feel’ crap, but now you’re pretty good at friend therapy.”

She was probably right. When you do something on a daily basis for years, it becomes second nature, part of your personality. “But this guy is someone I’ve emulated and gone to with my own problems, at least at work. What if I feel weird listening to his private…stuff?”

“That’s what you do, Gary. I mean, if you were a plumber, and an old friend had a pipe burst, you’d go right over and help him out. That’s what friends do. How many times have we called Rob when we needed legal advice or gone to your brother-in-law when the kids needed a dentist?” Gigi went back to her blog.

As I went back into the house to get more coffee, I thought about Gigi’s points. Hearing her say out loud what I had been thinking all along reassured me that I might be able to help Larry. I decided to keep some sunscreen and a hat in my car.

After the weekend, Larry and I set up our first regular meeting, but I wasn’t allowed to know where it would be. He insisted on letting me know the location at the last minute. I got a message Wednesday morning that he’d be coming to my office. I was surprised that he was comfortable there. Maybe it was because it was the only suite on the top floor of the institute, and he felt that no one would be listening in.

Just before Larry’s appointment, I was cleaning up my e-mail in-box, which had become an unending chore in my life. Larry walked in carrying something wrapped in tinfoil. He placed it on my desk and said, “Louise baked this pound cake. It’s fantastic. Have some.”

When Larry said “Have some,” he wasn’t kidding. He was like a Jewish mother—you’d better eat it or else. I walked to the cupboard and pulled out some paper plates and napkins.

“Got coffee?” Larry asked.

He knew I always did—that was just his way of saying “Get me a cup.” He sat down on the couch while I poured our coffee and brought over the cake. I sat in my chair and asked, “So what’s happening, Larry?”

“Well, we both know that I have a suspicious nature,” he said.

I thought it was charming how Larry understated things. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Well, I’ve gone beyond suspicious now,” he said. “I think I might be getting paranoid, but I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?” I asked while stuffing my face with pound cake that really was delicious.

“I think somebody is out to get me, and all my instincts tell me I’m right.”

“Larry, I’m not sure why you’d hesitate to follow your instincts. You’ve always told me to look at the big picture,” I said. “By nature, you are incredibly insightful. If you think somebody is out to get you, you may be right. Have you considered that?”

“Of course. But here’s why I’m concerned—I’ve got symptoms. I never used to wake up in the middle of the night and ruminate. I’ve always slept like a baby no matter what was going on. The queen of England could be downstairs and I’d let Louise entertain her if it was past my bedtime. Now I have trouble sleeping and I’m distracted at work.”

“What’s distracting you?”

“I’m convinced that a certain someone is trying to set me up and push me out of the psychiatry department.”

“Who could do that, Larry? Who has the position or the power?”

“Trust me, it could be done,” Larry snapped. “You have no idea how vulnerable we are. One sexual-harassment comment from a former patient or a disgruntled secretary, and your career is over. Or are we supposed to call secretaries assistants now? I can’t keep it straight.”

“Who is this person you think is trying to get you?” I asked.

“Anthony Wilson, the little bastard,” Larry said. “And I helped him get his endowed chair.”

I wasn’t surprised. Tony Wilson had gone to Prince ton, got his medical degree at Columbia, and always thought he was above us mere mortals whose résumés were tainted by an occasional public-university stint. He was manipulative and spiteful, and one of the few people who could get under my skin.

“Look,” I said. “I know that Wilson has a reputation as a petty, self-serving bureaucrat, but what’s he got on you?”

“Here’s what’s really keeping me up at night.” Larry put down his coffee and lay back on the couch, hands behind his head—assuming the classic analytic position. I instinctively put down my coffee and listened intently.

“I’m under investigation for scientific fraud.”

I was stunned. Larry was the consummate obsessive scientist. He was famous for triple-checking all facts. As editor of one of the major biological psychiatry journals, everyone knew that Larry personally read over every submission and always had astute and detailed notes.

“That’s absurd. This has got to be some kind of academic political coup. There must be a mistake here,” I said.

“Oh, there’s a mistake all right,” Larry said. “I fucked up.”

“How?” I asked.

“The paper in question was published out of my lab, and the first author is a kid I’ve singled out as a rising star. He reminds me of myself forty years ago.”

“So you think because you liked this kid, you let your guard down and didn’t triple-check his facts like you usually do?”

“Precisely,” he answered.

“Look, Larry, you’re human. You’re entitled to let a clerical error slip through the cracks once in a while. You’ve mentored hundreds of young scientists over the years. You can’t expect them all to be perfect.”

“Look, Gary, I know it was the kid’s screwup, but it came out of my lab, so ultimately it’s my responsibility.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this investigation,” I said. “How did it get started?”

“Somebody blew a whistle. I don’t know who, probably some disgruntled lab tech. And now Tony Wilson is chairing the committee looking into the charges.”

“What are the charges, Larry?”

“False data. I should have seen it. The results looked too good. I don’t know why I didn’t look more carefully before letting him submit it.”

“Why do you think you didn’t?” I asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question, Gary.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Sure, I was impressed with this young scientist and assumed everything he did was golden, but I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it.” He took a sip of coffee and continued. “I don’t have to tell you how the brain ages—you’re the expert. Maybe my suspiciousness is morphing into distorted judgments, where I trust the wrong people and have gotten so paranoid about others that I completely avoid them. I thought this kid could do no wrong. I must have gotten too close to him personally and overidentified with him. Thanks to Tony Wilson, that little weasel, I know now that the kid was too good to be true and he falsified his data.”

“Larry, nobody’s perfect. You can’t catch every mistake. Just tell the committee this guy falsified his facts and you missed it. It was a simple
oversight and the journal can publish a retraction. Let the blame fall where it should.”

“It’s not so simple,” Larry snorted. “Look at David Baltimore. He had to resign as president of Rockefeller University when his student was caught faking data.”

“But Baltimore stood by his student too long. That’s where he got into trouble.”

“I know you’re right. I’ve got to take care of myself here.” He sat up and straightened his bow tie. “We’ll talk more on Friday. Maybe Louise will bake her strudel.”

For the rest of the day I kept thinking about my meeting with Larry. I was challenged by the complexity of the situation—both his at the university and mine with him. I had trouble concentrating on my work. It was as if I had taken on Larry’s symptoms—ruminating about the problems and even starting to wonder if I had stepped over the line and taken on a task that was doomed to fail.

That evening at home, I got on my elliptical machine for a thirty-minute workout. I usually watched CNN, but this time I just wanted quiet to think about the Larry Klein situation. I replayed our session in my mind and tried to focus on his main complaints. He was having trouble sleeping and feeling guilty over his perceived wrongdoings. As I systematically reviewed his list of complaints, I realized that Larry had several symptoms of depression.