On a Beam of Light Read Free

famous carrot-and-stick routine.”
    “You could call it that. All right. This is my last question for today, but I want you to think about it before you answer. ” He broke into another gigantic yawn.
    “While you’re here, will you help me make Robert feel better? Will you help him deal with his feelings of worthlessness and despair?”
    “I’ll do what I can. But you know how he is. “
    “Good. That’s all anyone can do. Now—any objection to my trying hypnosis again during our next session?”
    “You never give up, do you, doc?”
    “We try not to. ” I stood up. “Thank you for coming in, prot. It’s good to see you again. ” I went over and shook his hand. If he was still weak it didn’t show in his handshake. “Shall I call Mr. Kowalski, or can you find your way back to your room?”
    “It’s not that difficult, gino. “
    “We’ll move you back to Ward Two tomorrow. “
    “Good old ward two. “
    “See you Wednesday. “
    He threw me a backward wave as he shuffled out.
    After prot had gone I listened, with mixed feelings of excitement and trepidation, to the tape of this brief session. Given enough time I was sure I could help Robert overcome the barriers blocking his recovery. But how much time would we have? In 1990 we were faced with a deadline that forced me to take chances, to hurry things too much. Now I was confronted with an even worse dilemma: I hadn’t the slightest idea how long prot would be around.
    The only clue I had was his passive response to my suggestion of thrice-weekly sessions. If he were planning to leave within a few days he would undoubtedly have responded with, “They’d better be productive!” or some such remark. But I could be wrong about that, as I have been about so many things where prot was concerned.
    In any case three weekly sessions were all I could manage. Though I wouldn’t be teaching during the fall term, there were other unavoidable responsibilities, not the least of which were my other patients, all difficult and puzzling cases, each deserving of my best efforts. One of these was a young woman I call Frankie (after the old song “Frankie and Johnny Were Lovers”), who is not only unable to love another human being but doesn’t even understand the concept. Another was Bert, a loan officer at a bank, who spends all his waking hours searching for something he has lost, though he hasn’t a clue as to what it is.
    But back to prot. During the previous five years there had been ample opportunity to discuss his case with colleagues, both at MPI and around the world. There were no end of suggestions about how to deal with my problem patient. For example, one doctor from a former Soviet state assured me that Robert would be quickly cured by immersing him in ice water for several hours a day, a useless and inhumane practice that became obsolete decades ago. The consensus, however, was that hypnosis was still probably the best approach for Robert/prot, and I planned to begin essentially where I had left off in 1990. That is, to try to coax Robert out of his protective shell so I could help him deal with his devastating feelings about the tragic events of 1985.
    In this effort I badly needed prot’s help. Without it, I felt the chances for recovery were sum. Thus, I was faced with another quandary: If Robert were to get well, prot would have to “dissolve” into, and become part of, his personality. How willing would he be to play a role in Robert’s treatment and recovery if it came about at the expense of his own existence?
    On Friday, the day after prot’s return, I had called Giselle Griffin, the reporter who had been so instrumental in tracking down Robert’s origins, to tell her he was back. She had come in regularly since prot’s departure five years ago, ostensibly to check on Robert’s progress, but secretly, I think, hoping to find that prot had returned, for she had fallen in love with him during the months she had spent at the hospital