The Syndrome (32 page)

Over the objections of plaintiff’s counsel, Shaw had then gone on to review various experiments concerning eyewitness testimony—citing the work of Elizabeth Loftus and others. The studies revealed that although most people—“the general public, doctors, lawyers, even psychiatrists”—tend to hold the belief that “memory” represents a procedure of
review
, the reality is quite different. In fact, “memory” represents the
reconstruction
of an event in the mind. It sounded like “splitting hairs” Shaw said, but the “difference could not be more profound.”

The key point was that such reconstructions were unreliable.
“Memory is a novelist, not a photographer,” Shaw told the court.

To illustrate his point, Shaw described a series of experiments in which short films were shown to students, who were then asked misleading questions about what they’d seen. When the students were questioned a second time, about a week later, it was found that most of them had integrated the misleading data into their own recollections. They now “remembered” things that they’d been asked about—but hadn’t seen. “In other words,” Shaw said, “they formed pseudomemories.”

Adrienne’s eyes were beginning to strain—despite the overcast day, the cottage was flooded with light, and Nikki’s laptop screen wasn’t an active matrix. Was she ready to call this guy? Maybe yes, maybe no.

Getting to her feet, she stretched, and went to the front door. Stepping outside, she took in the damp air and the smell of the ocean.

It’s all about memory, she told herself. About Nikki’s confabulations, and Duran’s. Doctor Shaw was the Memory King, and if he couldn’t help her, no one could. But would he?

She took in another lungful of salt air, and returned to the kitchen, passing Duran on the way. “You want some coffee?” she asked. He shook his head, caught up in the histrionics of a soap opera.

In the kitchen, she made a cup of instant coffee, and sat down in front of the laptop. Logging onto the Web, she ran a search in Dogpile, telling it to
fetch pseudomemory. A
minute later, she had dozens of hits, most of which revolved around the use of hypnosis to “recover” memories of alleged sexual abuse—precisely what had happened with Nikki. The phenomenon appeared to be epidemic, the debate intense. There were even dueling nonprofits: the False Memory Foundation, which set out to debunk such accounts, and Believe the Children (Inc.), which sought to shore them up. Nikki, she remembered, had left some money in her will to the latter.

By now, the “recovery” of memories had become so commonplace—and so controversial—that The National Association
of Psychology had instituted guidelines. First, therapists should be on guard against unconsciously guiding their clients toward the “discovery” of long-repressed incidents of abuse—which, in fact, may never have occurred.

A second guideline suggested that therapists should be aware that memories recovered through the use of guided imagery or hypnosis were likely to be challenged in court—should any litigation occur. Since these “memory enhancing” techniques had been shown to increase “suggestibility” and the formation of pseudomemories, most insurance companies now required that sessions of this kind be taped for the protection of the therapist.

And, in fact, it was this very practice that won the Brewster case. According to
The American Lawyer:

Adrienne shut down the laptop, got up and stretched. The pounding of the surf was beginning to get on her nerves.

“Hey,” she called to Duran. “You awake?”

He appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, looking rumpled and sleepy. “More or less.”

“You know those tapes you made?” she asked.

“For the insurance company?”

Adrienne nodded. “I was wondering if you could call about them. Maybe you could get copies.”

Duran gave her a quizzical look. “You mean … now?”

She looked him up and down. “Well … yeah,
now.
Unless you’re too busy—”

He glanced at his watch, gave her a lazy smile. “I guess I’ve got a little window here.” Going into the living room, he picked up the remote and turned off the TV Then he went to the phone, and called Information. Five minutes later, she heard him say, “Just don’t turn me over to the machine, okay? Because I already made this call once. I want you to check Mutual General Assurance, all right? M-G-A. Mutual General Assurance
anything.
Limited. Inc. Company. Whatever.” He listened in silence for a while, and then hung up.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I can’t get a number for the company. Which doesn’t make sense, because I know the address. I mean, I sent tapes out two or three times a week. In fact—” he patted the pockets of his sports jacket. “I’ve still got one.” He removed a cassette from his inside jacket pocket, and laid it down on the counter. “I never got a chance to mail it, but…
I know
the address: 1752 Avenue of the Americas. Suite 1119. It’s … Manhattan.”

“Let me look it up,” she suggested, and turned to the laptop.
“Anywho’
ll have it.”

“Mutual General Assurance,” he said. “Not
In
surance. A—”

“I know,” she said. “I heard you.” As the modem dialed into the Web, she picked up the pill bottle she’d found in the computer’s case, and held it out between her forefinger and thumb. “You know anything about this?” she asked.

He took the bottle from her and examined it while she searched the Web for Mutual General Assurance. Finally, he put the bottle back down on the counter, and shook his head. “Maybe it’s some kind of clinical trial,” he suggested. “Though … ‘Placebo 1’? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe she went to an herbalist,” Adrienne supposed.

“You think?”

She put the vial in her pocket and shrugged. She was thinking,
Maybe I’ll get the pills analyzed …
The blue bar completed its slow crawl across the bottom of the screen, and
a list of insurance companies snapped onto the page in front of her. All in all, there were nine listings for companies whose names contained some combination of the words
Mutual, General
and
Assurance.
But there was no Mutual General Assurance Company, or anything like it, in New York State.

“Take a look,” she said, as Duran leaned over her shoulder and studied the screen. She scrolled down. “Worth calling them?”

He shook his head. “No. Different name, different address. There’s no point. If we had to, we could go to New York, but …”

“What’s on this tape, anyway?” she asked, tapping it with her fingernail.

“A client. Dutch guy.” As soon as he said it, his face turned ashen. “Oh, Jesus! What’s today?”

“Monday.”

He looked stricken. Turned on his heel. Turned back again. Ran his hand through his hair. “This is not good,” he told her.

“What isn’t?”

“I missed my appointment!” Duran glanced at the ceiling, and sighed.

“No kidding.”

He didn’t hear the sarcasm in her voice. He was beyond it. “Disappearing like this—I don’t know what he’ll do. The relationship between a client and his therapist … sometimes it’s the only relationship they
trust!
You break that trust and—”

“Earth to Duran?” Her fingers enclosed “Duran” in quotes. “You’re not a therapist, remember? In fact, you’re not even Duran. We don’t know
who
you are. You’re a—a ‘disturbed person’ with bogus credentials. This Dutch guy? Trust me: he’ll be okay without you!”

He looked at her for a long moment, seemingly confused, then flopped down on the couch in front of the television. “Y’know something?” he asked. “You can be a real bitch when you want to.”

The remark took her by surprise, and she started to laugh. He was right, of course.

Then he reactivated the sound on the
TV
, and disappeared behind a wall of chitchat. It was a talk show of some kind—Jenny Jones or Ricki Lake or Sally Jessy—Adrienne didn’t know the players. And she didn’t care. But it was interesting in its own way. A couple of dirt bags were sitting together on chairs, sharing a smirk of guilty pleasure. Their eyes shone as the women in the audience swayed and bounced, faces contorted, shouting, hooting, and rolling their eyes.

What had he called it? Adrienne wondered. What was the term Shaw used?
A pseudotherapeutic conspiracy …
Live, in your own living room.

She hated calling people she didn’t know.

It wasn’t a phobia, exactly, but it made her uncomfortable enough that she procrastinated whenever she had to do it. And procrastination almost always backfired. Like this afternoon: if she’d called Shaw earlier, she wouldn’t have to do it now. She wouldn’t have to be doing it at night. And she wouldn’t be calling him at home—which was worse, somehow. Instead, she and Duran had gone to an outlet mall to buy some things they needed (which was basically everything) and here it was, a quarter to eight.

Reluctantly, she lifted the receiver and punched out the numbers, thinking
I’ll hang up if he doesn’t answer by the

second ring. If he doesn’t answer by the second ring, he’s probably busy, he’s probably—

“Ray Shaw.” The voice was low and sonorous.

She hesitated, then recovered. “Hello?”

“Yes?” He sounded dubious, as if he suspected she was a telemarketer.

So she took a deep breath, and dove in. “Doctor Shaw—this is Adrienne Cope at Slough, Hawley. Bill Fellowes gave me your name.”

“Oh? And how’s Bill?”

“He’s fine! Doing great. Said, ‘When you call Doctor Shaw, say hello.’”

Shaw chuckled. “Well, Bill’s a terrific kid.”

“He is!”

“So!” Shaw boomed, the niceties done. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, actually … I was hoping I could bring someone to see you.”

Silence at the other end.

“It’s a very unusual case,” Adrienne continued, “and—”

“I don’t know if Bill told you,” Shaw interrupted, “but … testifying in court isn’t something I have time for. I did it once, as a favor to an Old Blue—but that’s it. You know what they say: ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.’”

She laughed politely. “I understand completely, and Bill
did
tell me that the Brewster case was a one-off proposition. But this isn’t one of those.”

“Oh?”

“No. As I said, I was hoping you could see someone—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You mean—a
patient
?” He pronounced the word as if she’d promised to produce a platypus.

“Yes.”

Rueful chuckle. “Well, I don’t think I can be of much help, then. Between teaching and research, I don’t really have a lot of time for patients. It’s a terrible thing to say, but—”

“I’m not asking you to take on a new patient, Doctor—I
was just hoping we could get a sort of … ‘preliminary evaluation.’ It’s a very unusual case.”

His grunt was skeptical. “How so?”

Careful
, she thought.
Don’t tell him too much, or the men with the butterfly nets will come through the door.
“Well, it’s a little awkward on the phone, but … the man we’re talking about is completely delusional.”

“Is he functioning?”

“Yes.”

“How highly?”

“He thinks he’s a therapist.”

“Really!” Shaw’s bemusement was as palpable as his earlier skepticism.

“Yes. And that wouldn’t be so bad, except: he treats people.”

“Oh.” Shaw’s tone went from sharp to flat in the space of a second. “Bring him in on Thursday,” he told her. “I can see him at ten.” Then he gave her the address, and she rang off, feeling virtuous.

Joining Duran in the living room, where he was finishing a beer, she told him “I’ve made an appointment for Thursday morning—”

“With who?”

“A neuropsychiatrist. In New York.”

Duran gave her a skeptical look. “And what’s that supposed to accomplish?”

Adrienne shrugged. “I thought a professional opinion might be useful.”

“An opinion of what?”

“Of you.”

“Me?” he asked.

She nodded, bracing for the objections she knew would be coming.
There’s nothing wrong with me—I’m fine! In fact—

“Good idea,” he said.

*    *    *

The next morning, she got up early and drove to a little strip mall, south of town, where she bought a cheap tape recorder.
On the way back to SeaSpray, she stopped at the Dream Cafe and picked up coffee and croissants for the two of them.

As she came into the house, Duran wandered out of the kitchen, running a hand through his hair, and yawning—as if he’d just gotten up. “I thought we could listen to the tape,” she suggested.

“Which tape?”

“The one you didn’t mail.”

“Oh,” he said, and frowned. “That one.”

“What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

“What is?”

“Well, for one thing, there are ethical issues. Henrik’s a client, and when he talks to me, it’s in confidence. It’s as if I were a priest.”

“You mean, it’s as if you were a therapist.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “And the other thing is: you’re suing me, so … I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“I’m not suing you.”

“Why not? You were.”

“But I’m not anymore. I’ll have the complaint dismissed as soon … as soon as things get back to normal.”

“How come?”

“Because it’s a mess. I can’t sue you one day, and check into a motel with you the next. It doesn’t look good. And, anyway, things aren’t as simple as I thought.”

He considered that for a moment. Finally, he said, “Okay, but—you don’t need to know the client’s identity.”