Shadows Out of Time

I found it difficult to fault Mr. Willeford for his rage. His son had been under my care for over two years. To the untrained eye, Sean might have appeared to be sliding backwards into the “psychosis” that had almost destroyed him. My eye, however, as you well know, is far from untrained. Sean’s case was the most difficult I’d ever dealt with. I’d spent more time treating him than any other patient in my career. And yet all Willeford could see was his lifesavings draining into my pocketbook. I charged quite a bit for my services; it had to be that way. If Willeford had known the precise nature of what I had gone through trying to cure Sean, he would have been far more understanding. Unfortunately, I could not tell him the entire truth, not at that time.

I removed my glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. I said, “Mr. Willeford, that’s decidedly unfair.”

“Are you just gonna contradict everything I say?” he asked.

“I’m not contradicting you—”

He pointed at me accusingly. “You see?”

I sighed. “I’m agreeing with you, Mr. Willeford. You don’t appreciate my position. These things take time. I can’t just give him a pill, cross my fingers, and hope he gets better—”

“What about Prozac? I’ve heard good things about—”

“You’ve heard lies about it. That’s not going to help your son at all. It’s going to push him over the edge. Is that what you want?”

For the first time in the past ten minutes Willeford remained silent for more than a second. He mumbled, “No, of course not.”

“As I recall, the reason you chose me to treat your son was because I’m one of the few psychotherapists in all of Los Angeles — perhaps in all of the country — who uses natural methods to treat mental illness. If you want your son to be pumped full of Thorazine then send him to the Neuropsychiatric Institute at UCLA. It would certainly be easier on you, but the effects on your son would be disastrous. It would take him back two years in his treatment. Maybe you don’t see a difference, but believe me Sean does. He’s told me so a hundred times.”

Willeford winced and shook his head. “How the hell would he know? He’s a God damn raving maniac!”

I just stared at him. I think my gaze was so powerful, he decided it was best to shut up again. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” I said.

Willeford threw his flabby arms in the air. “Listen, you only see him three times a week for a couple of hours. You don’t know what it’s like living with him twenty-four hours a day. He stands in the attic yelling at the ceiling, spouting gibberish.”

“Yes, I can see where that might be perceived as being somewhat peculiar—”

“It is peculiar, God damn it!”

I spread my hands out as if I were pressing against an invisible wall. “I know, I know. But as I’ve been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes — or has it been an hour already? — I believe we’re close to a breakthrough.”

Willeford threw his hands in the air and sighed.

I said, “Howard, listen. Have you ever heard me say those words before?” He glared at me. “Hm? Have you?”

“No.” He said this with some reluctance.

“Do you think I’m stringing you along, is that it? Just to squeeze more money out of you?”

He glanced down at the carpet again. “No.”

“Do you think I would say we were close to a breakthrough if we really weren’t?”

“No.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. I gently grabbed Willeford’s hand and said, “Sean’s going to be okay. If I weren’t sure of that, I wouldn’t have spent so much time helping him. If I thought he was a lost cause I would have refused his case two years ago. But he’s not a lost cause, and if you just give me a few more sessions with him I’m certain I can prove that to you.”

Willeford had softened, but he was far from won over. “I’d like to sit in on today’s session.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“It’s unethical. Sean needs his privacy. How can he relax and be open if you’re there breathing down his neck?”

Willeford’s lips had contracted into a tight, bloodless line. “I’ll sit right here in the lobby then.” He plopped down into a brown vinyl chair.

I tried not to reveal my frustration. I turned to my secretary and said, “Bobby, please make sure that Mr. Willeford is comfortable, won’t you?”

Bobby just grinned and saluted me with his index finger. “Yes, Dr. Keil, ma’am!” He was so sickeningly cheerful. Seriously, Dr. Peaslee, I’ve been thinking about raising his salary if only he would promise to frown once in a while.

I turned on one high heel and re-entered my office. I locked and bolted the door behind me; five bolts made of pure gold were attached to the oaken door, per your grandfather’s meticulous notes. I lit four black candles, one for each of the cardinal directions, along with incense and myrrh. I closed the shutters until the only source of light in the room was that of the consecrated candles. I pulled back the Persian rug in the middle of the room, revealing the pentagram underneath; I sprinkled sea salt inside the pentagram, black salt outside.