The Lobotomist's Wife(56)

Ruth paused, looking at the list on her desk before taking in the man sitting before her. He was dressed, as always, in a sports coat and slacks, his tie complementing the muted palette of browns and beiges he favored. His personality matched his style—even-tempered, diligent, and thorough. He was a good man. In the several years he had worked for Ruth, he had always treated her with complete deference and respect, in spite of the fact that she knew it must be difficult for a man in their field to have a female superior. She believed him to be someone of strong moral character who genuinely cared for the hospital’s patients, entirely unlike the scoundrel who had held the position before him. Still, she was nervous to ask him for what she needed today.

“Mr. Mandrake, I have a research project for you.” She watched him perk up attentively. “It is a bit of a delicate one.” Jeremy had developed a strong working relationship with several members of the hospital’s board, something Ruth herself had encouraged, but now she needed him to help her collect information in strict confidence. She believed she had his loyalty, but if she was wrong, it could jeopardize her whole career. Still, she needed these answers, and she couldn’t get them alone. He was the only person at the hospital with the access and understanding to help her. She had to trust him.

“Of course. What can I help you with, Mrs. Apter?” He held his pen at the ready, pad in his lap.

“Well, I’ve just visited with a patient of ours who had a lobotomy a few years ago.”

“Yes, there are quite a few of those in our long-term care wards these days.”

Ruth flinched. “I think it’s time for us to do a bit of an analysis on them, well, on lobotomy.” She paused, looking at Jeremy to see if this idea elicited any reaction in him. His expression, thankfully, remained unchanged. “I’d like you to collect the patient results from a good representative sample of the past few years. Visit with the ones who are still here, interview the doctors responsible for their current care, and if you can, contact the ones who have been discharged. I want to gather enough data to do a proper analysis of the spectrum of outcomes.” Suddenly Jeremy Mandrake’s face contorted into a look of confusion.

“You want me to do an efficacy report on lobotomy? I’m happy to do it, of course, but it will take some time to pull this together properly and . . . I assumed you have plenty of these from Dr. Apter?” Ruth froze momentarily, feeling goose pimples forming on her arms and the back of her neck.

“Robert keeps copious notes on all his patients. But I want something with more of an administrative bent. So I can tie outcomes to the hospital’s financial results. I will involve Robert if necessary.”

“I see. All right then.” Jeremy nodded.

“And, Mr. Mandrake, this is of high priority. I might like to include it in the May report for the board if you can get it finished by then. Please come straight to me with your findings. We can decide together the best way to present it to other constituencies. If there is anything interesting to present.” She didn’t want to sound too desperate.

“Of course.” Jeremy scribbled a few more notes on his pad and then stood up. “If there isn’t anything else, I can go get started on this immediately.”

“Terrific. Oh, just one more thing.” Ruth tore the paper from her pad and handed it to him. “I made a list of patients I would love to have included in the report, some of the early transorbital recipients. Hopefully they won’t be too hard to track down.”

“Very good. Shouldn’t be a problem, although it might take some time, slow things down a bit.”

“I understand. Still, I think it will be important to include them if we can. Thank you. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”





Chapter Thirty-Two


Margaret sat in her usual seat in Dr. Apter’s office, noticing the shadows cast by the bright spring sunshine streaming through the window. In the months she had been coming here, the place had become comfortingly familiar.

“How have you been?” Dr. Apter asked once she was finally settled, legs delicately crossed at the ankles, feet tucked under the sofa.

“All right, I suppose.” She began fidgeting with the folds of her pleated skirt. Should she tell him? This seemed like such a repetitive conversation at this point.

He sat quietly, watching her. She hated these awkward silences. She knew he would let her sit this way for the entire session if she didn’t speak again. But what could she say? She removed a cigarette from her purse. As she inhaled to light it, he suddenly spoke. “Do you really feel all right? I don’t think I believe that.”

She was momentarily stunned. How did he see her so clearly? “I don’t know, Doctor. I just . . .” She couldn’t say it.

“You just what?”

“I just don’t think I’m getting better.” She shivered, shocked that she had said this out loud. And then the tears started forming. Her nose pricked. She was furious with herself. If she started crying, she wouldn’t stop. She could finally drive herself here and needed to remain composed enough to get herself back home.

“What is it that you are expecting to feel? What will tell you that you are ‘better’?”

She didn’t know how to answer that question. She had expected that things would start to change. That she wouldn’t feel devastated and empty when William was asleep, and then miserable and put out the minute he awoke. She expected her saggy belly to tighten and her bust to perk back up—for her body to be as it was before. That’s what had happened after John and Maisy were born. She expected not to feel filled with hatred for her husband every time he came home from a satisfying day at the store, where he scraped together enough extra money for this therapy that was supposed to be helping.