A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt

line of thinking, “but he only came to the parish a few years ago. I assume he arrived after the daughter was born.”
    â€œOr the whole birth story is a hysterical fantasy,” Mayhew persisted. “You did consider the possibility?”
    I felt a flush creeping up my temples. “I saw nothing in her file or in her interactions with me to suggest such a thing.”
    â€œThat might indicate more a failure of observation than a refutation of the fact, might it not?” he asked with a shrug.
    â€œYou say her son suffocated while she was taking a bath,” Professor Bogard broke in, seemingly oblivious to Mayhew’s needling.
    â€œYes,” I told him. “That’s in Reverend Palmer’s records.”
    He drummed his fingers over his waistcoat. “From what the Reverend told you about the hours she spends in church, I think we can safely say she holds herself responsible for the death.”
    â€œI expect that’s true,” I agreed.
    â€œOne can only imagine the pain such a belief would cause,” he went on. “It could, quite literally, become unbearable. In such a case, the fantasy of another, living child might provide some relief.”
    I sat slowly back in my seat.
    â€œThe doctor’s involvement is a nice touch,” Mayhew said. “She doesn’t just give the baby up; it’s taken from her forcibly, leaving her helpless and therefore, in this scenario, blameless.”
    I didn’t know whether to be intrigued or horrified by their suggestion. If there really was no baby girl, then there was no reason for Eliza to have killed the doctor. At least, no rational reason. But then again, if she believed there was a baby, I supposed the result might have been the same. It would all depend on the power and persistence of the fantasy. “Surely, Professor, it would be difficult for her to maintain such a fantasy if all those around her knew it to be untrue,” I ventured. “She’d have to doubt its reality on some level, wouldn’t she?”
    â€œTo the contrary,” Mayhew answered, stroking his mustache. “To her, it would be very real indeed. The greater her guilt, the more energy she would have to invest in the defense against it. The mind, Dr. Summerford, is more complex than you give it credit for.”
    Still addressing Professor Bogard, I persisted, “But what if a key player in the fantasy were to repudiate it? What if she confronted the doctor, for example, and he insisted that none of it had ever happened? Might that be sufficient to pierce the hysterical belief?”
    â€œNot necessarily,” Bogard replied. “The fantasy would be protecting her from powerful feelings of guilt and incompetence—providing a relief valve, as it were. It wouldn’t be easy to dispel. If one were to try without defusing those emotions first…” He shook his head.
    â€œWhat? What would happen then?”
    He shrugged. “Who knows? Let’s just say it would be best not to find out.” He must have sensed my distress, for he added in a not unkindly tone, “You must be patient, my dear. I know the desire to see immediate results when you’re just starting out can be very strong, but overnight cures are rare in our line of work. You have to uncover the underlying complex before the symptoms will disappear. Take your time, and get to know the patient in your weekly sessions. That’s where the cure will take place.”
    I don’t think he could have made me feel worse if he had tried. It had never occurred to me that Eliza’s story might all be a hysterical fantasy. If they were right, then Dr. Hauptfuhrer was completely blameless—and my own failure all the more glaring. “But what if she really did have another child?” I pleaded.
    â€œLet’s examine that possibility, shall we?” Bogard said brightly, as though we were in class and this was all just some