"… so last week's performance, Celia, made me sorry we weren't seeing it together…"
In fact, he had been to Coppelia with Margot, whom Alex had known now for a year and a half, and who zestfully filled a gap in his life which had been empty for so long. Margot, or someone else, had been necessary if Alex a flesh and blood man were not to become a mental case, too, he sometimes told himself. Or was that a self-delusion, conveniently assuaging guilt?
Either way, this was no time or place to introduce Margots name.
"Oh, yes, and not long ago, Celia, I saw the Harringtons. You remember John and Elise. Anyway, they told me they had been to Scandinavia to see Elise's parents." "Yes," Celia said tonelessly.
She had still not stirred from the huddled position, but evidently was listening, so he continued talking, using only half his mind while the other half asked: How did it happen? Why? - "We've been busy at the bank lately, Celia."
One reason, he assumed, had been his preoccupation with his work, the long bourn during which as their marriage deteriorated he had left Celia alone. That, as, he now saw it, was when she had needed him most. As it was, Celia accepted his absences without complaint but grew increasingly reserved and timid, burying herself in books or looking interminably at plants and powers, appearing to watch them grow, though occasionally in contrast and without apparent reason she became animated, talking incessantly and sometimes incoherently. Those were periods in which Celia seemed to have exceptional energy. Then, with equal suddenness, the energy would disappear, leaving her depressed and withdrawn once more. And all the while their communication and companionship diminished.
It was during that time the thought of it shamed him now he had suggested they divorce. Celia had seemed shattered and he let the subject drop, hoping things would get better, but they hadn't.
Only at length, when the thought occurred to him almost casually that Celia might need psychiatric help, and he had sought it, had the truth of her malady become clear. For a while, anguish and concern revived his love. But, by then, it was too late.
At times he speculated: Perhaps it had always been too late. Perhaps not even greater kindness, understanding, would have helped. But he would never know. He could never nurture the conviction he had done his best and, because of it, could never shed the guilt which haunted him.
"Everybody seems to be thinking about money spending it, borrowing it, lending it, though I guess that's not unusual and what banks are for. A sad thing happened yesterday, though. Ben Rosselli, our president, told us he was dying. He called a meeting and …"
Alex went on, describing the scene in the boardroom and reactions afterward, then abruptly stopped.
Celia had begun to tremble. Her body was rocking back and forth. A wail, half moan, escaped her.
Had his mention of the bank upset her? the bank into which he had thrown his energies, widening the gulf between them. It was another bank then, the Federal Reserve, but to Celia one bank was like another. Or was it his reference to Ben Rosselli?
Ben would die soon. How many years before Celia died? Many, perhaps.
Alex thought: she could easily outlive him, could live on like this. His pity evaporated. Anger seized him; the angry impatience which had marred their marriage. "For Christ's sake, Celia, control yourself!" Her trembling and the moans continued.
He hated her! She wam't human any more, yet she remained the barrier between himself and a full life.
Getting up, Alex savagely punched a bell push on the wall, knowing it would summon help. In the same motion he strode to the door to leave.
And looked back. At Celia his wife whom once he had loved; at what she had become; at the gulf between them they would never bridge. He paused, and wept.
Wept with pity, sadness, guilt, his momentary anger spent, the hatred washed away.
He returned to the studio couch and, on his knees before her, begged, "Celia, forgive met Oh, God, forgive me"
He fel a gentle hand on his shoulder, heard the young nurse's voice. "Mr. Vandervoort, I think you should go now." "Water or soda, Alex?" 'Soda."
Dr. McCartney took a bottle from the small refrigerator in his consulting room and used an opener to flip the top. He poured into a glass which already contained a generous slug of scotch and added ice. He brought the glass to Alex, then poured the rest of the soda, without liquor, for himself.
For a big man Tim McCartney was six feet five with a football player's chest and shoulders, and enormous hands his movements were remarkably deft. Though the clinic director was young, in his mid-thirties Alex guessed, his manner and voice seemed older and his brushed-back brown hair was graying at the temples. Probably because of a lot of sessions like this, Alex thought. He sipped the scotch gratefully.
The paneled room was softly lighted, its color tones more muted than the corridors and other rooms outside. Bookshelves and racks for journals filled one wall, the works of Freud, Adler, Jung, and Rogers prominent.
Alex was still shaken as the result of his meeting with Celia, yet in a way the horror of it seemed unreal
Dr. McCartney returned to a chair at his desk and swung it to face the sofa where Alex sat.
"I should report to you first that your wife's general diagnosis remains the same schizophrenia, catatonic type. You'll remember we've discussed this in the past." "I remember all the jargon, yes." "I'll try to spare you any more."
Alex swirled the ice in his glass and drank again; the scotch had warmed him. 'Tell me about Celia's condition now."
"You may find this hard to accept, but your wife, despite the way she seems, is relatively happy.'' "Yes," Alex said. "I find that hard to believe."
The psychiatrist insisted quietly, "Happiness is relative, for all of us. What Celia has is security of a kind; a total absence of responsibility or the need to relate to others She can withdraw into herself as much as she wants or needs to. The physical posture she's been taking lately, which you saw, is the classic fetal position. It comforts her to assume it, though for her physical good, we try to dissuade her when we can."
"Comforting or not," Alex said, "the essence is that after having had the best possible treatment for four years, my wife's condition is still deteriorating." He eyed the other man directly. "Is that right or wrong?" "Unfortunately it's right."
"Is there any reasonable chance of a recovery, ever, so that Celia could lead a normal or near-normal life? "In medicine there are always possibilities…" "I said reasonable chance." Dr. McCartney sighed and shook his head. "No."
"Thank you for a plain answer." Alex paused, then went on, "As I understand it, Celia has become, I believe the word is 'institutionalized.' She's withdrawn from the human race. She neither knows nor cares about anything outside herself."
"You're right about being institutionalized," the psychiatrist said, "but you're wrong about the rest. Your wife has not totally withdrawn, at least not yet. She still knows a little about what's going on outside. She also is aware she has a husband, and we've talked about you. But she believes you're entirely capable of taking care of yourself without her help." "So she doesn't worry about me?" "On the whole, no."
"How would she feel if she learned her husband had divorced her and remarried?"
Dr. McCartney hesitated, then said, "It would represent a total break from the little outside contact she has remaining. It might drive her over the brink into a totally demented state'
In the ensuing silence Alex leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. Then he removed them. His head came up; with a trace of irony, he said, "I guess if you ask for plain answers you're apt to get them."
The psychiatrist nodded, his expression serious. "I paid you a compliment, Alex, in assuming you meant what you said. I would not have been as frank with everyone. Also, I should add, I could be wrong." "Tim, what the hell does a man do?" 'Is that rhetoric or a question?" "It's a question. You can put it on my bill."
'There’ll be no bill tonight." The younger man smiled briefly, then considered. "You ask me: What does a man do in a circumstance like yours? Well, to begin, he finds out all he can just as you have done. Then he makes decisions based on what he thinks is fair and best for everyone, including himself. But while he's making up his mind he ought to remember two things. One is, if he's a decent man, his own guilt feelings are probably exaggerated because a well-developed conscience has a habit of punishing itself more harshly than it need. The other is that few people are qualified for sainthood; the majority of us aren't born with the equipment."