Villers was late for the Monday-morning staff meeting, explaining that his wife was sick and he had to take her to the doctor. Then there was a delay on the Long Island Rail Road—some “dummkopf’ had pulled the emergency cord for no apparent reason.
He was further chagrined by prot’s insistence that we turn down the television-appearance fee, but he soon came up with an alternative plan: an appeal for viewer contributions to the hospital, complete with 800 number. The date had been finalized for Wednesday, the twentieth of September. September 20! The day of prot’s departure! Unless, of course, he had changed his mind and was waiting for the next “window,” whenever that might be....
Goldfarb brought up a new problem, one that hadn’t occurred to me. Since my efforts at coaxing Robert out of his protective shell were meeting with some success, was it possible that it might be he, and not prot, who showed up for the taped interview? I said I didn’t think that very likely given Robert’s reluctance to make an appearance outside my examining room. Beamish pointed out that with prot, no one could be sure of anything. I had no good response to that.
Instead, I discussed the new information that I, or rather prot, had obtained from Bert, but this seemed almost inconsequential compared with Menninger’s cheerful report on Charlotte, who had somehow managed to seduce one of the security guards into her cell and nearly bit off his nose and one of his testicles. Our security chief had been apprised of this unfortunate development, of course, and was urged to instruct the guards accordingly.
Villers, still in a bad mood, brought up the scheduled visits by the cetologist and other scientists. He wanted to know how much we were getting for these “consultations” with prot, and was further annoyed with the answer. Thorstein, looking more and more like Klaus’s second in command, suggested we charge big bucks for subsequent interviews with Robert’s alter ego, particularly if any patents or other useful information were to come of it.
The only other business was a reminder that one of the world’s foremost psychotherapists was arriving the next morning for an all-day visit (a brief biography was passed around), and that a popular television personality and author of Folk Psychology was coming later in the month.
The conversation then degenerated, as it often does, to discussions of baseball scores, restaurants, weekend retreats, fabulous golf shots, etc. I mused silently about how long prot might be staying. At least until the TV appearance, I assumed, and perhaps longer. And I thought: If the appeal for funds was successful, and he managed to help us raise enough money to finance the new wing, what on Earth would we call it?
AFTER lunch, prot set up an unannounced treasure hunt without saying what the prize might be. That was all the encouragement the patients needed, and they spent the rest of the hour happily combing the lounge, the exercise room, the dining hall, and the quiet room for “buried” treasure. Even though no one knew what he or she was looking for, the joy and excitement were immense.
I was a little annoyed. Prot had not warned me he was going to do this, though technically it wasn’t really a “task” for the patients, which he had agreed to tell me about in advance. I watched in both amusement and melancholy as our inmates got into the game with considerable frenzy— everyone searching high and low for something to make their lives more rewarding or, at least, tolerable.
Even some of the staff were caught up in the excitement, turning over chairs and peering under rugs. To tell the truth, I became a participant myself, hoping to find something, I suppose, that would cheer me up, make my day. Perhaps I was searching for the parallel life I had lost, the one in which my father had not died and I had become an opera singer, the one I dream about from time to time.
While all this was going on, however, prot was reported missing. No one had seen him leave. The hunt then became one of finding him.
Though further frustrated by this turn of events, I wasn’t really worried— it had happened once before. I was sure he would be back in time for our next session. Indeed, it wasn’t long after his disappearance that Giselle came running in, shouting that he had shown up again, to loud cheers from his followers. Whatever he had done while he was away, it had taken him no time at all, apparently.
My dream didn’t come true that day, and I doubt that anyone else’s did either. But each of the patients turned up his very own gossamer thread, invisible to everyone else. Something to give them hope for a better world perhaps, a tenuous new lease on life.
I wondered whether my frustration showed when prot came in, followed by a cat. He sat down and started on a plum, which he shared with his “friend.” I didn’t even know cats liked fruit.
“Where’s Robert?”
“He’ll be along shortly. He’s still pumping himself up. Besides,” he added wistfully, “I hardly ever get any fruit anymore.”
“You want to tell me where you went this afternoon?”
“Not really.”
“You promised to let me know if you were planning any trips, remember?”
“I didn’t plan it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Where did you go?”
“I had some invitations to deliver.”
“Personally?”
“I’m not a ‘person,’ remember? I’m a being.”
“Why didn’t you just drop them in the mailbox?”
“I wanted to be sure they got there.”
“To people who are going to K-PAX with you?”
“Some are people, some aren’t.”
“So how many invitations were there?”
I didn’t expect an answer to that one either, but he replied, cheerfully, “Only a dozen so far. Still plenty of room.”
I glared at him. “Next time you plan any ‘spur-of-the-moment things,’ will you let me know, please?”
“It’s your party.”
“Thank you. Now—what about Robert?”
“Dammit, prot, did he tell you what happened to him when he was five?”
“Yes, and may I say: You human beings are sick!”
“Not everyone, prot. Just some of us.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re all capable of just about anything.”
We sat staring at each other for a while. Five or six plums later, he spat the last pit into the bowl and placed his hands behind his head, apparently sated. The cat lounged contentedly in his lap. Prot’s eyes drooped shut. Suddenly he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself. Robert’s eyes fought to reopen. He seemed weak, shaken, his confidence gone. In short, he looked much as he had in earlier sessions. Instinctively, he began stroking the cat, which purred noisily.
“Hello, Rob, it’s good to see you again. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Please trust me. No harm will come to you in this room. This is your safe haven, remember? We’re just going to chat about whatever you’d like to tell me. Whatever comes into your mind. We’ll proceed at your own pace.”
“All right. But I’m still scared.”
“I understand.”
He sat looking at me, but said nothing for several precious minutes.
I took a chance. “Is there anything you want to tell me about the time your father was in the hospital?”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes.”
I was elated. Thanks to prot, Robert had made such excellent progress that hypnosis might not be necessary.
“You went to live with your Uncle Dave and Aunt Catherine, is that right?”
“Yes,” he murmured.
“Are they on your father’s or mother’s side of the family?”
Rob slowly looked up. “Uncle Dave was Mom’s brother.”
“And Aunt Catherine was his wife?”
“No. His sister. Mom’s sister.”
“And they lived together?”
“Neither of them ever married.”
“All right. Can you tell me a little about them?”
“They were both big. Heavyset. My mother’s a little plump, too.”
“What else? What were they like?”
“They were not very nice people.”
“In what way?”
“They were mean. Cruel. But nobody knew that when I went to live with them.”
“What sorts of mean things did they do?”
“Uncle Dave killed my kitten.” He unconsciously picked up the cat and hugged it.
“He did? Why?”
“He wanted to teach me a lesson.”
“What lesson?”
Robert turned noticeably paler. His face became contorted by uncontrollable tics. “I...I don’t remember.”
“Try, Rob. I think you’re ready to talk about this now. What did your uncle do to you? Will you tell me?”
There was a long pause. I had just about decided to hypnotize him when he said, so weakly that I could barely hear him, “I had to sleep on the livingroom sofa. The first night I was there he came downstairs and woke me up.”
“Why did he wake you up?”
“He wanted to lie down with me.”
“And did he do that?”
“Yes. I didn’t want him to. There wasn’t room on the sofa for him and me both. But he got in with me anyway.”
“What happened then?”
“He put his hand in my pajamas. I kept saying, ‘No!’ But he wouldn’t listen. I was crushed against the back of the sofa and couldn’t move.”
“What did he do?”
“He licked my face with his big tongue. Then he felt me for a long time until—”
“Until what, Rob?”
“Until it started to get bigger.”
“What did you think about that?”
“I was afraid. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What happened then?”
“He finally got up and left.”
“Just like that?”
“He said if I told anyone he would kill my kitten.”
“What else?”
“The outside of my pajamas was sticky and cold. I didn’t know why.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went back upstairs.”
“Did this ever happen again?”
“Almost every night. I used to lie there and pray that Uncle Dave wouldn’t come down.”
“Was it always the same?”
“No. Sometimes he put his mouth down there. Then—Then he—”
“I know this is difficult, Rob. But you must try to tell me the rest.”
“He wanted me to put my mouth on him! Oh, Daddy, help!”
“And did you do it?”
“No! I said, ‘No—I won’t do it!’”
“And he left you alone after that?”
“No. The next day he killed my kitten. He picked her up and wrung her neck.”
“While you watched?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“He said he was going to do that to me unless I did what he wanted.”
“Did he come back that night?”
“Yes.”
“And did you do it?”
“No. I don’t know. I... I... I don’t remember anymore.”
“What’s the next thing you remember?”
“He came back about every night but I don’t think he bothered me. I was always asleep.”
“You were able to fall asleep knowing your uncle was coming to molest you?”
“Not exactly. I never fell asleep until he came down and got into the sofa. So I don’t think he did much after that.”
“Where was your Aunt Catherine all those nights?”
“She stayed upstairs, mostly. She had a bad heart. But sometimes I thought I saw her sitting on the stairs. And I heard her once or twice.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She just made funny noises. Like she couldn’t breathe.”
“And this went on until your father came home from the hospital?”
“Yes. They killed a dog, too.”
“What dog?”
“I don’t know. I think it was a stray. They killed it with a knife.”
“Why?”
“They said that would happen to me if I told. Uncle Dave would strangle me and Aunt Catherine would stab me with the knife.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“Never.”
“All right, Rob. We’ll stop for a while.”
Obviously relieved, he sighed loudly.
“Thank you for telling me all this. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” He began stroking the cat again.
I let him rest for a minute. I should have sent him back to the wards at this point, but I knew prot could depart at any time despite everything. “Rob, I’d like to put you under hypnosis now. Would that be all right?”
His shoulders slumped even lower. “I thought we were finished for today.”
“Almost.”
He looked left and then right, as if trying to find a way out. “All right. If you think it will help....”
As before, he didn’t go into the trance immediately, as prot always did, but more cautiously, fighting all the way. When I was sure he was “asleep” I induced him to return to the past, but this time all the way back to his fifth birthday. He described the cake, remembered blowing out all the candles. But he wouldn’t tell me his wish or (he solemnly informed me) it wouldn’t come true. It was only a short time later that his father was injured in the slaughterhouse and ended up in the hospital, and little Robin (his boyhood name) had to go live with his Uncle Dave and Aunt Catherine for a few weeks. The prospect was not an unpleasant one for him. He seemed to like his mother’s older siblings, who had given him a kitten for his birthday. His sisters were taken to live with another aunt in Billings.
“All right, Robin, you’re at your aunt and uncle’s house and it’s time for bed. Where are you going to sleep?”
“Aunt Catherine made the sofa into a bed for me. I like it. It smells funny, but it’s soft and warm.”
“Good. Are you going to sleep now?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the kitten?”
“Uncle Dave put her in the kitchen.”
“All right. What’s happening now?”
“I’m just laying here, listening to the crickets. The kitten is meowing. Oh—someone’s here. It’s Uncle Dave. He’s trying to get in bed with me. He is pushing me over.”
“He’s coming to sleep with you?”
“I guess so. But it’s too crowded. He’s pushing me against the back of the sofa. He has his arm around me. He’s touching me! ‘No, Uncle Dave! I don’t want you to!’ He’s putting his hand in my pajamas. He’s feeling my thing. ‘Uncle Dave! Please don’t. I’ll tell!’ “
“What did he say to that?”
Five-year-old Robert started to cry. “He says if I do he’ll kill my kitten.”
“It’s all right, Robin. He’s finished now. He’s gone back upstairs. Just rest for a little while.”
He continued to sob until it tapered off to a whimper.
“All right, Robin, now it’s one week later, and you’re getting into the sofa. How are you feeling?”
“I’m very afraid. He’s going to come down. I know he’s going to come down. I can’t sleep. I’m so scared.”
“Oh, he killed her. He killed her. I think he’s going to kill me, too.” He was shaking. “Oh, here he comes. ‘Please, Uncle Dave, please. Please God, don’t do it tonight!’ “
“He’s getting into the sofa?”
“No. He’s pulling my blanket off. I’m holding on to it but he’s too strong. Now he’s taking off his pajamas. I don’t want to look. I’m going to sleep now.” He closed his eyes tightly.
“Robin? Are you asleep? Robin?”
His eyes came open again. But the look of fear was gone, replaced by one of hatred. Bitter, intense hatred. All his muscles were tense. He said nothing.
“Rob?”
“No,” he replied, through clenched teeth.
“Who are you?”
His feet began to shuffle. “Harry.”
I was stunned. Not because another alter had made an appearance, but because I understood immediately what a fool I’d been, that there might be still others I didn’t yet know about, perhaps watching and listening to everything that transpired. “Harry, please—tell me what’s happening.”
The feet stopped shuffling. “He’s kneeling beside the sofa. His thing is in my face. He wants me to put it in my mouth.”
“Are you doing that?”
“I have to or he will kill Robin. But I will kill him, too. If he does anything to Robin I will kill him. I hate him! I hate his guts! I hate his rotten thing! I am going to bite it off if he hurts Robin. Then I will kill him. I will! I will! And her, too, that fat pig.” He looked as though he meant every word.
“All right, Harry. It’s all over now. Uncle Dave and Aunt Catherine have gone upstairs. You are all alone. You and Robin.”
Harry sat in his chair spitting violently, glowering, his eyes rising as the pair made their way slowly up the stairs.
“Harry? Listen carefully. You’re going to sleep now.” I waited until he calmed down, closed his eyes. A moment later I whispered, “All right, Robin. It’s morning now. Robin, wake up.”
“Huh?”
“Is that you, Robin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s time to get up.”
Dismally: “I don’t want to get up.” But at least the horrible twitching had subsided.
“I understand. It’s okay. Just rest there for a while. We’re going to go forward in time now. You’re getting older. You’re six, now you’re seven, now ten. Now you’re fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, thirty-eight. Rob?”
“Yes?”
“How are you doing?”
“Not so hot.”
“All right, I’m going to wake you up now. I’m going to count backward from five. By the time I get to one you will be wide awake and feeling fine. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.” I snapped my fingers. “Hello, Rob—how do you feel?”
I needn’t have asked. He may have felt fine, but he looked sick and exhausted. “Can I go to my room now?”
“Of course. And Rob?”
“Yes?”
I got up, placed my hand on his shoulder, and escorted him to the door. He was still holding the cat. “I think the worst is over. Everything is going to be all right now.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do. In one or two more sessions I think we’ll have everything sorted out. Then you can begin to get well.”
“That sounds too wonderful to be true.”
“It’s true. And when you get better, it will be perfectly all right for prot to leave. You won’t need him anymore.”
“I hope not. I don’t think he’s going to be around much longer anyway, no matter what happens.”
“Do you have any idea—”
“You’re browbeating again, coach. He doesn’t know, and neither do I.”
“Prot! Rob was just on his way back to Ward Two.”
He shrugged and reached for the door.
“Before you go, tell me: Are there any child molesters on K-PAX?”
“No, and no adult molesters, either.”
On Tuesday morning one of the world’s foremost psychiatrists arrived to spend the day at MPI meeting with faculty and staff, and to present a seminar on current research in his field. I had never met the man before, though I had read most of his books, including the immensely popular The Lighter Side of Mental Illness, heard him lecture at national and international conferences, and was looking forward to this rare opportunity.
He strode into the hospital wearing top hat and tails, his trademark dress. Now in his eighties, he looks twenty years younger, and keeps himself in shape by running seven miles every morning before breakfast, doing fifty push-ups at midday, and swimming an hour every afternoon before dinner. In between he gulps vitamins and minerals by the handful. He asked everyone he met where the swimming pool was. Unfortunately, the Manhattan Psychiatric Institute does not have such a facility.
I didn’t see him until later, in part because I skipped the morning coffee conference (our guest had grapefruit juice) in order to visit Russell, who was in the infirmary, apparently suffering from exhaustion. He seemed okay otherwise, and was still preaching the imminent demise of the world.
I spoke to Chak about Russ’s condition, but he was mystified about what was ailing him. “You are not to worry,” he assured me. “He is not in immediate danger.” He was thinking of transferring him to Columbia Presbyterian for further examination and testing.
“Do what you need to do,” I said. “I would hate to lose him.”
I poked my head into Russell’s room before leaving the clinic to wave a cheerful goodbye and found him weeping. I stepped in and asked him what the matter was. He said, “When I get to heaven I hope they have hamburgers on Saturday nights....“I think it was the first time I had ever heard him say anything that wasn’t a quote from the Bible.
My turn to speak privately with the great clinician, whose books occupy a prominent place on my office shelves, came at two o’clock. He bounded into my office fresh as a kid (thanks to the push-ups, perhaps), swallowed several vitamin pills, and immediately fell asleep sitting up in his chair. For a moment I thought he had died there, but on careful observation I could see his chest moving under his cravat. Not wanting to disturb him, I slipped out and let him have his forty winks. It was only later that I learned he had passed out in everyone’s office. Apparently he was saving his strength for the four-o’clock seminar.
When I returned to awaken and escort him to Beamish’s office he finished the sentence he had started when he dozed off and leaped out of the chair like a twenty-year-old. I had a difficult time keeping up with him as he winged his way down the corridor.
Having an hour or so free before the seminar, I decided to spend them on the grounds, where I found Lou huffing and puffing around the back forty. Not having seen him for a couple of weeks I was aghast at the amount of weight he had put on. His maternity slacks were stretched to their limit. His bright-yellow blouse was unbuttoned and it fell over his swollen belly like the petals of a giant sunflower. It appeared he was literally feeding his delusion.
He blew some hair from his eyes. “Had I known it was going to be like this I never would have become a mother,” he groaned. He seemed to be fingering something—a gossamer thread, I presumed.
I noticed Dustin plodding along the far wall. He always seemed to be most agitated late in the afternoon. I heard Lou say, “Why don’t you give Dustin a break and keep his parents away from him tonight?”
“They’re nice people, Lou. And they’re his only visitors.”
“They’re driving him nuts!”
Just then Milton wiggled along on his beat-up unicycle, juggling a few raisins and mumbling to himself, “And I told the maestro, ‘No, thank you! I want to hear the entire ramide or no ramide at all!’ “
Virginia Goldfarb came by from the other direction and reminded me of the upcoming seminar by our distinguished visitor. I accompanied her to the amphitheater.
When everyone was seated and Villers had introduced our guest in a very complimentary fashion, he bounded from his chair and took the podium. It looked to be a rewarding hour. Unfortunately, when the lights were dimmed for his slides, the great man fell asleep again, and he stood snoring softly at the front of the room like an old horse wearing a top hat. The projectionist, one of our bright young residents, gravely continued with the slide show, which was pretty much self-explanatory anyway. When it was over and the lights came up, our speaker awakened, concluded his talk, and asked for questions.
No one had any. Perhaps everyone else was thinking, as I was, about the functional capacities of the elderly gentlemen who populate the halls of Congress and the United States Supreme Court, sleeping at the switch, so to speak, while the trains roll by.
Refreshed by his nap, our distinguished colleague got in his hour of swimming at a local gym before taking another snooze, this time over dinner at one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants. (Villers, whose wife was still sick, had begged off and I was left to deal with the problem myself.) Somehow he managed to catch his menu on fire from the candle and, later, his head fell into his plate and mashed his “very young, tender sweet peas in unsalted butter sauce with a hush of marjoram and dill.” After helping him eat, I finally got our slumbering guest into a cab and off to the airport, his forehead still flecked with food. He strode briskly into the terminal, but whether he made it home or not is anybody’s guess.
As we pulled away I marveled at the accomplishments of our illustrious friend, much of which must have taken place while he was sound asleep. And I wondered whether he might not have a good deal more energy if he didn’t keep himself in such great shape.