Goodnight Beautiful(68)
“Bottom line,” Albert says, “I wholeheartedly agree with the diagnosis you came to regarding this patient. What we’re looking at here is a textbook case of an adult with an attachment disorder. In fact, I would be a bit more specific and say that he has many of the qualities of an anxious-preoccupied adult.”
“Really?” Sam sighs, feigning great relief. “Good. Walk me through it. From the beginning.”
“Well.” Albert opens his notebook. “As you know, because of an infant’s inability to survive on its own, every child is born with a primitive drive to get their needs met by their primary caregivers, usually their parents. This is called attachment theory. Infants who feel safe develop secure attachments. Those who do not, like our patient, develop insecure attachments. As adults they tend to be highly anxious, have a negative self-image, act impulsively, and live with a fear of rejection so severe it can sometimes be debilitating. This can go on to have a significant impact on the relationships they develop as adults.”
“In what ways?” Sam asks.
“I made a list.” Albert pulls a sheet of paper from his notebook. “Should I read it?”
“Please.”
“One: anxious-preoccupied adults behave in ways that seem desperate and insecure, at times controlling,” he reads. “Two: because they lacked security as an infant, they demand constant reassurance that they are special to their partner, in an attempt to allay their anxiety. Three: they believe their partner will ‘rescue’ or ‘complete’ them, a wish that is impossible for another person to fulfill.” He places the paper in his lap. “As you can see, even as they seek closeness and a sense of safety by clinging to their partner, their desperate actions actually push their partner away.” Albert frowns. “It’s quite sad, the reasons he’s like this.”
Sam clears his throat. “Are you talking about his childhood?”
“Yes. His mother died in childbirth, and he was left with an emotionally distant father who rarely showed him attention, let alone affection,” Albert says. “Of course he’s going to have insecure attachments as an adult.”
“That’s right.” Sam points at Albert and nods. “I forgot that part about his mother. How old was he when she died?”
“Six days old.”
“Man, that’s rough.” He shakes his head. “Remind me again: What was the cause of her death?”
Albert cocks his head, stumped. “Not sure I remember.” He licks a finger and flips backward in the notebook. “Here it is. ‘Mother, cause of death.’ Oh.” He frowns. “You left that blank.”
“Did I?” Sam says. “Let me see.” He opens the drawer of the table next to him and removes the notebook, impressed by the steadiness of his hand. “Place of birth, Chicago,” Sam murmurs, reading from his notes. “Oh—” He points at something on the page and makes a show of surprise. “I got it wrong. This patient’s mother didn’t die in childbirth.”
“She didn’t?” Albert asks.
“No. She lived until she was sixty-seven. Rather, she was forced to give him up for adoption when he was six days old, to a couple in Wayne, Indiana. Her name was Agatha Lawrence, and she was your biological mother.” Sam closes his notebook and looks Albert in the eye. “The patient we’re talking about is you, Albert. Or should I call you Beautiful?”
Chapter 49
I reel back. “How did you—”
“You wanted me to know,” Dr. Statler explains, leaning back in his chair.
“No, I—”
“Come on, Albert.” He laughs. “It’s psych 101 stuff. You put me in a closet with your birth story. It was your unconscious mind at work, seeking my help.”
“No it wasn’t.” I stand up. “I have to go.”
“Sit down, Albert. We’re going to talk.”
I hesitate, and then take my seat again, hands clenched.
“If it’s okay, I’d like to ask you some questions.” Dr. Statler flips to a clean page and clicks his pen. “When and how did you learn Agatha Lawrence was your biological mother?”
I hesitate, count to ten. Do it: tell him. “Last year,” I say. “When I received a letter from an attorney in New York.” I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating sparerib tips and white rice from a Styrofoam container. I’m sorting the mail and waiting for Jeopardy! to begin when I come across the silky linen stationery with the attorney’s logo at the top. “‘Dear Mr. Bitterman,’” I say out loud to Sam, reciting the letter. “‘Our firm has been retained to locate you, regarding a critical family matter.’ They invited me to their office in Manhattan to discuss it in person. Offered to pay my way.” He’s watching me, intent. “First class on Amtrak.”
“What did you think when you read this letter?”
“I thought it was a scam,” I say. “One of those Nigerian princes out to get my last thousand dollars. The only family I had left was my father, assuming he’s still alive, and if he wanted to contact me, all he had to do was respond to the Christmas card I send him every year.” The phone is heavy in my hands, the TV on mute, the faint scent of fried food from Happy Chinese downstairs as I dial the phone number printed on the letterhead. “A woman lawyer answered the phone when I called,” I tell Dr. Statler. “I asked her if this was some sort of joke, and she said she’d prefer we speak in person. She sounded serious.”