Blunt Darts by Jeremiah Healy Read Free Book Online Page B

arrival, and was treated with half a dozen drugs over the first two months. He slowly came out of the trance, showing exceptional manual dexterity and imagination. Group therapy efforts were aborted nearly as soon as they were begun, Stephen preferring individual sessions, though not really coming around to any one analyst or therapist. The entries suggested Stephen most enjoyed outdoor activities and the library, shunning team sports and leadership roles.
    “What kind of place is Willow Wood?” I asked. Stein shrugged. “It’s a low-security, very prestigious facility. In the old parlance, it would have been a sanatorium. It is set on the grounds of a beautiful estate about eight miles from Tanglewood. A friend of mine from medical school is head of staff there. Quite a plum position, but she was a superior doctor at a time when few women were entertained in medical school. She refers me all her discharging patients who are returning to the Boston area.”
    “There doesn’t appear to be any indication of who referred the judge to Willow Wood.”
    “No, but any knowledgeable psychiatrist would know of Sarah—that’s my classmate. Sarah might have a recollection of it, but surely it would be easier for you to just ask the judge.”
    “Right,” I said, hopefully not too quickly. “Tell me about the course of care at Willow Wood, generally.”
    “Well, the course of care varies, of course, with the condition being treated. Willow Wood specializes, so to speak, in difficult, long-term cases of seriously ill, but not dangerous, individuals.”
    “Arts, crafts, and canoeing versus straitjackets and shock treatment?”
    Stein snorted. “In a blunt sort of way, yes.”
    I returned to the file. Stephen seemed to improve I month by month, if you compared a given week’s entry to one four or five weeks later. The drugs dropped off, and the assessments of his progress’ steadily rose. About eight months after his initial admission, he was released to his father, with a forwarding referral to Dr. Stein.
    I looked up at him. “Doctor, I don’t quite understand something from the records here. What exactly was wrong with Stephen?”
    “Well,” said Stein, clearing his throat and shuffling through the file, “it’s often difficult to diagnose exactly what was ‘wrong’ with a patient. One treats the apparent condition, or symptom, if you like, and then varies the treatment if earlier efforts prove unsuccessful. As you can see, Stephen was catatonic upon arrival at Willow Wood. Then slowly, by an evolving alternation of drugs, counseling, and therapeutic activities, he came back to us, so to speak.”
    “In layman’s terms, you varied your prescriptions until he seemed to come out of it.”
    “Yes, but that can pretty generally be said about any patient.”
    “Then you can’t really be sure of what was wrong with him to start with.”
    “Well, not in some microscopically, conclusively proved sense, no. When Stephen arrived at Willow Wood, he was literally in a trance. One can only identify the symptom or condition. One can’t, despite magazine and television to the contrary, ever be sure of what’s ‘wrong with him,’ in the sense I think you mean it.”
    I let it lay there while I returned to the file. The remaining pages were pale blue. “Are these blue pages yours?”
    “Yes,” he said, hopscotching with a pointed finger.
    I first saw Stephen there, then a week later, then two weeks later, then one month later.”
    I read his entries. To me they seemed the sort of Wand evaluation an assistant principal might give a kindergarten teacher. Stein’s notes indicated good readjustment to home life, eagerness to return to school, intellectual curiosity, etc.
    “I take it you came to no independent diagnosis of Stephen’s illness.”
    “Well, no, but perhaps for a different reason. You see, by the time he came to me, he was no longer exhibiting any symptoms of any condition. He appeared to be a normal,