On a Beam of Light by Gene Brewer Read Free Book Online

imperceptibly.
    “Thank you. How are you feeling?”
    “Not very good, ” he mumbled.
    “I’m sorry. I hope I can help you feel better soon. Please listen to me and trust me. Remember, this is your safe haven. “
    No response.
    “I thought we might talk a little about your childhood today. Your family. About growing up in Montana. Would that be all right?”
    A feeble shrug.
    “Good. Will you open your eyes, please?”
    They blinked open, but he avoided my gaze.
    “Why don’t-you tell me something about your mother. “
    Softly but clearly: “What do you want to know?”
    “Anything you’d like to tell me. Is she a good cook?”
    He seemed to consider the question carefully, or maybe he was simply trying to decide whether to respond. “Pretty good, ” he said.
    I couldn’t help feeling excited about this simple answer. It came in a lifeless monotone, but it represented a tremendous breakthrough, something I was afraid might take weeks of persistent cajoling. Robert was talking!
    The remainder of the session proceeded rather haltingly, but he seemed to become more at ease as we chatted about some of the basic elements of his childhood: his sisters, his friends, his early school years and favorite activities—books and puzzles and watching the animals in the fields behind the house. His pre-adolescent boyhood seemed to be a perfectly normal one, unusual only in that he lost his father when he was six (at which time prot made his first appearance), though I didn’t bring that up in this session. I merely wanted to gain Robert’s confidence, make him feel comfortable talking with me. The real work would come later.
    The discussion ended with Robert’s telling me about a memorable day he had spent, when he was nine, roaming the fields with Apple, his big, shaggy dog, and I hoped that finishing on this happy note might encourage him to come forward less reluctantly the next time. But before I recalled prot I tried something I was pretty sure wouldn’t work. I reached over, picked up a tiny whistle I had brought in for the occasion, and blew it loudly. “Do you hear that?”
    “Yes. “
    “Good. Whenever you hear that sound I want you to come forward, no matter where you are or what you are doing. Do you understand?”
    “Yes. “
    “Good. Now I’d like to speak with prot, if you don’t mind. Thanks for coming, Robert, and I’ll see you later. Please close your eyes. “
    They drooped shut.
    I waited a moment. “Prot? Please open your eyes. “
    “Hiya, gene. What’s up?”
    “The opposite of down?”
    “Dr. brewer! You do have a sense of humor!”
    “Thanks a lot. Now just relax. I’m going to count back from fi—”
    “Five-four-three-two—Hey! Are we finished already?”
    “Yes, we are. How did you know?”
    “Just a feeling I get sometimes. Like I’ve missed something. “
    “I know how it is. “
    He got up to leave. “Thanks for the interesting fruit. Maybe I could take a few seeds back with me when I go. “
    “Take a whole basketful if you like. By the way—I saw you talking with Lou yesterday. Do you have any suggestions on what we might do with him?”
    “I think it had better be a cesarean. “
    Our son Will spent his last vacation weekend at home with us—he would soon be moving into a dormitory at Columbia for the fall semester. A premed student, he was employed for the summer as an orderly at MPI.
    When he paid his first visit to the hospital five years ago and met Giselle, Will immediately announced that he wanted to be a reporter. That enthusiasm gradually faded over the years, as youthful interests tend to do, and after several return visits he declared his intention to follow his old man’s footsteps right into psychiatry. I am very proud and happy that he made this choice, not just because he would be carrying on a family tradition, but also because he has a natural ability to get along with patients and they with him.
    In fact, it was Will who solved a bewildering