Terminal Experiment (5 page)

“Hello,” said the slim black woman. “Welcome to the Family Service Association. I’m Danita Crewson. Do you prefer Catherine or Cathy?” She had short hair and was dressed in a beige jacket and matching skirt, and wore a couple of pieces of simple gold jewelry — the perfect image of a modern professional woman.

Still, Cathy was slightly taken aback. Danita Crewson looked to be all of twenty-four. Cathy had expected the counselor to be old and infinitely wise, not someone seventeen years her junior. “Cathy is fine. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”

“No problem, Cathy. Did you fill out the needs assessment?”

Cathy handed her the clipboard. “Yes. Money is no problem; I can pay the full fee.”

Danita smiled as if this was something she heard all too infrequently. “Wonderful.” When she smiled, no wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Cathy was envious. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

Cathy tried to compose herself. She’d been tortured for months by what she’d done.
God
, she thought.
How could I have been so stupid?
But, somehow, it wasn’t until she actually saw Peter cry that she realized she had to do something to get help. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that again. Cathy folded her hands on her lap and said, very slowly, “I, ah, cheated on my husband.”

“I see,” said Danita, her tone one of professional detachment, free of any judgment. “Does he know?”

“Yes. I told him.” Cathy sighed. “It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”

“How did he take it?”

“He was devastated. I’ve never seen him so shaken.”

“Did he get angry?”

“He was furious. But he was also very sad.”

“Did he hit you?”

“What? No. No, he’s not an abusive husband — not at all.”

“Neither physically nor verbally?”

“That’s right. He’s always been very good to me.”

“But you cheated on him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now that you’ve told your husband,” said Danita, “how do you feel?”

Cathy thought for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “Better. Worse. I don’t know.”

“Did you expect your husband to forgive you?”

“No,” said Cathy. “No, trust is very important to Peter — and to me. I … I expected our marriage to be over.”

“And is it?”

Cathy looked out the window. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No — absolutely not. But — but I want Peter to be happy. He deserves better.”

Danita nodded. “Did he tell you that?”

“No, of course not. But it’s true.”

“True that he deserves better?”

Cathy nodded.

“You seem to be a fine person. Why would you say that?”

Cathy said nothing.

Danita leaned back in her chair. “Has your marriage always been good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Never any separations or anything like that?”

“No — well, we broke up once while we were dating.”

“Oh? Why?”

A small shrug. “I’m not sure. We’d been dating for close to a year while still in university. Then one day, I just broke up with him.”

“And you don’t know why?”

Cathy looked out the window again, as if drawing power from the sunlight. She closed her eyes. “I guess … I don’t know, guess I couldn’t believe anyone could love me so unconditionally.”

“And so you pushed him away?”

She nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

“Are you pushing him away again? Is that what your infidelity is about, Cathy?”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “Maybe.”

Danita leaned slightly forward. “Why do you think no one could love you?” she said.

“I don’t know. I mean, I know Peter loves me. We’ve been together for a long time, and that’s been the one absolute constant in my life. I know it. But, still, even after all these years, I have trouble believing it.”

“Why?”

An infinitesimal lifting of shoulders. “Because of who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m — I’m nothing. Nothing special.”

Danita steepled her fingers. “It sounds like you’re not very confident.”

Cathy considered this. “I guess I’m not.”

“But you say you went to university?”

“Oh, yes. I made the dean’s list.”

“And your job — do you do well at that?”

“I guess. I’ve been promoted several times. But it’s not a hard job.”

“Still, it sounds like you’ve done just fine over the years.”

“I suppose,” said Cathy. “But none of that matters.”

Danita raised her eyebrows. “What’s your definition of something that matters?”

“I don’t know. Something people notice.”

“Something
which
people notice?”

“Just people.”

“Does your husband — Peter, is it? Does Peter notice when you achieve something?”

“Oh, yes. I do ceramic art as a hobby — you should have seen him bubbling over when I had a showing at a small gallery last year. He’s always been like that, boosting me — right from the beginning. He threw a surprise party for me when I graduated with honors.”

“And were you proud of yourself for that?”

“I was glad university was finally over.”

“Was your family proud of you?”

“I suppose.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes. Yes, I guess she was. She came to my graduation.”

“What about your father?”

“No, he didn’t attend.”

“Was he proud of you?”

A short, sharp laugh.

“Tell me, Cathy: was your father proud of you?”

“Sure.” Something strained in her voice.

“Really?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“He never said.”

“Never?”

“My father is not a … demonstrative man.”

“And did that bother you, Cathy?”

Cathy lifted her eyebrows. “Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, it bothered me a lot.” She was trying to remain calm, but emotion was creeping into her voice. “It bothered me an awful lot. No matter what I did, he never praised it. If I’d bring home a report card with five As and a B, all he’d talk about was the B. He never came to see me perform in the school band. Even to this day, he thinks my ceramics are silly. And he never…”

“Never what?”

“Nothing.”

“Please, Cathy, tell me what you’re thinking.” “He never once said he loved me. He even signed birthday cards — cards that my mother had picked out for him — ‘Dad.’ Not ‘Love, Dad’ — but just ‘Dad.’ ”

“I’m sorry,” said Danita.

“I tried to make him happy. Tried to make him proud of me. But no matter what I did, it was like I wasn’t there.”

“Have you ever discussed this with your father?”

Cathy made a noise in her throat. “I’ve never discussed
anything
with my father.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But he
did
hurt me. And now I’ve hurt Peter.”

Danita nodded. “You said that you didn’t believe anyone could love you unconditionally.”

Cathy nodded.

“Is that because you felt your father never loved you?”

“I guess.”

“But you think Peter loves you a lot?”

“If you knew him, you wouldn’t have to ask. People are always saying how much he loves me, how obvious it is.”

“Does Peter tell you he loves you?”

“Oh, yes. Not every day of course, but often.”

Danita leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps your problems with Peter are related to your problems with your father. Down deep, perhaps you felt that no man could love you because your father had eroded your self-esteem. When you found a man who did love you, you couldn’t believe it, and you tried — and are still trying — to push him away.”

Cathy was immobile.

“It’s a common enough scenario, I’m afraid. Low self-esteem has always been a big problem among women, even today.”

Still immobile, except for chewing her lower lip.

“You have to realize that you are not worthless, Cathy. You have to recognize the value in yourself, see in yourself all the wonderful qualities Peter sees in you. Peter doesn’t put you down, does he?”

“No. Never. As I said, he’s very supportive.”

“Sorry to have to ask again. It’s just that women often end up marrying men who are like their fathers, just as men often end up marrying women who are like their mothers. So Peter isn’t like your father?”

“No. No, not in the least. But, then, Peter pursued me. I don’t know what kind of man I was looking for. I don’t even know if I was looking at all. I think — I think I just wanted to be left alone.”

“What about the man you had the affair with? Was he the kind of man you were looking for?”

Cathy snorted. “No.”

“You weren’t attracted to him?”

“Oh, Hans was cute, in a chubby way. And then was something disarming about his smile. But I didn’t go after him.”

“Did he treat you well?”

“He was a smooth talker, but you could tell it was all just talk.”

“And yet it worked.”

Cathy sighed. “He was persistent.”

“Did this Hans remind you of your father?”

“No, of course not,” Cathy said immediately, but then she paused. “Well, I suppose they have some things in common. Peter would say they’re both dumb jocks.”

“And was Hans good to you during your relationship?”

“He was terrible to me. He’d ignore me for weeks on end, while he was presumably involved with someone else.”

“But when he came back to you, you’d respond.”

She sighed. “I know it was stupid.”

“No one is judging you, Cathy. I just want to understand what went on. Why did you keep going back to Hans?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…”

“Yes?”

“Maybe it was just that Hans seemed more the kind of guy I deserved.”

“Because he treated you terribly.”

“I guess.”

“Because he treated you like your father.”

Cathy nodded.

“We have to do something about your self-esteem, Cathy. We have to make you realize that you deserve to be treated with respect.”

Cathy’s voice was small. “But I don’t…”

Danita let out a slow, whispery sigh. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Later that evening, Peter and Cathy were sitting in their living room, Peter on the couch and Cathy alone in the love seat across the room.

Peter didn’t know what was going to happen, what the future held. He was still trying to deal with it all. He’d always tried to be a good husband, always tried to show a genuine interest in her job. There was no reason to change that, he figured, and so, as he had often done in the past, he asked, “How was work today?”

Cathy put down her reader. “Fine.” She paused. “Toby brought in fresh strawberries.”

Peter nodded.

“But,” she said, “I left early.”

“Oh?”

“I, ah, went to see a counselor.”

Peter was surprised. “You mean like a therapist?”

“Sort of. She works for the Family Service Association — I found them using directory assistance.”

“Counselor…” said Peter, chewing over the word. Fascinating. He met her eyes. “I would have gone with you, if you’d asked.”

She smiled briefly but warmly. “I know you would have. But, ah, I wanted to sort some things out for myself.”

“How did it go?”

She looked at her lap. “Okay, I guess.”

“Oh?” Peter leaned forward, concerned.

“It was a little upsetting.” She lifted her gaze. Her voice was small. “Do you think I have low self-esteem?”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “I, ah, have always thought that perhaps you underestimated yourself.” He knew that was as far as he should go.

Cathy nodded. “Danita — that’s the counselor — she thinks it’s related to my relationship with my father.”

The first thought in Peter’s mind was a snide comment about Freudians. But then the full measure of what Cathy said hit him. “She’s right,” Peter said, eyebrows lifting. “I hadn’t seen it before, but of course she’s right. He treats you and your sister like crap. Like you had been boarders, not his children.”

“Marissa is in therapy, too, you know.”

Peter hadn’t known, but he nodded. “It makes sense. Christ, how could you have a positive self-image, growing up in an environment like that? And your mother — ” Peter saw Cathy’s face harden and he stopped himself. “Sorry, but as much as I like her, Bunny is not, well, let’s say she’s not the ideal role model for the twenty-first-century woman. She’s never worked outside the home, and, after all, your father doesn’t seem to treat her much better than he treated you or your sister.”

Cathy said nothing.

It was obvious now, all of this. “God damn him,” said Peter, getting to his feet, pacing back and forth. He stopped and stared at the Alex Colville painting behind the couch. “God damn him to hell.”

Tuesday was the standard night for Peter and Sarkar to have dinner together. Sarkar’s wife Raheema took a course on Tuesdays, and Peter and Cathy had always given each other time to pursue separate interests. Peter was more relaxed this evening, now that he’d decided not to discuss Cathy’s infidelity with Sarkar. They hashed through more prosaic family news, international politics, the Blue Jays’ stunning performance and the Leafs’ lousy one. Finally, Peter looked across the table and cleared his throat. “What do you know about near-death experiences?”

Sarkar was having lentil soup this evening. “They’re a crock.”

“I thought you believed in that kind of stuff.”

Sarkar made a pained face. “Just because I’m religious doesn’t mean I am an idiot.”

“Sorry. But I was talking to a woman recently who had had a near-death experience. She certainly believed it was real.”

“She have the classic symptoms? Out-of-body perspective? Tunnel? Bright light? Life review? Sense of peace? Encounters with dead loved ones?”

“Yes.”

Sarkar nodded. “It is only when taken as one big thing that NDEs are inexplicable. The individual components are easy to understand. For instance, do this: close your eyes and picture yourself at dinner last night.”

Peter closed his eyes. “Okay.”

“What do you see?”

“I see me and Cathy at the Olive Garden on Keele.”

“Don’t you ever eat at home?”

“Well, not often,” said Peter.

“DINKs,” said Sarkar, shaking his head — double income, no kids. “Anyway, realize what you just said: you picture yourself and Cathy.”

“That’s right.”

“You are seeing yourself. The image you conjure up isn’t from the point of view of your eyes, a meter and half off the floor or however high up they are when you’re sitting down. It’s a picture of yourself as seen from outside your own body.”

“Well, I guess it is, at that.”

“Most human memory and dream imagery is ‘out of body.’ That’s the way our minds work both when recalling things that really happened and in fantasizing. There’s nothing mystical about it.”

Peter was having another heart-attack kit. He rearranged the slices of smoked meat on the rye bread. “But people claim to be able to see things they couldn’t possibly have seen, like the manufacturer’s name on the light unit mounted above their hospital bed.”

Sarkar nodded. “Yeah, there are reports like that, but they aren’t crisp — they don’t stand up to scrutiny. One case involved a man who worked for a company that manufactured hospital lighting: he had recognized a competitor’s unit. Others involve patients who had been ambulatory before or after the NDE and had had plenty of time to check out the details for themselves. Also, many times the reports are either unverifiable, such as ‘I saw a fly sitting on top of the X-ray machine,’ or just flat-out wrong, such as ‘there was a vent on the top of the respirator,’ when in fact there was no vent at all.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Sarkar. He smiled. “I know what to get you for Christmas this year: a subscription to the
Skeptical Inquirer
.”

“What’s that?”

“A journal published by the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal. They blow holes in this sort of thing all the time.”

“Hmm. What about the tunnel?”

“Have you ever had a migraine?”

“No. My father used to get them, though.”

“Ask him. Tunnel vision is common in severe headaches, in anoxia, and lots of other conditions.”

“I guess. But I’d heard that the tunnel was maybe a recollection of the birth canal.”

Sarkar waved his soup spoon in Peter’s direction. “Ask any woman who’s had a baby if the birth canal is even remotely like a tunnel with a wide opening and a bright light at the end. The baby is surrounded by contracting walls of muscle; there’s no tunnel. Plus, people who were delivered by Caesarean section have recounted the NDE tunnel as well, so it can’t be some sort of actual memory.”

“Hmm. What about the bright light at the end of the tunnel?”

“Lack of oxygen causes overstimulation of the visual cortex. Normally, most of the neurons in that cortex are prevented from firing. When oxygen levels drop, the first thing to cease functioning is the disinhibitory chemicals. The result is a perception of bright light.”

“And the life review?”

“Didn’t you take a seminar once at the Montreal Neurological Institute?”

“Umm — yes.”

“And who was the most famous doctor associated with that institute?”

“Wilder Penfield, I guess.”

“You guess,” said Sarkar. “He’s on a bloody stamp, after all. Yes, Penfield, who did work on directly stimulating the brain. He found it easy to elicit vivid memories of long-forgotten things. Again, in an anoxia situation, the brain is
more
active than normal because of the loss of disinhibitors. Neural nets are firing left and right. So the flooding of the brain with images from the past makes perfect sense.”

“And the sense of peace?”

“Natural endorphins, of course.”

“Hmm. But what about the visions of long-dead friends? The woman I spoke to saw her dead twin sister, Mary, who had died shortly after birth.”

“Did she see an infant?”

“No, she described the vision as looking like herself.”

“The brain isn’t stupid,” said Sarkar. “It knows when it may be about to die. That naturally gets one thinking about people who are already dead. Here is the crisp point, though: there are cases of little children having near-death experiences. Do you know who they see visions of?”

Peter shook his head.

“Their parents or their playmates. People who are still alive. Children don’t know anyone who has already died. If the NDE really was a window into some afterlife, they wouldn’t see people who are alive.”

“Hmm,” said Peter. “You know, the woman who had seen her sister Mary had her NDE while on the phone talking to
another
woman named Mary.”

Sarkar looked triumphant. “The power of suggestion. It’s all just a normal, explicable brain reaction.” The server came with the bill. Sarkar glanced at it. “My religion teaches that we do continue on after this existence, but the near-death experience has nothing to do with real life after death. If you want to know what that’s like, I’ll give you a copy of the Koran.”

Peter reached for his wallet to pay his half of the tab. “I think I’ll pass.”