Jack kissed his father on the mouth—a dry kiss, just brushing his dad’s lips with his own lips tightly closed—the way Heather had taught him. William kissed Jack the same way.
“I know what you’ve been up to, dear boy. I can tell you’ve been kissing your sister!”
Jack took a chance, but he felt it was the right time. After all, Hugo and the two doctors were with them—in case anything went wrong.
“I love you, Pop,” Jack told his father, heedless of whether or not love was a trigger. “I love every inch of your skin. I really mean it.”
Hugo looked as if he might punch Jack. Dr. von Rohr and Dr. Krauer-Poppe closely watched William. How was skin going to affect him? they all wondered. Were they in unstoppable territory, or—in this context—was skin suddenly acceptable?
“Say that again, Jack,” his dad said. “I dare you.”
“I love you and every inch of your skin,” Jack told him.
William Burns put his black-gloved hands on his heart and smiled at Hugo and the doctors, not looking at Jack. “He’s got balls, hasn’t he?” his father asked them.
“That’s not an area of my expertise,” Dr. von Rohr answered.
“I just do medication, William,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
But Jack’s father was fine. He was holding his heart because he wanted to feel it beating. “I love you and every inch of your skin, dear boy! Please don’t forget to call your sister.”
Suddenly William seemed exhausted. Hugo helped him into the backseat of the Mercedes, where William Burns looked as small as a child on his way to his first day of school. The bodybuilder had to buckle the seat belt for him, and—before he got into the driver’s seat—Hugo came up to Jack and shook (and shook) his hand again. Jack thought that Hugo might pull his arm off.
“You’ve got balls as big as der Mond,” Hugo told Jack. (“You’ve got balls as big as the moon.”) Then Hugo got in the car and they drove away.
“Bis morgen!” Dr. Krauer-Poppe called after them.
“Now I’m taking a taxi home,” Dr. von Rohr said. “I live in another part of the city,” she explained to Jack.
There was a taxi stand in the vicinity of the Bellevueplatz, where Dr. Krauer-Poppe and Jack waited with Dr. von Rohr until she found an available taxi. The two women kissed each other on both cheeks and said good night.
“I assure you, Jack, I was never struck by lightning,” Dr. von Rohr said, when they shook hands. “Not on my head, anyway. I think your father has hit me with a lightning bolt, not on my head but in my heart.”
Jack walked with Dr. Krauer-Poppe over the Quaibrücke; they walked back to the Hotel zum Storchen together. “Are you sure I can’t walk you home?” he asked her.
“I live near your hotel,” she said, “but you’d never find your way back. The streets are small and go every which way.”
“Your children are how old?” he asked her. It was a beautiful night, with the lights from the city winking up at them from the Limmat.
“They are ten and twelve, both boys,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe told him. “If I ever had to say good-bye to them, the way your father had to say good-bye to you, I would kill myself. Or, if I were lucky, I would be in a place like the Sanatorium Kilchberg. I don’t mean as a doctor.”
“I understand,” Jack said to her.
“I love your father and every inch of his skin,” she said, smiling.
“Will he ever get better?” Jack asked her.
“He can be much worse than he was with you tonight. He was on his best behavior for you,” she told him. “But he will neither get worse nor get better. William is what he is.”
“He’s very lucky to be with all of you, in Kilchberg,” Jack said to her.
“You have to thank your sister for that, Jack. She has made her share of sacrifices,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe told him. “Are you serious about buying a house here?”
“Yes, very serious,” he answered.
“My husband knows something about real estate—he can probably be of some help to you. I’m just in the medication business.”
They were back in the Weinplatz, in front of the Storchen.
“Are you sure—” Jack started to ask her again, about walking her home.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she interrupted him. “I’ll be home in bed while you’re still talking on the phone to Heather. Don’t forget to call her.”
But Dr. Krauer-Poppe stood there, not leaving. Jack could tell there was something more she wanted to say, but perhaps she felt that she didn’t know him well enough to say it.
“You’re not going home, Anna-Elisabeth?” he asked.
She covered her face with her hands again; for such a serious (and such a beautiful) woman, it was a curiously girlish gesture.
“What is it?” he asked her.
“It’s not my business—you have a psychiatrist,” she said.
“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” Jack said to her.
“I’m thinking that you should finish this chronological-order therapy,” she told him, “and when you do finish, you should ask your doctor about a little something she might give you. You just wouldn’t want to take this while you were still trying to put everything in chronological order.”
“You mean a pill?” he asked her.
“Yes, a pill,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “It’s not unlike what we give your father, but it’s newer and a little different from Zoloft or Seropram. It’s Cipralex; it’s like the Seropram we give William, but this one has a new agent in it, escitalopram. You get a more rapid onset of action—a week compared to two or three weeks—and because of the higher potency, a normal dosage would be ten milligrams instead of twenty.”
“It’s an antidepressant?” Jack asked.
“Of course it is,” she said. “I think the brand name is Lexapro in the States, but Dr. García would know. With escitalopram, there were supposed to be fewer side effects. But not all studies have shown that this is true. You might not like the loss of libido, possible impotence, or prolonged ejaculation.” Dr. Krauer-Poppe paused to smile at him. “You definitely wouldn’t like what it might do to your ability to tell the story of your life in chronological order, Jack. So first finish what you’re telling Dr. García. Then try it.”
“Do you think I’m depressed, Anna-Elisabeth?”
“What a question!” she said, laughing. “If you’re putting in chronological order everything that ever made you laugh, or made you cry, or made you feel angry—and if you are truly leaving nothing out—then of course you’re depressed! I’m surprised you’re not in a place like the Sanatorium Kilchberg yourself, Jack. I don’t mean as a visitor.”
“But how will I know when I’m finished? It just goes on and on,” he said to her.
“You’ll know when you’re finished, Jack,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “It ends when you feel like thanking Dr. García for listening to you. It ends when there’s someone else you feel like telling everything to—someone who isn’t a psychiatrist.”
“Oh.”
“Gott!” she said. “Who would have thought the way someone said, ‘Oh,’ could be genetic?”
Dr. Krauer-Poppe shook Jack’s hand; walking away, with her high heels somewhat unsteadily navigating the cobblestones, she called over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you right where you’re standing in the morning, Jack. I’ll take you to the church. William will come with Dr. Horvath.”