The Lobotomist's Wife(6)

“Ah, but if I get right to the point, where will the suspense be?” he answered playfully. “You need to hear the overture before you experience the crescendo!”

“While I greatly appreciate the symphony, its place is not inside my office.” As irritated as she was by this theatrical display, she found herself struggling to suppress a smile. “Please, Doctor, tell me why it is that you might be interested in this job, and how you would intend to do your work here, so that I may get back to mine.”

“All right, I’ll tell you plainly if you insist.” He settled his compact body into the leather chair opposite her desk. She sat as well, although more formally, back straight at attention in the wooden seat of her desk chair. “I understand that you were one of the first hospitals to use convulsive therapy to treat your patients, is that correct?” he asked.

“It is. We are very excited about the promise of metrazol-induced convulsions as a behavioral modification technique. Our early trials on several of the men in the continuous care wing have been promising.”

“Yes, yes.” He cut her off. “I’m quite aware of the benefits of this kind of therapy, having been one of its pioneers. What I appreciate about your use of it is that it indicates that you understand insanity cannot be cured by psychoanalysis.”

My, this man was brusque. And arrogant. And yet, somehow, she wanted the conversation to continue. “I do have mixed feelings about the theories of Dr. Freud. I assume that’s what you’re referring to? Certainly, there are factors in a patient’s early life that can impact their illness, but I’ve seen too many sick people to believe that just talking about one’s past is enough.” It certainly wasn’t enough for my brother, she thought woefully.

“Yes! Exactly. What we should be doing in mental hospitals is curing the diseases of the mind, not revisiting past injustices.” He paused, and even though Ruth could see it was entirely for dramatic effect, she couldn’t help but feel on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to continue. “Miss Emeraldine, in your reading, have you come across any work at all that discusses the mechanics of the brain?”

“The mechanics . . . I’m not sure I know what you mean?”

“Ah, not surprising. It is rather a radical idea, hasn’t yet been embraced by the American psychiatric community, in spite of the well-documented connections between neurologic and psychological conditions.”

She noticed him looking at her and was shocked to feel her pulse quicken. “Dr. Apter, as you seem to be aware, here at Emeraldine, we are not averse to radical ideas, as long as they can help ease the suffering of our patients and their families. In fact, we urge our doctors to bring us new approaches.”

“Ease suffering. Miss Emeraldine, that, right there, is the problem.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ruth leaned across her desk, searching for his eyes to meet hers again.

“While I am sure your intentions are worthy, you hospital administrators are spending too much time doling out sympathy and trying to manage symptoms, when what these patients need is extreme action!” He leapt up from the chair, lifting his arm in the air dramatically.

“Extreme action?”

“Here, finally, is my point: I have come to believe that there is something about the brains of the insane, physically, that causes their maladies, at least in the most extreme cases. And I am certain that, with enough study, we can find these abnormalities and address them to improve patients’ lives and get them out of hospitals and back into society. Permanently.” He looked at her again, and this time she was so entranced by his passion, his sudden earnestness, that she couldn’t look away. He smiled and went on. “I plan to be relentless in my quest, Miss Emeraldine. Because I know that this is what I was put on this earth to do.”

Ruth contemplated this man. He wasn’t traditionally handsome. His nose was a little too big for his face, his jawline was more elongated than it was square (which was exacerbated further by his goatee), and he wasn’t particularly tall. Still, somehow, it all came together in an arresting way. Moreover, something about Dr. Robert Apter made her want to help him accomplish anything and everything that he set his mind to. Her heart pounded in her chest. She composed herself and, as she snapped out of his thrall, began to contemplate what he was suggesting. “Dr. Apter, your theory is fascinating. But, I wonder, how would you propose studying these brains?”

“Well, as I assume you know, if you read up before my arrival, I have been working at a research facility in Europe for the past several years. The way I see it, Emeraldine Hospital, with its academic relationship to the New York School of Medicine, is the ideal place for me to set up a new research lab. Here I will have access to both live patients for behavioral study and cadavers for the real work.”

“Cadavers?”

“Yes, of course,” he said matter-of-factly, looking at Ruth like she had asked whether the forecast called for rain. “I must study the brains of dead patients, or should I say, former patients. With the school’s and your hospital’s reputations, we will easily be able to procure all the specimens we need. And, Miss Emeraldine, I am certain that once I study enough of them, I will find that difference.” He walked toward her and stopped dead in front of her desk, staring her down. “Quite frankly, I am not going to stop until I do.”