“Recorded?” I stalled.
“I saw video cables and tape machines,” Gene pointed outside.
“That’s for the rooms where we work with children. Unfortunately, with kids, everything becomes a legal issue. We’re required to report to the police any accusation, whether we believe it or not. I want to stop child abusers, of course, but the truth is, I care much more about helping the kids. There’s part of me that wishes we were only asked to ease their pain, not help punish the guilty. The recording equipment isn’t used with adults unless they are accused of hurting kids.” Gene continued to look outside. After a silence, I added, “This is a safe place. What you say to me stays here.”
“I remember you used to say that all the time. But it isn’t true.” Gene smiled in my direction, although his eyes avoided mine. I was pleased that he had chosen to contradict me. In reviewing notes from our earlier work together, I concluded his trouble expressing anger hadn’t been worked through. I had been wrong not to encourage him to resist me actively.
“You don’t feel this is a safe place?”
Gene’s eyes were focused on my shoulder. They briefly scanned my face and settled on a point off to my left. He crossed his legs. “Oh, I guess it’s safe. I didn’t mean that. I meant it’s not true that what I say here stays here.” He paused and added softly, “I’ve read your books.”
I had published only two that contained histories of my patients. Following tradition, I summarized, with the names altered and other details changed for further disguise. Nothing I had written was like this text. Certainly nothing was revealed about me, and little of the real dialogue. Even so, I had asked my patients’ permission first. More to the point, I hadn’t used Gene’s case in any form. “I’ve never written about you, Gene.”
Gene brushed his long bang off his brow and glanced at me. This time, as he smiled, some teeth showed. “The Vomiting Boy?”
“Ah,” I said, understanding.
“You changed a lot, but that was me, right?”
“No,” I said. “You’re not the Vomiting Boy.”
Gene looked directly at me. He swallowed. His Adam’s apple seemed very prominent, more than I remembered. He uncrossed his legs. “Really?” he said, astonished; and a little sadly, I thought.
“It’s discouraging,” I said. “I had the same shock as a medical student. There are so many commonalities in human experiences. Vomiting is often a release of suppressed rage, especially in children. The Vomiting Boy was a different patient. I asked if he minded that I use his story and he agreed, provided I change facts that would identify him.” I paused. Gene continued to stare at me with a mix of confusion and sadness. I added softly, “I would never have written about you without asking first. And of course you could say no.”
“I never want you to write about me,” he said. He pressed his knees together and crossed his arms. He looked at my chest.
“Fine.” An observer might think he was in my office under duress. Of course, I hadn’t asked to see him, I had discouraged him. This apparent contradiction didn’t confuse me. For one thing, I believed he was disappointed that he wasn’t the Vomiting Boy.
“There’s stuff …” Gene looked out my window and fell silent. The Venetian blinds were open. Vans, a Dumpster, and a wheel of electronic cables dominated the view.
“Do you want me to close the blinds?”
“What? Oh. No.”
“There’s stuff — you were saying.”
“That’s why I couldn’t talk to Toni. You know. There’s stuff I just can’t have anyone else know.” He smiled. “It’s not kid’s stuff anymore. Just the work things alone are big secrets. I don’t even want them to know I’m seeing a shrink.”
“No one has to know anything. I won’t write anything about you or discuss your case with anyone. But, as I think I’ve said before, I’m not treating adult—”
“I can’t,” he cut me off. He shook his head well after saying the words, back and forth, again and again, denying it over and over.
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t see anyone else. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“And yet you thought I had betrayed you?”
“No.” He frowned.
“No? You thought I had written—”
“Yes, yes you’re right. Are you always right?” His tone was intensely annoyed. That was new to me.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think you’re always right.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “you’re wrong.”
Gene didn’t get the joke. “I know. I always seem to be wrong.”
“What are you always wrong about?”
“I’m always wrong with women. Does any man ever win a fight with a woman?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Whom have you been losing fights to?”
Gene shifted in his seat. It was a captain’s chair, comfortable, but plain. My seat was an indulgence, a black leather Knoll Pollack swivel. Behind me were built-in book shelves, to Gene’s right were built-in filing cabinets. The door was solid pine, the walls and ceiling soundproofed, as were all of the consulting rooms. I had grown weary of white noise machines. Gene looked at all these things, as well as the halogen standing lamp, the other armchair. “There’s no couch,” he said, looking out the window. A worker walked past with a take-out container of coffee, smoking a filterless cigarette.
I got up to shut the blinds. “No, there isn’t,” I agreed. “They’re distracting me,” I said about the workers as I rotated the Venetians halfway, enough to block the view, yet allowing strips of sunlight to penetrate.
“You don’t use the couch with kids, I guess.”
“Sometimes. I don’t plan to see children in this office. Maybe some of the adolescents. I warned you, I’m not set up for traditional long-term therapy. Do you want to lie down? There’s—”
“No, it’s okay,” he said quickly.
I was amused by a recollection of our first conversation, the desires reversed about lying on couches, but the attitudes almost identical. “You’re a man, now, so it’s time to sit up,” I said. My tone was unusually lighthearted. Why? Did I think he was taking himself too seriously? How would I know?
Gene nodded. He continued to look around; at my phone, a typewriter on a side table, photographs of my mother, my father, Uncle Bernie, Julie, Grandma Jacinta and Grandpa Pepín, framed diplomas and a drawing in charcoal by “Timmy.” It was a representation of one of his dreams — a boy playing soccer on a frozen lake, standing atop blue water and kicking a gleaming white ball over a blood-red horizon.
“Why are you here, Gene? What’s on your mind?”
“I still can’t sleep.”
“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?”
“Both.”
“Have you had a checkup recently?”
“Yeah. I had to when I changed companies. For the insurance. I’m fine.”
“What wakes you up?”
He was looking at “Timmy’s” drawing, frowning at it.
“Dreams?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What dream wakes you up?”
“I don’t know if it wakes me up.”
“What dream do you remember best?”
“I’ve had this one many times.” A saw revved up close by my window. Evidently they weren’t as soundproofed as I hoped. Gene jerked to look in its direction, but he kept talking, “I’m in a gym. I think. It’s a little like the gym at One Room. Big and empty, with windows at the top. It was in the basement so the windows were almost at the ceiling.”