A Well-Tempered Heart Page 3

  “Why didn’t he listen?” I asked doubtfully.

  “If only I knew. Maybe he was afraid to give it too much power over his life. Who wants to be told by a voice which planes to take and which ones not to?”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”

  “I thought I had. But maybe I just figured you wouldn’t believe me.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I believed her now. It made me think of my brother in Burma. “Not all truths are explicable, and not all explicable things are true,” he once told me. How often had that remark come to mind during the first years after my return? In Kalaw I had at some point understood what he meant. In his world of superstitious people it had made sense to me; back in New York I had my doubts again. Why shouldn’t all explicable things be true? Why shouldn’t one be able to explain all truths? Maybe there were truths in Kalaw that did not hold elsewhere.

  “You don’t believe me,” said Amy, as if sensing my doubts.

  “No. Well, yes. Of course I believe your mother told you that, but I can hardly believe that a voice warned your father not to board his last flight.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know me. I’m too rational for that.”

  “Your father could hear heartbeats. He could distinguish butterflies by their wing beats. How do you explain that?”

  “There’s no explanation for it, I know. But that doesn’t mean that I have to start buying into all kinds of …” I searched for a way of putting it that would not offend Amy.

  “… esoteric nonsense.” She finished the sentence for me.

  “Exactly,” I said, and couldn’t help laughing at myself.

  “And nor should you,” she went on. “But now you are hearing a voice. Do you have an explanation?”

  “No,” I answered sheepishly.

  We both thought for a while in silence.

  “Should we go out for a drink somewhere?” she asked, straightening up.

  I hesitated. “I’d rather stay here. I don’t want to have to deal with strangers.”

  She nodded. “You want an espresso?”

  “I’d prefer a glass of wine.”

  “Even better.” She went into the open kitchen, uncorked a bottle of red wine, and brought it over on a tray with glasses, chocolate, and nuts. She poured for two and lit a couple of candles. We took two pillows and sat in silence on the floor. We were good at that. Silence lost its power to isolate in Amy’s presence.

  “Can you hear her now?” she asked at some point.

  I listened into myself and shook my head.

  “Too bad. I was hoping to have a word with her.”

  I cast her a slightly pained look over my wineglass. “She never explains anything. She only asks questions.”

  “I wonder whether this voice might also have some purpose?”

  I wonder. Typical Amy-talk. She said that often when her question was really a statement. I knew her well enough to understand what she meant: Julia! This voice has a purpose.

  “What purpose?”

  “My father was uncomfortable talking about it, but according to my mother he never thought of the voice he heard as a threat. To him it was more of a lifelong companion with whom he conversed at regular intervals, I think.”

  I shook my head. That was not what I had been hoping to hear. Not that I could have said which words would have done me any good in this situation. Was I just looking for a bit of pity rounded out with a reassurance that I would be all better in a few days? As if I had a flu?

  “I don’t need a lifelong companion. At least not one that I can neither see nor touch.”

  Amy sipped at her wine, lost in thought. “And what if you answer her questions?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Maybe she’d leave you in peace. Who knows?”

  “I tried that. All I got was more questions.”

  She rocked her head from side to side and looked at me for a long time. “Why are you afraid of this voice?”

  “Why am I afraid? Because I don’t have any control over it.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Yes! I left a work meeting without a word of explanation. An important one!”

  “A sudden fainting spell. Mulligan will turn a blind eye.”

  “Not if it happens again. We’re supposed to be filing a pretty complicated claim in the next few weeks. We’re supposed to lay out our strategy for our client, and a part of that is my job. What’s going to happen if she pipes up in the middle of my presentation?”

  She thought about it. “Then you just keep your cool and tell her she has to wait.”

  I sighed. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Then that’s just the way it is.”

  “Amy!” Why didn’t she understand me? “I can’t afford to lose control like that. I have to be functional. I’m not painting pictures. I’ve got no other choice.”

  “We always have choices.”

  There was no topic over which we could more vehemently disagree. She was not a woman who bowed to external pressures. For Amy we were all responsible for our own fates. Period.

  Everything we did had consequences for which we were responsible. The choice was ours. Yes or no.

  Life is too short for detours.

  If you have a dream, you ought to live it.

  I emptied my glass and poured myself another. “A voice in my head is bullying me around. I want to know where it comes from. I want to know how to get rid of it. ASAP.”

  “Then you need to see a doctor about medication. A psychiatrist will be able to help you. At least temporarily.”

  I saw by her eyes, by the twist of her lip, how little she thought of that idea.

  “Okay, and what would you have me do?”

  “I’m convinced that this voice has a purpose.”

  “And what might that be?” My skeptical tone was unmistakable.

  “You’ve been through a lot this past year. You’ve lost a lot …” She paused meaningfully.

  I didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. There were things I didn’t want to talk about. Not even with Amy. “I know where you’re going with that. But this voice has nothing to do with what happened in the spring.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Why would you think otherwise?”

  She shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  We drank our wine, ate a few nuts, and did not say anything for a long time.

  “You’re asking a lot of yourself.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Nonsense. You’re the most self-disciplined person I know. You haven’t allowed yourself a break for years.”

  “We went together to Long Island just this summer,” I contradicted her.

  “Two days. Then you had to come back early because Mulligan needed you. When you separated from Michael and moved out you sat on the cardboard moving boxes and wrote letters to clients because there were supposedly incredibly important deadlines that simply could not be postponed.”

  “They were important,” I countered feebly.

  “You were in the middle of breaking up with a boyfriend you had lived with for four years. You’re not the only lawyer at your firm.”

  I nodded.

  “This voice might be a sign …”

  “You think I’m hearing some kind of suppressed ego that I’ve chronically neglected, right? But this isn’t any internal dialog with myself. The voice is real. I hear it. I can describe it to you.”

  “How does it sound?”

  “Older than me. Sometimes a bit gravelly. Deep for a woman. Stern.”

  A deliberate silence was her answer.

  “I’m afraid,” I said quietly.

  She nodded. Her eyes wandered past me to a large painting on the wall. A red cross against a dark red background on which she had glued handfuls of red-dyed chicken feathers. Buddha in the Henhouse, read the label below it.

  “I’m going to get out of the city for a few days the week af
ter next. Would you care to come along?”

  I shook my head. Amy made regular retreats to meditate at a Buddhist center in upstate New York. She had invited me to join her many times before, but I had always put her off. It was a mystery to me how she could sit there for an hour or more thinking of nothing. The few times I had tried it in yoga classes I had had so many thoughts, images, and memories running through my mind that I could hardly stand it. My head felt as if it were about to burst. I always cut the effort short after the first few minutes. Amy thought that I just needed proper instruction, but I doubted that.

  I was slowly starting to feel the wine. I was being overtaken by an almost crippling weariness.

  “I guess I’ll be heading home.”

  “You can stay here if you like.”

  “I know. Thank you. But I’ve got so much to do this weekend, and I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

  She smiled and took me by the arm. The physical contact felt good. I would really have preferred to stay.

  I had walked hardly a block along Rivington Street when I heard her again.

  Who are you?

  Chapter 4

  HOW THIN IS the wall between us and madness? No one knows what it is made of. No one knows how much pressure it can withstand. Until it gives.

  We all live on the edge.

  It’s just one step. A small one. Some of us sense it; others do not.

  I slept late in an effort to stick to my usual Saturday routine, not to let myself get thrown off balance. Late breakfast, leisurely newspaper, a couple of e-mails to friends, laundry. All the same, my anxiety mounted throughout the morning, hour by hour. I no longer trusted the silence within me. I had the feeling that some invisible power was watching my every move. The voice was following me; I no longer had any doubt. It was only a matter of time before she would chime in again.

  Before me lay the draft of our claim. To the left and right were piles of documents and correspondence. I was looking at a work-filled weekend.

  Why don’t you have any children?

  It appalled me anew every time. From the neighbor’s apartment came the muted sounds of piano music; the elevator chimed; police sirens rang up from Second Avenue; the voice repeated its question. It sounded as if she was standing behind me and speaking directly into my ear. I wanted to defend myself. But how? Against whom?

  Why did I not have children? A question I hated. Why does a woman have to justify a childless life? No one would ever think to question a mother as to why she had children. Why did she have to pick that question? I pretended not to hear.

  You should not live alone. It’s not good.

  The voice immediately adopted a snappier tone. I had a feeling I might be able to catch her off guard. I thought of what Amy had said. Talk with her. Listen to what she has to say.

  You ought to …

  —Where are you from? I cut her short.

  Silence. I repeated my question and waited. As if she owed me an answer.

  I … I don’t know, she quietly replied.

  —Why not?

  I don’t remember.

  —What do you want from me?

  Nothing.

  —So why do you ask all those questions?

  Because I want to know who you are.

  —Why?

  Because I live inside you. Because I am a part of you.

  —No! You are not a part of me, I objected.

  Oh yes I am.

  —No. I know myself.

  Are you sure? Who ever really knows herself?

  You’re a stranger.

  I wasn’t budging.

  I am a part of you and will always be so.

  I felt sick.

  —If you really are a part of me, then I want you to keep your mouth shut.

  I am a part of you, but you can’t simply order me around. I am my own boss.

  My hands started to tremble.

  What are you afraid of?

  —Who says I’m afraid?

  Why else would you be trembling?

  —Because I’m freezing.

  What are you afraid of?

  I. Am. Not. Afraid.

  You are. I am well acquainted with fear.

  That gave me pause.

  —Why are you well acquainted with fear?

  Silence.

  Fear was my constant companion. I’ve lost everything.

  —What did you lose?

  Everything. That’s all I know.

  She fell silent. I waited to see whether she would speak up again. I stood up and paced excitedly around the apartment.

  —What did you lose? Where are you from? Say something.

  Inside me it was quiet.

  —Why don’t you answer me?

  What was happening to me? Who was I talking to? Was it possible that my personality had split in two from one day to the next? Was that the definition of schizophrenia?

  I opened my laptop and Googled “schizophrenia.” Wikipedia defined it as a “mental disorder characterized by a breakdown of thought processes and by poor emotional responsiveness.” It often struck suddenly, without having presented noticeable symptoms beforehand. “It most commonly features auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking.” I paused and briefly wondered whether it would be better just to close the computer. Hallucinations. What was that supposed to mean? I read on, ill at ease: “They include … the belief that thoughts are being inserted into or withdrawn from one’s conscious mind … and hearing hallucinatory voices that comment on one’s thoughts or actions … The primary treatment of schizophrenia is antipsychotic medications, often in combination with psychological and social supports. Hospitalization may occur for severe episodes either voluntarily or (if mental health legislation allows it) involuntarily.”

  I felt worse with every sentence. I was not suffering from a psychosis. Nor was I having hallucinations. The voice was real. I was not imagining it.

  I searched for books on Amazon that dealt with hearing voices. Curing Schizophrenia, Curing Hallucinations, and Hear the Voice of the Lord were popular titles. Nothing for me there.

  A search for the phrase “hearing voices” turned up more than a million results across the web. The first was for a radio program. Below that some network or other was promising “information, support, and understanding for people who hear voices.” WrongDiagnosis.com provided a list of seven illnesses that could cause the problem along with appropriate treatment strategies. I opened the page.

  “Causes: schizophrenia, psychosis, psychotic depression, hallucinations.”

  I quickly closed the page and shut my laptop. I did not want to have anything to do with that world. I did not have mental-health issues. My mother suffered from depression and took Prozac. My sister-in-law, too. Some of my colleagues. Not me.

  I did not believe in higher powers or third eyes.

  Working was out of the question at that point. I was seized by an internal unrest that kept me in its grip the whole day long. I cleaned up like a woman possessed. Washed the kitchen cupboards. Shined all of my shoes. Rotated out my old clothes.

  I went for a jog in Central Park and I couldn’t stop running. My legs would not obey me. I ran three times farther than my usual route, a distance I had not thought myself capable of. I ran without pause, in spite of aching feet and a racing heart. Something was driving me on and on. Cramps in my legs eventually compelled me to stop. I leaned against a tree on the edge of Strawberry Fields and vomited.

  LATER ON THAT night I was woken by a miserable sobbing. At first I thought it was a dream. Then I thought that Michael lay crying beside me. I turned on the light and stared at the empty half of the bed. The sobbing grew to a loud whimper. I climbed out of bed and checked whether anyone lay in front of my door or whether it might be coming from a neighboring apartment. All was quiet in the hall; inside me it was getting louder and louder.

  It was going to drive me mad if I couldn’t put an end to it.


  —Hello? Who are you?

  The crying only worsened. It did not sound defiant or angry, more like a suffering that no words could express.

  —Is that you crying? Why won’t you answer?

  Nothing but that unbearable sobbing. It was harder on the heart than on the ears. It touched something inside me. I felt an anguish, a deeply suppressed grief, and I wasn’t going to be able to endure it much longer before bursting into tears myself. I turned on all the lights and blasted the radio until the music drowned out the lamentation. Pretty soon the doorbell rang. The two neighbors at the door wanted to know whether I had completely lost my mind.

  That was the moment when I realized I needed help.

  Chapter 5

  I WAS A bundle of nerves when I walked into Dr. Erikson’s office shortly before eleven on Monday morning. I had been unable to concentrate on anything all weekend. With a comment or a question, the voice quickly put an end to my every attempt at work. I had hardly slept, and earlier in the morning I had admitted to Mulligan that my condition had worsened to include severe dizzy spells and stomach pains and that I was on my way to see a specialist. I found it humiliating to lie, but the truth was not an option.

  Dr. Erikson was a psychiatrist. A friend of Amy’s whose younger brother suffered from a psychosis had recommended him and by chance had been able to arrange the appointment for me on short notice.

  He opened the door himself. A tall, athletic man, probably five, six years older than me. His firm handshake, the quiet way he looked at me, soothed my nerves to some extent. He led me to a small room with bare white walls and two cantilever chairs, where he invited me to take a seat. Then he took up pad and paper and asked me what brought me to him.

  I told him what I had gone through the past three days. He listened attentively, taking notes and asking the occasional question.

  “I can’t stand it any longer,” I concluded my account. “I really hope that you can help me.”

  He looked me straight in the eye and said quietly: “I can help you, rest assured. We have an array of new antipsychotic drugs that work true miracles.”

  What was intended to calm me only increased my apprehension.