“What’s Van coming here for?” I asked.
“Good question.” Mom was now standing frozen, the same as Dad.
“A visit,” Dad said. “I thought he could dog-sit while we were away. Why, Bernadette? Do you have a problem with that?”
“Where’s he going to stay?” Mom asked.
“The Four Seasons. I’m going to pick him up at the airport tomorrow. Bee, I’d like you to come with me.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m going to see the Rockettes Christmas show with Youth Group.”
“His plane gets in at four,” Dad said. “I’ll pick you up at school.”
“Can Kennedy come?” I said, and added a big smile.
“No,” he said. “I don’t like being in the car with Kennedy. You know that.”
“You’re no fun.” I threw him my meanest Kubrick face and started eating.
Dad stomped into the living room, the door banging against the counter. A second later came a thud, followed by swearing. Mom and I ran in and turned on the lights. Dad had crashed into a ton of boxes and suitcases. “What the hell is all this crap?” he asked, jumping up.
“It’s for Antarctica,” I said.
UPS boxes had been arriving at a terrifying clip. Mom had three packing lists taped to the wall, one for each of us. All the boxes were half-opened and spilling with parkas, boots, gloves, and snow pants, in various stages of unwrap, hanging out like tongues.
“We’ve pretty much got everything.” Mom stepped expertly among the boxes. “I’m waiting on zinc oxide for you.” She pointed her foot in the direction of one huge black duffel. “I’m trying to find Bee one of those face masks in a color she likes—”
“I see my suitcase,” Dad said. “I see Bee’s suitcase. Where’s your suitcase, Bernadette?”
“It’s right there,” Mom said.
Dad walked over and picked it up. It just hung there like a deflated balloon. “Why isn’t there anything in it?” he asked.
“What are you even doing here?” Mom said.
“What am I even doing here?”
“We were about to have dinner,” she said. “You didn’t sit down. You didn’t take off your coat.”
“I have an appointment back at the office. I’m not staying for dinner.”
“Let me get you some fresh clothes, at least.”
“I have clothes at the office.”
“Why did you drive all the way home?” she said. “Just to tell us about Van?”
“Sometimes it’s nice to do things in person.”
“So stay for dinner,” Mom said. “I’m not understanding this.”
“Me neither,” I said.
“I’ll do things my way,” Dad said. “You do things your way.” He walked out the front door.
Mom and I stood there, waiting for him to come back in, all embarrassed. Instead, we heard his Prius glide over the gravel and onto the street.
“I guess he really did just come home to tell us about Van,” I said.
“Weird,” said Mom.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22
Report by Dr. Kurtz
PATIENT: Bernadette Fox
BACKGROUND: Per my authorization request dated 12/21, I had arranged to meet Elgin Branch at the Microsoft campus. Since that request, in which I expressed skepticism of Mr. Branch, my opinion of him and his motives has dramatically changed. In an attempt to illuminate this about-face I will go into inordinate detail regarding our meeting.
NOTES ON MEETING: My lecture at the UW had wrapped up sooner than expected. Hoping to catch the 10:05 ferry, I arrived half an hour early. I was directed to Mr. Branch’s administrator’s office. Sitting at the desk was a woman in a raincoat with a foil-covered plate in her lap. I asked for Mr. Branch. This woman explained she was a friend of the administrator’s and had come to surprise her with dinner. She said everyone was in a meeting in the big theater downstairs.
I said I, too, had come on personal business. She noticed the Madrona Hill ID clipped to my briefcase and said something to the effect of “Madrona Hill? Hi-ho, I’ll say that’s personal business!”
The administrator arrived and practically screamed when she saw me talking to her friend with the food plate. She pretended that I was a Microsoft employee. I tried to signal the administrator that I had already identified myself otherwise, but she quickly hustled me into a conference room and pulled down the shades. The administrator handed me a classified FBI file and left. I am unable to divulge its contents other than the salient facts pertaining to Ms. Fox’s mental state:
• she ran over a mother at school
• she had a billboard erected outside this woman’s home to taunt her
• she hoards prescription medicine
• she suffers from extreme anxiety, grandiosity, and suicidal thoughts.
Mr. Branch arrived, appearing agitated, due to the fact that he was keeping everyone late downstairs and they had hit a programming bug just before he came up. I promised I would be quick and handed him a list of some wonderful psychiatrists in the area. Mr. Branch was incredulous. He strongly believed the FBI file contained adequate proof to qualify his wife for inpatient treatment.
I expressed my concern at his determination to put his wife on an involuntary hold. He assured me he merely wanted to get her the best care possible.
Mr. Branch’s administrator knocked and asked if Mr. Branch had reviewed a code fix. Mr. Branch looked at his cell phone and shuddered. Apparently, forty-five emails had come in while we were talking. He said, “If Bernadette doesn’t kill me, Reply All will.” He scrolled through the emails and barked some code talk about submitting a change list, which his administrator furiously copied down before dashing out.
After a spirited back-and-forth in which Mr. Branch accused me of dereliction of duty, I acknowledged that his wife might be suffering from adjustment disorder, which, I explained, is a psychological response brought on by a stressor, and it usually involves anxiety or depression. The stressor in his wife’s case appears to be a planned trip to Antarctica. In extreme cases, a person’s coping mechanisms can be so inadequate that the stressor causes a psychotic break.
Mr. Branch almost collapsed with relief that I had finally confirmed there was something wrong with his wife.
The administrator entered again, this time joined by two men. There was more jargon involving deploying a code fix.
After they left, I told Mr. Branch that the recommended treatment for adjustment disorder is psychotherapy, not a psychiatric hold. I bluntly stated that it is wholly unethical and completely unheard of for a psychiatrist to place a person on an ITA hold without meeting them first. Mr. Branch assured me he was not fixated on having her taken away in a straitjacket, and he asked if there was perhaps an intermediate step.
For the third time, the administrator knocked. Apparently, Mr. Branch’s fix had worked, and the meeting was over. More people entered the conference room, and Mr. Branch went through a priority list for tomorrow.
I was struck by the intensity of it all. I’ve never seen a group of people so self-motivated, working at such a high level. The pressure was palpable, but so was the camaraderie and love for the work. Most striking was the reverence paid to Mr. Branch, and his joking, egalitarian nature, even under extreme stress. At one point, I noticed Mr. Branch was in his stocking feet, and I realized: he was the man in the TEDTalk! The one where you stick a computer chip to your forehead and you never have to move a muscle for the rest of your life. It’s an extreme version of what I find an alarming trend toward reality avoidance.