Envious Moon(55)

What separates this case from others in the literature is the length of time of the delusion, and the fact that the delusion has survived the death of the object of the erotomania. There has been no transference to other victims. The subject has been repeatedly exposed to other patients of the opposite sex and has demonstrated no interest. Other than a brief trial of somatic treatment—the subject was given atypical antipsychotics for a six-month period with no sign of benefit—the treatment has been confined to individual psychotherapy. The subject’s reticence to acknowledge a disorder and to view the events in question in any other light but the delusion has made treatment largely ineffective. The subject’s intelligence and manipulative behavior have also impeded the therapy.

While the feeling of the committee is that the subject no longer presents a threat to himself or others, without progress in addressing the underlying delusion, there is nothing to recommend release.



I close the folder and stop reading. I lean back against the couch and I watch the men gathering leaves outside. It is a beautiful October day, and in the bright sunshine, they stand under the magnificent oak, now stripped bare and with stark limbs, and fill a cart attached to a tractor with all that yellow.

The door opens and Dr. Mitchell walks in. He comes over and takes his seat across from me.

“Do you need more time?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

“You understand the nature of our problem, then, Anthony.”

I nod. “I think I do, Doctor.”





Sometimes it is easier not to fight anymore. I decide to give them what they want, though I know enough to know that I will have to do it slowly, piece by piece. Any quicker and they will suspect that I am just trying to satisfy them and that they have given me the blueprint for doing so.

I do ask for one thing in return and on a beautiful autumn day that feels like summer, Dr. Mitchell grants my wish.

Two orderlies and a golf cart take me down to the southernmost edge of the campus. A guard is waiting at that gate and he opens it and we get out of the cart and walk through. We follow a bike path and when we reach the dunes, we walk along wooden boards and out to the beach.

It is wide-open Atlantic here, no islands or land visible when you look straight out. The orderlies wait for me while I walk across the empty beach to the water. My shoes sink into the sand but then I reach where the tide rolls in and the sand is hard here. I bend down and kick off my shoes. I go to the edge of the small whitecaps and then walk into them. The water is cold on my feet but I don’t care. The waves lap against my legs and soak my pants. I look to the limitless horizon, to where the sky and the ocean become one.

It is so big and incomprehensible that it humbles me. I want nothing more than to dive into it, and swim for all I am worth. But I know the orderlies will be on me in a flash and I will accomplish nothing. No, I have to be patient, and work through this. I look down at the tide. I take the folded sheets of yellow legal paper out of my pocket. I lean down and place them on the water. They roll away from me on a small wave. The next small wave brings them back to me again. I watch them moving back and forth in the easy tide. The change is imperceptible but the tide is moving out. In an hour the folded paper will be thirty yards out. And maybe later it will get caught in the undertow. It will be swept out to sea.





Acknowledgments


With gratitude, I would like to thank the following:



My talented editor, Jennifer Pooley. Also at Morrow: Lisa Gallagher, Kevin Callahan, and Ben Bruton. I truly appreciate everything you do in publishing my work.

My agent and friend, Nick Ellison, and his terrific colleagues, Sarah Dickman and Marissa Matteo.

My early readers: Maura Greene, Daniel Greene, David Greene, Susan McCarthy, Jennifer O’Connor, Margaret Gendron, Judith Austin, Alex Lehmann, and Big Al Donovan.

Dr. Susan O’Doherty, who provided professional advice about psychology and the mental health system.

My parents, for their remarkable support. And my wife, Tia, my first editor, my best friend, the reader whose opinions matter to me above all others’.

And finally, to my daughter, Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. At six months old she cannot yet read my words. But her smile when she sees me would not only make the moon envious, it makes me want to write down every story I know, so that when she is old enough to read them, they will always be there.



About the Author


THOMAS CHRISTOPHER GREENE was born and raised in Worcester, Massachusetts. Educated at Hobart College and the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College, he is the author of Mirror Lake and I’ll Never Be Long Gone. He currently lives outside Montpelier, Vermont, with his wife, Tia, their infant daughter, and their three dogs.

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