By Blood (18 page)

Oh, God! said the patient to her therapist. I’m sorry. Maybe this is too graphic?

(Not at all! I thought, to my disgrace.)

Of course not, dear, said the therapist. But I would only care to know—

(what happened next!)

—why you wish to tell me this. Why do you think it is important that I know you in this way?

The patient hummed; then was silent.

(In the quiet of this pause, I struggled to contain my excitement. The problem was not merely my tumescence, the possibility of a consequent need for repositioning, the sounds I might make. The problem was … oh, God … my shame. The person who had had the sexual encounter—please God, let me not demean her!—was my dear patient, whom I had come to love as a daughter.)

Said the patient at last: I think you will see what it means, if you let me go on.

Why, of course, said the doctor. It is not a question of “let.” Please go on as you will.

(I prayed again to God: Help me, remember she is the patient, my beloved patient, not like the others, nothing like them at all!)

Dorotea’s room was enormous, said the patient. A living room. Kitchen. Dining table with four armchairs.

How did you rate this? I asked her.

She turned, put her hand on the nape of my neck. Darling, she said with a laugh. I was just promoted to managing director. It was a horrible crawl. So let us not discuss this now. Except to say I at least get a suite.

I’m also … I am a “quant,” an econometrics analyst, I said.

So we are …

Together, I answered.

She laughed and touched my cheek. Instantly I knew I’d met a person of substance, said the patient. Her direct gaze. The forthrightness of her sex play in the pool—I knew it must have come from somewhere. Someone confident, substantial, accomplished.

And the obstacles you had to overcome, I said to her. As a  woman.

The bedroom is here, said Dorotea.

There was an enormous bed. A patio, its door open, sheer curtains floating up like they were breathing.

Yes, said Dorotea, as she stroked my face. As a woman, she said.

We turned, gazed at each other, inches apart. I said to her: Kissing is very important to me.

Now why would I say that? the patient asked Dr. Schussler. In the middle of … Why would it matter to talk about kissing?

As you said, replied the doctor. She was someone of substance, you sensed. As are you. Two women of substance. About to have sex.

There was a pause. Yes, said the patient. Yes. I suppose you’re right. I suppose that’s why I said to her:

Kissing is very important to me.

She replied by exploring my cheeks with her her lips—God! what succulent lips!—all around my mouth.

Sshh, Dorotea whispered. No more talking.

Our kiss was soft, exploratory. We pulled back, delayed; then kissed again, this time much more … urgently.

I don’t remember how this happened, said the patient, but at some point I tore off her robe, she tore down my bathing suit. Then we roamed our hands all over.

The patient looked again at Dorotea’s breasts, then at the rise of her belly, the dark ruff that hid between the swelling bell of her thighs. Now she could feel it: the soft density of her skin, the curve of her hip, the womanly weight of her backside, a soft layer over a hard-muscled core.

Suddenly Dorotea fell to her knees. (
A posture of subservience!
yelled Charlotte in the patient’s head.
Women should not do this!
) The patient’s bathing suit was still around one ankle when Dorotea took her ass in both hands (
Shut up, Charlotte!
), pulled her hips toward her, then drove the patient’s clitoris through those wax-red lips.

Oh, God! the patient moaned.

She had no choice but to yield to Dorotea’s plans, to the hands at her ass that were driving her forward, to those lips over her inner lips, the tongue that circled and licked and flicked. Dorotea pulled the patient’s hips forward, then pushed slightly back, forward and back, then around, and around again, so that the patient was performing a sort of belly dance, the performance all for the sake of Dorotea’s mouth.

Then suddenly the dance stopped.

Dorotea let go of her. The patient was so aroused, confused. She looked down.

But Dorotea did nothing, only sat there, five seconds, ten. Then she reached forward and gently spread the outer lips: The clitoris was now naked, exposed. It seemed to have grown, in sensation, to enormous size. The slight breeze teasing the surface was almost more than the patient could bear. Her legs trembled. Then Dorotea slowly licked the inner lips, around and around, and finally, slowly, circled the clitoris again.

Oh, my God! said the patient. I can’t stand it!

Dorotea took the clitoris back into her mouth, sucked it, flicked her tongue at it, fast, faster, a furious ululation: lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo …

The patient felt her insides contract. Tighter.

Tighter.

Until the muscles could hold no more.

And a wave of contractions moved through her; her entire pelvis: vibrating in time with Dorotea’s tongue.

Lo-lo-lo-lo-lo …

Finally, she was too sensitive—on the verge of pain. The patient cried out: Stop! Oh, stop! Don’t touch me anymore!

Dorotea stopped, but held on to her, both hands on her ass. And when the patient became still, Dorotea placed her tongue gently on the patient’s clitoris. Oh! the patient called out, as another wave of contractions began. Then another pause, another gentle touch of the tongue—Oh, God! She was still coming—pause, touch, pause, touch, contractions slowing each time, down and down to a single last one: Dorotea licking all the orgasms out of her.

She tumbled onto the bed.

And now you, said the patient after a few moments, reaching out for Dorotea.

Are you mad? said her friend. Enjoy. Rest. Recover. There is plenty of time. All night. Why don’t we shower, see what will happen then?

I nearly cried, the patient told Dr. Schussler. This was all I’d ever imagined in being with a woman. But all those years of obeying … what? Some proper way women were supposed to have sex. My turn, your turn. You haven’t even enjoyed your orgasm for a minute when it’s time to turn around and take care of her, pretend you’re still hot, excited, when all you feel is a longing to … enjoy, rest, see what will happen later.

The patient paused. A sob escaped her.

This means so much to you, said Dr. Schussler gently.

Oh, God. Yes.

She paused.

I was beginning to think I was not really a lesbian, since I didn’t really enjoy the sex. And now …

She sat quietly for some seconds then said:

We showered, played with the soap, emerged from the bathroom still half-wet and trembling. I made love to Dorotea as best I could, but I felt my lovemaking was crude compared to hers, inept, inexpert. The women I’d been with were like adolescents compared to her, still learning how to love. And here was this full-grown woman, free, open to receiving whatever I could give her. At that moment, I think I understood what a teenage boy must feel the first time he has sex with a real woman: a trembling, fumbling excitement.

We slept and then made love again, and again. Hands, mouths, positions, we tried all we could think of until we were exhausted. Finally we fell back on the bed, shouting: “No more! Don’t touch me! I can’t take any more!”

Hours later, Dorotea woke up, told me to sleep, she had to pack. She was leaving on a morning flight. She kissed me, left me her card, with a sexy note on the back.

You must have been disappointed, said the therapist.

By the note?

No, said the therapist. By her leaving.

There was a pause.

No, said the patient. I already knew she’d be leaving. Somewhere in the night we’d discussed it. We’d agreed we would see each other the next time Dorotea would be in San Francisco, which may or may not happen. I know how these things are. But the note … I was fine.

What was in the note? asked the therapist.

There was a pause.

Oh, said the patient. I don’t think I can say.

She paused again.

(In the silence, I struggled to keep myself from imagining what else the patient and Dorotea could do with their mouths, their hands, what positions and actions could be more than the patient could say.)

All right, said the therapist. I do not want to embarrass you.

The patient laughed.

This may not make sense to you, she said, but after I read the note, I fell back and touched the sheets, with all the evidence of our lovemaking, and right then—then—I decided I had to find my birth mother. Don’t you think that’s strange? the patient asked Dr. Schussler.

There was a long pause.

(I wanted to shout: Yes. It is strange. Do not do it! Only grief will come of it! Dr. Schussler is not up to the job of guiding you!)

I do not think it is strange at all, the doctor finally said.

(Damn you!)

I think you had found something you always hoped would exist, said the therapist. The sort of sex you imagined, wanted, then found. And with a woman like yourself: accomplished, in business, feminine, with no boundaries to her sexuality and lovemaking. So I would think it is not strange that you would take the leap to another longed-for hope.

A real mother, said the patient.

No, said the therapist. Your adoptive mother is real enough. What I meant was, to belong somewhere, to feel you belong, to someone you want, who also wants you.

She did not want you! I wanted to scream. Your birth mother did not want you! If she had wanted you, you would be with her today!

What was Dr. Schussler thinking? She was leading the patient to disaster! The doctor’s family story had compromised her; she should have recused herself, no matter the temporary setback for the patient. In a few months, a new, better analyst would take the patient across this bridge; would guide her away from this dangerous search for “blood.” Or, if the patient shunned therapy—a superior option!—she would find a new lover, someone like the stunning Dorotea, whose lovemaking would be so overwhelming, so physical and delightful, so “animal” (as she had put it), that the patient could not possibly see it as a metaphor for her perfect, lost mother. Given such sex, “mother” would be the last word that would come to mind!

But now … the die was cast, was set in stone … all the expressions of regretful permanence whispered themselves in my ear. In the weeks that followed, I was forced to listen as the patient imagined the path to her birth mother, wondered over its possibility, the method of finding her, who might have the records, and who, having the information, would indeed reveal it.

I trembled at her determination. But then, to my relief, I saw that the patient’s research skills were undeveloped. This brilliant woman who could tease meaning from masses of financial data: utterly at sea in the face of archives. Oh, these poor latter-day graduates who have never read Greek or Latin; who look up dumbly if you mention a Latin root in English; who read the corrections in the margins of their papers but still cannot fathom the difference between transitive and intransitive verbs—never mind their total ignorance of the delicious subtleties awaiting them in the subjunctive mood! With such a poverty of language, how can they reap the riches of the library? One surely must pity these deprived Masters of Business Administration, sent out into the world without an understanding of card catalogues.

The patient’s first effort was sorrowfully naïve: a call to the Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago.
Please could someone tell me who can answer
my questions about adoptions of baptized Jewish children after the war?
—as if they would possibly reveal their nefarious plan, if indeed anyone there even knew about the plot. Did she think someone would contact her to say, Yes, dear, we have a list right here of the Jewish children stolen from their parents? She called four times, on each occasion being directed elsewhere. She wrote several letters. There were no replies but one: “I am not certain where you heard about such events,” said the letter writer, one Father Joseph, “but they have no basis in fact.”

This written denial led her to question the story her mother had told her, which in turn led to several anguished sessions during which she related painful phone conversations, her mother at first helpful, reiterating details she had previously relayed, adding only inconsequential elaborations: the color of her father’s suit on the day her mother had uncovered the file, an elaborate seal on the birth document with the letters
H.S.
But then a cold curtain fell. “Mother” reverted to the woman who, confronted with the unpleasant topic of her daughter’s homosexuality, had slammed down her teacup to say, We will not discuss this! We will say nothing more about the adoption. I have told you all I know. And I expect you will not put this matter before me again!

Oddly, the patient obeyed. She stopped calling her mother for information. Odder still, she complied with her mother’s demand that “You will not tell Father!” She wrote letters to every Catholic adoption agency still extant in the Chicago area but did not call her mother and father to learn more about her origins. It was as if she had severed her emotional connection with her adoptive parents. My poor patient! She was cut adrift. Her parents were no longer her parents; her girlfriend Charlotte was gone (along with all her Holly Near posters, said the patient); she worked ten hours a day, went home, slept a little, and repeated the schedule. Weekends for a while were filled with compulsively scheduled dinners and movies; then, as the patient wearied of her plan-making, she had little but an empty apartment and lonely hours.

I maintained only one hope for the patient: that she would abandon the idea of finding her “birth mother.” How I wished she could see herself as made from whole cloth—as the self-created creature I’d hoped to follow into my own release from ancestry. This she might have achieved if that damned Dora Schussler were better at her job. But the therapist did not have the skills to bring the patient across to the other shore. Her patient was therefore caught in a downstream current, flowing relentlessly toward one goal—finding her “true” mother—and its corollary: the possibility of being loved by her. I believed this goal to be a disastrous one, as I have said; I thought it would merely bring the patient under the tyranny of another set of parental needs and desires—tie her through the horrible, placental prerogatives of blood.

The sessions wore themselves away. February rains battered us; March was moody, humid for San Francisco, seeping into our seams until life itself seemed bloated and gray.

Then a literal hood was drawn over us. The OPEC oil crisis had panicked the nation. Ostensibly to save fuel, President Ford had ordered that daylight savings time should begin two months early. And so we moved our clocks ahead while still in winter light. All of us on the N Judah at 7:30 in the morning found ourselves in the lingering dark, our bodies and senses telling us everything was wrong, the light was wrong, the very earth itself was out of kilter, the axis not yet tilting toward spring. We might try to convince ourselves that life was getting better—last year, under the now banished President Nixon, we were forced into daylight savings in January. But the wrongness of the sky prevailed over everyone’s mood. To live under this pall of darkness made us all feel impoverished: beggars shivering in the black morning, paupers in the cold dark.

Meanwhile I listened to the patient’s sessions in a growing state of terror—yes, terror overtook me. She was alone, vulnerable, unloved. She had licked clean the happiness of her one night with Dorotea (so to speak). And her path to her “birth mother” seemed hopelessly closed.

So of course they came, the crows, fluttering at our windows in the last of the rains; banging at the glass with the forces of the wind; rattling our tender doors—depression’s ministers, sucking away the ancient cool core of the building. This time, however, they came not for me but for my dear patient.

She must abandon this fruitless search for her mother! I thought. There was no other way to drive out the creatures! But she did not, could not. She went on contacting this agency and that, to no avail. The pecked-out days went on, week after week. The Furies kept chattering through the voices of our trembling doors, through the rattling of our windows.

And finally I could bear no longer the patient’s suffering. I could not stand this death-in-life. She was to be my icon, my champion. And the more mired she became in the muck into which Dr. Schussler had shucked her, the more determined I became to save her. She would not abandon her search; the doctor could not guide her. Now only I could help.

I could not let the monsters get her! I would not let them in! I was a professor; I had research skills. I reasoned that I could learn much more than could my dear patient, even given the sparse nature of our clues.

Therefore my project was launched. There was no choice, I thought; I could not just sit and listen. I had to abet the search for the birth mother.

My new hope was to find her dead.