CHAPTER FIVE

DATE: January 6

CLIENT: Liza Durbin

Client appeared agitated. Clothes a little better, last remnants of manicure gone, biting her nails for the first time since grade school. Piano playing gestures continue. Delusion has escalated—brought “proof” she’s inhabited by composer Schubert, pages of handwritten music. Claims these are the writings of Schubert.

Client refuses psych consult unless I go with her to sister’s house Saturday.—MK

NEXT APPOINTMENT: Saturday, January 8, leave here at 12:30

Fred is a stellar human being, and not just because he’s my only friend in Brooklyn who actually owns a car. He showed up at noon, checked me for inappropriate attire, then we picked up Mikki on the Upper West Side. She was reluctant about this outing until I offered a hefty day fee for her services. Mikki looked just right for a winter’s day in Upper Danville, dressed in a long camel-hair coat with paisley scarf over a black cashmere turtleneck, pinstriped woolen pants, and expensive boots. I looked so-so in old black pants, a burgundy sweater, and my favorite down jacket.

The ride took almost two hours because of traffic. It didn’t help that there was no noticeable connection among Fred, Mikki, and me. I muttered about the weather while Fred grunted about traffic while Mikki recounted the details of a book she was reading on famous cannibals. It wasn’t until we got off the expressway and reached the world of Upper Danville that we all shared an interest.

As many times as I’ve been there, it’s hard to be blasé about these old estates, most of which can’t be seen from the road. High stone walls edge the properties, and tree-lined driveways crawl on for ages before they reach home base. Occasional stables, rolling grounds, and glimpses of WASP grandeur still got my grudging attention and apparently were enough to make Mikki sit up straighter and fix her hair. Even Fred looked around as if hoping to spot something not meant for peasant eyes—like the chauffeur’s daughter and the heir apparent canoodling under a tree.

To get to Cassie’s, you turn down a storybook lane and drive to the end. Amazingly, her home is not the largest in the neighborhood, having only seven or eight bedrooms, formal dining and living areas, plus assorted rooms, each reserved for some essential such as the billiards table, the model ship collection, and a Navajo loom. The place was designed for glossy magazine layouts, eerily immaculate for a home with two young children. Even with a fire blazing in the hearth, there was no distinctive scent to declare who lived there.

So, not exactly cozy, but we were there with a purpose. I rang the bell.

I had played it out in my head for days. How we’d begin, when to play, and all the possible reactions from Mikki and company. But I was not prepared for what happened.

“SURPRISE!” The sudden explosion of family stopped me short. Cassie, Barry, little Cameron, pouty Brittany, and—beaming with triumph— Mom, Dad, and Aunt Frieda, too.

“Tell the truth, you knew, didn’t you?”

“No, Mom. How would I know?”

I looked around for an escape hatch. Nothing. They all knew Fred, but Mikki was an unexpected sight, so a great fuss was in order.

“A therapist, really? How interesting. Is that how you know my Liza?” My subtle mother was relieved to have a professional on my case. She’d be pulling Mikki aside for a private talk at the first opportunity.

“Oh, Li-i-iza-a.” My singsonging sister thrust a large, Frenchly wrapped package in my hands. “I think you’re gonna love this. Open, open, o-o-open it!”

It was indeed a stunning thing. An ankle-length chenille sweater coat of navy and fuchsia with traces of gold thread. Sadly, it was a bit tight around the top and it was probably meant for someone taller. Like Cassie, I suspect. Mom must have told Cassie a powerfully pitiful story about me to make her part with this treasure.

So probably everyone in the room knew about my “problem.” They were there for a show. Personally, I could have waited awhile, but Franz was about to jump out of my skin.

The imposing black Steinway sat in front of a wall of windows that looked out on a sad-sack winter lawn, desperately in need of snow. A struggling fire burped and hissed in the hearth, and the Remington stood aloof at center stage. Subdued tones prevailed. As I walked to the piano, Brittany said something about it being hers, ya know, but she was quickly shushed by everyone over the age of eight.

Sitting down, simply touching the keys, felt like all the joy in the world. The first chord washed over me like heaven, and every nerve in my body lit up as the melody revealed itself. The sound turned into dancing lights, soft caresses, the wild teacup ride at Disneyland. We were on a journey through an exotic landscape. I felt the room around us changing. The fire grew stronger, the colors richer, the people more beautiful. The Remington leaned toward us.

But the most spectacular show was behind closed eyelids where no limits exist. I saw, heard, and felt things we have no words for. When it was over, I looked around at my greatly changed family and friends. They would never see me the same way again.

I would have played forever, but at some point hunger won out and dinner was served at the long dining-room table. Sitting down with my family, I realized I was exhausted, and my back hurt like hell.

Everyone’s eyes were on me. After the lavish praise and gushes of amazement, it was hard for people to find words. Yes, it was great, but it was scary and bizarre, too. Not one person there could accuse me of having been a musical giant, or a musical anything, until then. They wanted an explanation. Thank God for five-year-olds.

“You play too loud, Aunt Liza.” Cameron held his ears and made a smiley face. “I can play, too, but Britty won’t let me.”

“Why should I? They got the piano for me, ya know.” Brittany was blessed with dominant-princess genes.

Cassie jumped in with her sternest reprimand. “Okay, mes enfants, we really want to hear about Aunt Liza. Didn’t she play beautifully?”

“Britty thinks she’s so great ’cause she takes lessons.” Cameron turned his soulful eyes on me. “Aunt Liza, will you teach me to play loud?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do, sweetie.” I meant it, too.

“Well maybe we should talk about what you’re gonna do next, honey,” Dad said. He was there at the start of this, and he had been worrying ever since.

“What do you mean, what does she do?” I wouldn’t recognize my mother without an opinion to state. Her red hair burned brighter as her conviction grew. “Liza has a great career ahead of her.”

My father was not convinced that I wanted that. Neither was I. A large family discussion was brewing.

“Can I have a lesson now?” Cameron was close to pleading.

“Liza, this is the kind of gift you need to share with the world. Think what could be learned from you.” Aunt Frieda intoned the voice of a noble scientist. I pictured my brain floating in a jar and a research team trying to make it hum.

“You know, turning pro is not the worst idea I ever heard,” my sister threw in. “God knows where this came from, but it’s got to be worth pursuing. Sure beats being one more single lawyer in Brooklyn.”

“I can play Für Elise,” Brittany announced. “Wanna hear?”

They were all talking on top of one another, elbowing to be heard. Barry had been quieter than usual, though, so he had our attention when he finally broke in.

“There are a lot of people who would take advantage of you, Liza. You don’t know this business. I’d be really careful about finding the right agent, the right lawyers.”

Poor Barry long ago bequeathed his adventurous spirit to the young and naïve of the world. He clasped his worried hands on the table and kneaded his knuckles nervously.

Then Fred coughed for attention. “It’s not just other people’s reactions I’m worried about. This situation is very hard on Liza. It’s not easy to feel taken over by someone else.”

There, he’d said it out loud, so there was no turning back. I delivered the Cliff Notes version of my tale of Schubert and me. Just saying the truth out loud was emotional for me. I got teary about the joyful parts and convulsed with sobs about my deepest fears and dangerous lapses. My out-pouring was met with thick, silent concentration, except for the occasional Oh, God or Jeez. My nearest and dearest were not ready to call me insane, but it was also hard to swallow my story. On the other hand, they believed absolutely that it wasn’t me playing the piano.

This painful scene was mercifully ended by the commotion of Brittany’s impromptu performance of Für Elise. Hideously played, Franz wanted to chop off her hands. I loved her with all my heart for the distraction.

DATE: January 8

CLIENT: Liza Durbin

Wow. She’s not delusional but I have no idea what she is.

Went with Liza and friend Fred to the home of sister Cassie, brother-in-law Barry, 8-year-old niece Brittany, 5-year-old nephew Cameron. Surprise family reunion with parents Max and Louise, and Aunt Frieda (all from California). They were sincerely amazed when Liza played piano—she was brilliant. No way she could develop such talent on the side—doesn’t even own a piano.

Must read up on multiple personality—she’s not one, but same emotional trauma may apply. Maybe consult with expert on multiples? Try hypnosis? Past life regression? Black magic? Not urging her to see a psychiatrist anymore. They’d prescribe antipsychotic drugs—but that’s for when you want the “delusion” to go away. Not sure about that now.

Family insisted on Liza staying with them a few more days. Dynamics could be interesting factor—concern, exploitation, smothering, all possibilities. Need to keep her focused on how to manage internal struggle around “inhabitant.”

Wow.—MK

NEXT APPOINTMENT: Thursday, January 13 (I hope)