The Rules of Dreaming Read Online Free
Author: Bruce Hartman
Hunter said.
Morgan stood up and asked me nervously, “When is Dr. Palmer coming back?”
“He should be back by Friday.”
I rose to leave and Morgan followed me out of the dimly-lighted lounge. “Say, Dr. Hoffmann”—he lowered his voice—“has anything unusual been going on? With the twins, I mean.”
Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. I had sensed an air of malaise, even menace, in the past few days, as if something monstrous had happened or was about to happen. I was careful not to mention Hunter’s piano playing. “Nothing really. I think Hunter’s a little tired this morning. You’re right—it’s very hot in here. I think the air conditioning needs adjustment.”
He squinted at me skeptically. “All right then. I’ll talk to Dr. Palmer on Friday.”
That night Hunter sat down to play the piano for the second time. It sounded like the same frenetic piece he’d played before, though I couldn’t be sure. Again, after about ten minutes he suddenly broke off playing and rushed out of the lounge without a backward glance. From the next room I could see Nicole sitting beside the piano, recording the performance on a portable cassette recorder. When it was over she applauded with the rest of the audience, kissed Antonia good night and left the room with her tape recorder.
It was Nicole’s last night at the Institute. Why had she taped the music? Was it just a keepsake, or did she have some other purpose in mind? I stopped at the office on the way back to my room and checked the schedule to find out when I would be seeing her again.
I spent the rest of the week anxiously awaiting Dr. Palmer’s return from San Francisco. Not that I was worried or upset by the prospect of his return, but listening to the paranoid Gottlieb had set my mind on edge. What would he say about my decision to reduce the dosages of Hunter’s medications? I knew he would question me closely. Miles Palmer had been one of the leaders of the movement that finally succeeded in consigning Freudianism and similar theories to the dustbin of history, and he was committed to the view that human behavior is ultimately a biological phenomenon. But this, in my opinion, does not mean that every patient should be dosed with an escalating regimen of chemical agents whose effects are still poorly understood. I felt confident that even if Dr. Palmer disagreed with my ideas, he would do so in a way that wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship. He was a compassionate physician, a fair-minded boss and altogether the most generous spirit I had encountered in the psychiatric field. Since I did not consider myself guilty of “heresy,” as Gottlieb had foolishly suggested, I had nothing to fear from his reaction. I could only assume that when he returned we would have a rational discussion of the pros and cons of reducing the dosages. And in the meantime there were some issues in my own life that I had to deal with.
Chapter 3
Dubin’s investigation had begun by chance, as such things almost always did. One steamy afternoon in August, cruising the shady back roads in his BMW convertible, he discovered an area where a steep barrier of hills had unaccountably turned the tide of suburban sprawl. Here they still had woods and fields, brooks and ponds, family farms and secluded estates—it was amazing to think that such a place could still exist a little more than two hours from New York—and before long he found himself in a quaint little town he’d never heard of. It was called Egdon and it had no gas stations, no bars, no fast food—in fact, none of the emblems of modern life other than a famous psychiatric institute—but it did have a small public library housed in a tiny brick building on one end of the main street. In that library he came under close inspection by the town librarian. Her name, as he later learned, was Miss Francine Whipple and she was
Morgan stood up and asked me nervously, “When is Dr. Palmer coming back?”
“He should be back by Friday.”
I rose to leave and Morgan followed me out of the dimly-lighted lounge. “Say, Dr. Hoffmann”—he lowered his voice—“has anything unusual been going on? With the twins, I mean.”
Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. I had sensed an air of malaise, even menace, in the past few days, as if something monstrous had happened or was about to happen. I was careful not to mention Hunter’s piano playing. “Nothing really. I think Hunter’s a little tired this morning. You’re right—it’s very hot in here. I think the air conditioning needs adjustment.”
He squinted at me skeptically. “All right then. I’ll talk to Dr. Palmer on Friday.”
That night Hunter sat down to play the piano for the second time. It sounded like the same frenetic piece he’d played before, though I couldn’t be sure. Again, after about ten minutes he suddenly broke off playing and rushed out of the lounge without a backward glance. From the next room I could see Nicole sitting beside the piano, recording the performance on a portable cassette recorder. When it was over she applauded with the rest of the audience, kissed Antonia good night and left the room with her tape recorder.
It was Nicole’s last night at the Institute. Why had she taped the music? Was it just a keepsake, or did she have some other purpose in mind? I stopped at the office on the way back to my room and checked the schedule to find out when I would be seeing her again.
I spent the rest of the week anxiously awaiting Dr. Palmer’s return from San Francisco. Not that I was worried or upset by the prospect of his return, but listening to the paranoid Gottlieb had set my mind on edge. What would he say about my decision to reduce the dosages of Hunter’s medications? I knew he would question me closely. Miles Palmer had been one of the leaders of the movement that finally succeeded in consigning Freudianism and similar theories to the dustbin of history, and he was committed to the view that human behavior is ultimately a biological phenomenon. But this, in my opinion, does not mean that every patient should be dosed with an escalating regimen of chemical agents whose effects are still poorly understood. I felt confident that even if Dr. Palmer disagreed with my ideas, he would do so in a way that wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship. He was a compassionate physician, a fair-minded boss and altogether the most generous spirit I had encountered in the psychiatric field. Since I did not consider myself guilty of “heresy,” as Gottlieb had foolishly suggested, I had nothing to fear from his reaction. I could only assume that when he returned we would have a rational discussion of the pros and cons of reducing the dosages. And in the meantime there were some issues in my own life that I had to deal with.
Chapter 3
Dubin’s investigation had begun by chance, as such things almost always did. One steamy afternoon in August, cruising the shady back roads in his BMW convertible, he discovered an area where a steep barrier of hills had unaccountably turned the tide of suburban sprawl. Here they still had woods and fields, brooks and ponds, family farms and secluded estates—it was amazing to think that such a place could still exist a little more than two hours from New York—and before long he found himself in a quaint little town he’d never heard of. It was called Egdon and it had no gas stations, no bars, no fast food—in fact, none of the emblems of modern life other than a famous psychiatric institute—but it did have a small public library housed in a tiny brick building on one end of the main street. In that library he came under close inspection by the town librarian. Her name, as he later learned, was Miss Francine Whipple and she was
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