Factoring Humanity

“So how would Mary find a therapist?” asked Kyle.

“I don’t know,” said Heather. “Maybe Dr. Redmond recommended somebody.” Lloyd Redmond had been Kyle’s physician, and later, the whole family’s physician, for nearly thirty years. “I’ll call him in the morning and see what I can find out.”

Their meals arrived. They ate mostly in silence, and afterward went to their separate homes.

The phone rang in Kyle’s lab at 10:30 Tuesday morning. A couple of grad students were present, working quietly inside Cheetah’s console; the console’s faceplate, including Cheetah’s eyes, had been removed and was leaning now against the curving outer wall.

The Caller ID showed it was Heather, calling from her office in Sidney Smith Hall on the west side of St. George Street, a block farther south.

“I was right,” said Heather. “Dr. Redmond did recommend a therapist to Mary several months before she died.”

“What’s the therapist’s name?

“Lydia Gurdjieff.” She spelled the unusual last name.

“Ever heard of her?”

“No. I’ve checked the online directory for the OPA; she’s not listed.”

“I’m going to go see her,” said Kyle.

“No,” said Heather. “I think I should go — alone.”

Kyle opened his mouth to object, but then realized his wife was right. Not only was he the enemy in this therapist’s eyes, but Heather, not Kyle, was the trained psychologist.

“When?” he asked.

“Today, if possible.”

“Thanks,” said Kyle.

Heather might have shrugged or nodded, or even smiled encouragingly; there was no way for Kyle to tell. Sometimes he wished video phones had taken off.

“Hello, Ms. Gurdjieff,” said Heather, walking into the therapist’s consulting room. The walls were covered with blue wallpaper but it was curling a bit at the seams, revealing the painted surface beneath. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Davis — or may I call you Heather?” Heather wasn’t taking any special pains to disguise her identity; she used her own last name, but Rebecca and Mary had shared Kyle’s last name. There was no reason to think this Gurdjieff person would make the connection. “Heather is fine.”

“Well, Heather, we don’t often have a cancellation, but I guess today is your lucky day. Please, have a seat, or use the couch if you prefer.”

Heather considered for a moment, then, with a little shrug, lay down on the couch. Even with all her training in psychology, she’d never actually lain on a therapist’s couch before and it seemed an experience not to be missed.

“I’m not sure why I’m here,” Heather said. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” She looked beyond the therapist to the walls; there were framed diplomas on them. The highest degree seemed to be a master’s.

“That’s surprisingly common,” said Gurdjieff. Her voice was warm and pleasant, with perhaps a trace of a Newfoundland accent.

“I also don’t have much of an appetite,” said Heather. Gurdjieff nodded and took a datapad off her desk. She started writing on it with a stylus. “And you think there’s a psychological cause for this?”

“At first I thought it was some kind of flu,” said Heather, “but it’s been going on for months.”

Gurdjieff made another note on her pad. She was putting too much pressure on the stylus; it made a slight chalk-on-blackboard screech against the glass plate.

“You’re married, aren’t you?”

Heather nodded; she still wore a plain wedding band.

“Children?”

“Two boys,” said Heather, although she regretted it at once. She probably should have included at least one daughter. “Sixteen and nineteen.”

“And they’re not the source of the problem?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

Heather saw no reason not to answer that truthfully. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Heather tilted her head, accepting the comment.

They talked for another half hour, the therapist’s questions seemingly innocuous.

And then she said it: “A classic case, really.”

“What?” asked Heather.

“Incest survivor.”

“What?”

“Oh, you don’t consciously remember it — that’s not at all unusual. But everything you’ve said suggests that’s what happened.”

Heather tried to keep her tone flat. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Denial is natural,” said Gurdjieff. “I don’t expect you to come to terms with it right away.”

“But I wasn’t abused.”

“Your father is dead, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Did you cry at his funeral?”

That struck a little too close to home. “No,” Heather said softly.

“It was him, wasn’t it?”

“It was nobody.”

“You didn’t have a much-older brother, did you? Or a grandfather who visited a lot? Maybe an uncle you were often alone with?”

“No.”

“Then it was probably your father.”

Heather tried to make her voice sound firm. “He couldn’t possibly have done anything like that.”

Gurdjieff smiled sadly. “That’s what everyone thinks at first. But you’re suffering from what we call post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s the same thing that happened to those vets from the Gulf and Colombian Wars, only instead of reliving the memories, you’re repressing them.” Gurdjieff touched Heather’s hand. “Look, it’s nothing to be ashamed of — you have to remember that. It’s nothing you did. It’s not your fault.”