“All that was from this great book called A Fan’s Notes,” I said. “written by Frederick Exley.” By the way Mrs. T. reacted, I was pretty sure she’d never heard of the book or the guy who wrote it. She put on her glasses, then cocked her head and looked at me warily, like she knew I was about to say something objectionable. “I was thinking maybe we could read and talk about that book after we’re done talking about this one?”
Mrs. T. opened her mouth, but before any sound came out, J. said, “Maybe we should.”
Mrs. T. closed her mouth. But like every teacher, she had someone to speak for her when she didn’t feel like speaking for herself. “So why would we want to do that?” L. asked. He picked up the America on the Same Page book and read aloud from the back cover, which, like all America on the Same Page books, said, “This America on the Same Page book reminds us what it is to be an American and to live in difficult times.” “So I don’t know how his book” — and here L. pointed at me — “reminds us of that.”
J. squinted at L. and said, “Thanks, but I don’t think I need to be reminded.” Then she stood up, shouldered her backpack, and stomped out of the room, leaving behind her copy of the book. Once the door slammed behind J., the room was absolutely quiet — there’s no room as quiet as the classroom a kid has just walked out of without the teacher’s permission — until finally Mrs. T. cleared her throat, so that we looked at her instead of looking at the door. Her pen was in her hand, and she was looking at me over her glasses, like what had happened was my fault and not J.’s or L.’s or hers.
“Next time, Miller,” she said, making another minus mark in her book, “use your mine-duh.”
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 13)
After breakfast (grapefruit, brown sugar) I locate the Veterans Affairs hospitaclass="underline" it is exactly where M. described it and as M. described it. The automatic doors open as he said they would. The female receptionist is seated behind the desk; she is physically as M. described her. I approach her desk and wait for her to recognize my presence; she does not. The swinging doors behind her open and several men rush through them pushing another man on a gurney. The man on the gurney is moaning piteously. But I labor to ignore him. As any mental health professional will tell you, sometimes you have to ignore human suffering — or even make it worse — in order to heal human suffering. It is my understanding that the branches of our armed forces operate under a similar assumption. Which is yet another example of how the mental health profession has a great deal in common with other of our most significant professions.
Regardless, I continue to wait to be acknowledged by the receptionist. She stares at her computer screen for several long moments, then types furiously, then stops again and stares at the screen, fingers poised over the keyboard. I stand there, waiting for her to look up and say “Hello” or some such conventional greeting, but she does not. I think of how useful M. would be at this moment. Perhaps M. could teach her how to speak and when, the way he has taught me.
Finally, I clear my throat. “Ahem,” I say. She looks up at me; her fingers rise from the keyboard, and with both hands she grips the desk, tightly, as though she might flip it over. Her eyes are buglike, although I don’t think thyroidaclass="underline" I believe she makes them buglike. She is distinctly unfriendly — unfriendly and, indeed, hostile. I take a step back, and that seems to mollify her somewhat: her eyes recede a little back into their sockets.
“Yes?” she inquires.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m looking for one of your patients.”
“And who are you?” she asks, as though I’d told her I was looking for myself. This takes me by surprise — by surprise and, indeed, unawares — which is why I sputter a bit before telling her my name, then repeating my name and putting my title — Doctor—in front of it. This perhaps makes things worse: when she hears I am a doctor, the receptionist bulges her eyes again. “What kind of doctor?”
“I’m a mental health professional,” I say.
“A psychiatrist?” she asks.
“Just as I said,” I say. The title psychiatrist has sundry unfortunate associations and attendant nicknames — shrink, headshrinker, and the like — and it is my learned opinion that if we call ourselves mental health professionals, then those associations and nicknames will disappear and we will no longer be thought of as lab-coat-wearing goons who wield long, dripping needles, or who strap patients onto the electroshock table, or who scalpel out the offending part of the frontal lobe. This is why I have for several years lobbied my professional association to change their name from the North Country Psychiatric Association to the North Country Mental Health Professionals. So far, they have not done so, but I’ve begun calling them, and us, by that name anyway, hopefully to facilitate the change. “I’m here to see T.L.R.”
“Is he your patient?” the receptionist asks, still looking at me and not at her computer screen, where presumably M.’s father’s name could be found or not.
“Well, not exactly,” I admit.
“Not exactly?”
“He’s the father of one of my patients,” I say. Her eyes advance further toward me and away from her face; I can tell this is starting to go badly. “A boy. Nine years old. Dirty blond hair cut into a bowl shape. Tiny teeth. He says he’s been here to see his father. He even mentioned you.”
The receptionist raises her eyebrows, then once again begins staring at her computer screen. I think perhaps she is looking up the name T.L.R. after all. But after a minute she says, still staring at the screen, “Only immediate family members are allowed to visit the patients.”
“But.,” I begin to argue, when the phone at the front desk rings. To answer it, the receptionist swivels in her chair, so that her back is to me. In front of me is a pair of swinging doors. According to M., his father is in room D-1, just past those doors. I sneak another look at the receptionist; she is still talking on the phone and her back is still to me. I wipe my perspiring hands on my dungarees. You must not, I say to myself. Yes, you must, Dr. Pahnee says back. And then before I can talk myself out of it, I run through the doors, past the usual hospital apparatuses — vending machines, X-ray machines, and the like — until I come to room D-1. I push the door open and walk inside. The room is curtained and gloomy; the only light (dim) emanates from a wall fixture above the patient’s bed. Yes: there is a bed, and there is a patient in it. I walk closer. He is as M. has described him: pale, clean shaven, with a crew cut. He is, as M. claimed, hooked up to a number of machines, and they are all connected to one another and to the patient in mysterious ways. Before I became a mental health professional, I briefly considered becoming a physician. But the sick body requires too many complicated machines to heal it. Besides, the machine of the juvenile mind is complicated enough. I take another step forward. I am on the patient’s right side. His right wrist is bare and resting on top of his left hand, both of his hands resting on top of his stomach. I can see a white bracelet on the patient’s left wrist, a bracelet on which, no doubt, is information pertaining to the patient’s identity — his identity and, indeed, information that will help me identify him. I am reaching over to lift his right wrist off his left when someone yells, “What do you think you’re doing?” I turn my head and see two men in green military uniforms. I almost revert to myself, grovel, offer my apologies, beg their forgiveness, and slink out of the room. But being Dr. Pahnee has gotten me this far. which is why I exclaim what M. has instructed me to exclaim at the end of each session: “ ‘I’ve got human life — do you understand that? Human life! — in my hands!’ ”