Marjorie, 45, a substantial remnant of the spectacular beauty she once was, didn't know what to do. Her mother, 80, was ill with dementia and dying, her 15 year-old-daughter was in her own teenage world. She had always charted her course around money, would there be enough today, would there be enough tomorrow, but now in the face of her mother's dementia, that seemed shallow.
Marjorie was one of those people who see their bodies as ships of state - almost a political entity. You got the impression upon meeting her that you were dealing with a country perhaps the size of France or Germany. She did not negotiate on the phone, always in person. She parlayed her statuesque size into advantage. She started a pocketbook business back in the 90s that became very successful. It was a retail shop, cleverly transferred to the web by the end of that decade and then sold for $3M.
With her husband she had a marriage fueled by mutual interest - a mixture of low and high brow pursuits - the restless abundance of suburbia combined with a hovering dark Cheever-like anxiety that hung over their affluent home like a cloud. She lived in a Republican stronghold of Northern New Jersey, but she could have just as easily been from Irvine, California or Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.
A friend of hers dragged her to a psychoanalytic conference. The theme was on healing and resilience or something like that. A Psychoanalytic Conference? The thought of it seemed quaint to her. Weren't they dinosaurs from the 50s and 60s, the stuffed shirts of mental health field, wayward wizards who were either withholding words or making outrageous interpretations.
But the lectures were interesting. There was one presenter, a man who dressed better than any straight man she had ever met -- a suit from Savile Row, the brightest blue tie. He talked about things that get in the way of emotional communication between people. "This is where pathology lay," he asserted.
Later, her friend told her, "This is the man I want you to see. Make an appointment with him."
Marjorie protested: "He talked about emotional communication. What does this have to do with me?" "You're in pain, terrible pain," her friend said. "He will help you."
The office was just what she had imagined, plenty of rich wood, old books, a roll top desk. She came into the room and he motioned her to sit down. "I apologize for coming early," she said. "I apologize for seeing you early," he replied.
"What did your friend have in mind when she advised you to come see me?" The analyst asked.
"Well, I am in pain," Marjorie said.
"You are in pain," the analyst repeated.
"I am in pain" she said again, looking down at her feet.
He was silent. A long time passed this way. She looked at him. He looked back at her and nodded sympathetically.
She got up and put on her coat. He too got up from his chair. "I am in pain," she said again. "You are in pain," he repeated and she walked out the door.
Strangely, she felt better. It was as though she was trying to tell herself something and he let her do that. He did not seem to care whether she came back again or paid him or anything. That would have interfered. There was something strangely magnificent about the experience," she had to admit.
