LITMIR.BIZ

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seven months later, he still hadn’t said a word. His mother, frantic with worry, was herself suffering from insomnia, chronic nausea, and other post-traumatic symptoms, which her psychiatrist had been trying for months to alleviate through the right combination of brightly colored pills. But wasn’t hers a perfectly normal reaction to watching a pizza parlor in downtown Jerusalem, on a hot summer day, suddenly explode into flames?

      At 6:00 I thought I could finally call it a day, but the receptionists had wasted no time scheduling in extra patients, vengefully taking advantage of my predicament. They had assigned me a new patient, of all things, to the 6:00 hour. I hadn’t done an intake in months—if she showed, it would mean reams of paperwork. And, as Jezebel had made abundantly clear, I’d have to complete it, too.

      I petitioned whatever gods might be up there for reprieve, but being the confirmed atheist I was, my plea to the heavens was duly unheard. About ten minutes into the hour, just after I had successfully flung a rubber band over the engraved, ornamental quill pen Yudit had bought me for my forty-fifth birthday, a woman barged into the room. Why hadn’t the receptionist called to tell me she was here? I flung my legs off the desk, knocking a few more charts onto the floor, but she didn’t notice a thing. She was in full story before I’d even stood up.

      “Dr. Benami? Thank God, I finally have someone to talk to.” She was untangling herself from a huge, fringed shawl that wrapped her head like a mummy, talking all the while. “You can’t imagine what it’s like being followed all the time. I can’t take it anymore.” The tears were already starting to spring up—another desperate, weepy broad.

      “Excuse me, but did you sign in with the receptionist? I’ll be needing the intake forms, and—”

      “I was so late, I didn’t want to wait in line,” she said impatiently. Her eyes flicked around the room and finally landed on me, round and dark. “His crazy friends are stalking me again. I have to dodge them whenever I leave the house, taking roundabout routes through back alleys. That’s why I’m late wherever I go, but otherwise they follow me and harass me, you have no idea what it’s like.” She paused to push a long strand of curly black hair out of her face, fixing me with a stare. “You have to forgive me, Doctor, and you such a busy man. I know, they told me—the chief psychologist! They must realize what a tough case this is—everyone in Jerusalem knows about me.” And with this she sunk into my recliner, the tears beginning to gush.

      “I’m afraid you’re sitting in my chair. The patient usually sits—”

      “I know how busy you are, Doctor, but you have to help me!” She launched into another tirade but was so blubbery with tears I couldn’t understand a word. Grandiose, paranoid, hysterical—it was going to be a long hour. I reconciled myself to the stiff couch, a stranger in my own office, noticing that the piles of charts on my desk looked particularly precarious from the patients’ angle. Probably not the most reassuring sight—I made a mental note to at least arrange them into neat stacks. The woman was going on and on, sniffling and blowing her nose, complaining about her husband. Another miserable, tortured relationship. I’d heard the routine countless times from every possible angle. But this was an intake, I reminded myself; I’d have to settle her down and get at least a few details if that paperwork would ever get done. I could always pick up the forms from the receptionist at the end of the session.

      “Uh, Mrs. . . ”

      “Tzur. But please, call me Israela. Everyone does.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears, muddy brown pools of desperation.

      She would have once been an olive-toned beauty. She was still attractive, but her face was prematurely etched with worry lines. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Slim, still dressing like a hippie, in bangles and gold chains and flowing skirts, layers of flouncy material, laced leather sandals. I wondered if she shaved her legs under those billowing skirts; these gypsy types often didn’t. She had dark, curly hair, long and wild, glinted with silver streaks. Her eyes were her most striking feature, large and soupy. And she was built, with full breasts straining at her white, cotton blouse. But there was something peculiar about the way she held herself, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it . . .

      “Doctor, what do you think I should do?” She was staring at me intently.

      “Well, Mrs . . . uh . . . Israela, I think it’s way too soon to start talking about solutions. I’ll need to know a lot more about you before I have any idea how I might be able to help. This is an intake session, which means we’re here to gather lots of information: what the problem is, when it began, your early history. Based on what I learn, we’ll formulate a treatment plan. I know you’re upset right now, but why don’t you see if you can tell me in a few words what problem brought you here today.”

      She reached an arm out to pluck another tissue from the box, then grimaced in pain, rubbing the side of her neck with the other hand.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “The muscles go into spasm when I’m upset,” she said, massaging her neck with her left hand as she dried her eyes with the right. “My husband complains about it all the time. He thinks I do it on purpose, for sympathy, or as an excuse not to listen to him. But that’s totally unfair. It just happens whenever I get upset.”

      This threatened to release a new wave of sobs. I went to my desk, picked up a notebook and pen, and sat back down on the edge of the couch. “Israela,” I said in a firm tone. “Why don’t you tell me, as clearly and succinctly as you can, what makes you seek treatment at this time.”

      She calmed down instantly. The paper and pen was a great trick, I’d found. Helped even the most histrionic women focus, at least for a little while.

      “Well, like I was telling you, my husband, he’s the center of my life. He’s everything to me. But the truth is, he doesn’t treat me very well.”

      “In what way?” I jotted a note, then let the pen hover over the paper for effect.

      “It’s not his fault, really. He’s very insecure, that’s all.”

      “And how does he show that insecurity?”

      Her eyes were darting around the room, the telltale sign of a battered wife. I’d bet my last shekel she was another bruised-up woman about to protect her beloved abuser.

      “Well, for one thing, he’s very secretive. He’s almost never home, but even when he is, he sneaks around like a thief.” She sighed deeply. “He doesn’t like showing his face.”

      “He’s that shy?” I asked.

      “Oh no, not at all. He’s just . . . well . . . sensitive.”

      Yeah, right. So sensitive he’d probably kick her around the room if she happened to be standing in the way.

      “I see. And does he show this ‘sensitivity’ in other ways as well?”

      “Yes, well . . . he can be very jealous. He’s always imagining that I’m having affairs. He even brags about how jealous he is to his friends, as if it were proof of how much he loves me.”

      I made my voice soft and sympathetic. “Does he threaten you?”

      “Well, sometimes, I guess.” The tears were welling up, but this time she fought to keep them down. “Yes,” she whispered, “he threatens me a lot.”

      “What does he threaten you with?”

      “Oh, terrible things. How he’ll hurt me, humiliate me, destroy our house. But not directly, he never threatens me directly.”

      “What do you mean?” I asked.

      “Well, like I said, he’s hardly ever around. Months can go by and not even a word from him. He doesn’t call, doesn’t tell me where he is. So he sends messages, through his friends, the ones who are stalking me.”

      “Threatening messages?”

      She nodded, absentmindedly rubbing her neck.

      “Have you ever reported these stalkers

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