Computation
I did the math. I understood that the check was supposed to be some kind of compensation for my involvement, but the figure was preposterously disproportionate to anything I could fathom. Was spiritual healing big business? Maybe Erica worked on some kind of cosmic fee-for-service arrangement. The client shall be responsible for an hourly fee of $200. In addition, the following values shall be assigned: For the successful cleansing of negativity, $10,000. For the opening of chakras, $20,000. And for the establishment of a direct connection to God, $50,000. The client shall additionally be responsible for any costs incurred in connection with the attainment of spiritual well-being, including but not limited to strobe lights, meditation mats, and any leafy vegetables and herbs consumed during the sessions.
I was still staring at the check when Erica walked brusquely into the office suite. She glanced at me holding the check, then continued to walk past me toward her office. “Sorry, can’t talk right now, want to prepare for a patient.”
I placed myself in front of her, since at this point no words would have slowed her down. Not for the first time, I felt her manic energy.
“How is it even remotely possible that you can write out a check like this for me?”
“It’s fair. You helped.”
She looked down and feigned a movement to her left, then pivoted quickly to her right to get around me. Her movements were nimble, and I would have been outmaneuvered if I hadn’t grabbed her by her arms and held her still. She offered no resistance.
“What percentage is this of . . . of . . . what you’ve been paid?”
“Is this an audit?”
I let go of her. “Erica, how are you able to pay me this?”
“You earned it. All of it.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
She walked past me into her office and sat down behind her desk. I followed her and sat in the chair facing her.
“One of my clients is particularly wealthy, and I was able to accomplish a great deal for her. Actually, both of us did.” She took a deep breath and stared hard at me. “The fact is, I’m quite sure that you did this, because . . . because I doubt I could have done this on my own.”
Erica paused. “I’m beginning to think,” she said hesitantly, “that most, if not all, of what I’m able to accomplish lately is because of you.” My head collapsed forward, as if the hinge muscles in my neck had disintegrated. I closed my eyes and felt dizzy.
“I’ve come in here almost every day for quite some time. I’ve spoken not one word to any of your patients. I’ve not done one goddamn thing.”
“Will . . .”
“And do not explain to me the wonders of my auric field or my natural gifts.” I tore the check furiously into small fragments and threw the pieces on her desk.
“Do you know my patient Sondra Whitfield, the only one who comes in with her child?”
I knew the woman. She was impeccably dressed, quite attractive. I had formed an opinion, however, that it would be difficult to imagine her smiling, as if the act itself would crack the facade she had imposed on her features.
“Her son, the one she comes in with, has stage-four lymphatic leukemia.”
“You have no business handling that kind of condition,” I said. In the silence that followed that remark, I tracked the arc of my emotions responding to Erica’s practice. Perhaps, like the Kubler-Ross model for grief, there were five stages that applied here. Tolerance, amusement, skepticism, ridicule, and now, the final stage, anger. Enough. You want to handle minor skin conditions and vaguely defined psychological deficits, fine. But you cannot cure cancer. You cannot lessen cancer. Stop, already, stop.
At some point, I must have been speaking out loud. “I’m not talking about me,” she said. “Josh has had remarkable improvement.” She grabbed my hands. “Will, he was wasting away, and now, he’s doing well.”
“That means nothing,” I said, freeing my hands from her grip. “I’m no physician, but the cancer is probably in remission.” I ran my hands through my hair and grabbed my skull tightly. “This is what you do, isn’t it? You take something you can label ‘effect.’ Then, you hunt around for something you can call ‘cause.’ Then, you draw a straight line from one to the other and say, ‘Look what I’ve done.’“
“Will, that’s not . . .”
“It’s the height of narcissism. Look at me. Notice me. I’m special. I’m not invisible. I can do things. I can improve life.”
I stood up, and Erica remained seated. “Are there limits to this? Is there anything you won’t take credit for?”
“I’m not taking credit for anything. I think the credit belongs to you.”
“Right. It would be too grandiose to believe that you can cure deadly ailments, but if you pass the ability on to someone else, you can still bask in the aura of greatness. I’m in the picture. I have involvement. I have meaning. I matter.”
“This is so unfair,” Erica said.
“You cannot cure cancer. You cannot have an impact on cancer. And I can’t either.”
I started to walk out the door. “I need some air.” I turned around and faced Erica. Her eyes were welling up, but I could not bring myself to approach her. “Erica, I love you.” Why was this so clear to me now, only when the absurdity of her beliefs had reached fever pitch? I wanted to say more, to place my comment in context, to lend assurance to its truth without waiving my entitlement to frustration, but nothing else came. I left, walked down the three flights to Broadway, rushed out into a day of punishing daylight, and drifted aimlessly toward my office.