A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt Page B

best way to overcome a lack of experience is to simply throw yourself into the trenches. You never know what you’re capable of until you’re pushed to it.”
    â€œBut…couldn’t we meet one more time before you go? So that I could fill you in on the details?”
    He frowned down at his engagement book, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully busy preparing for the trip.” He looked up, his face brightening. “Just trust your instincts, my dear. Psychotherapy isn’t as easy as knowing where to place the stitches or how to tie the knots. Sometimes you just have to feel your way.”
    I sat back in defeat, feeling as though the last lifeboat was floating away without me.
    â€œWith all due respect,” Mayhew said to the professor, “if she wants to eliminate the fabrication, she could try removing the patient’s uterus.”
    I barely suppressed a groan. The idea that hysterical fantasies could be triggered by nervous reflexes originating in the uterus had been almost universally discredited, the removal of the uterus having proved no more helpful than cauterization of the cervix, enlargement of the anus, or any of the other techniques that had been tried to stem the pathological flow of reflex from organs to the mind. Only a misogynist like Mayhew would cling to such an ineffectual solution.
    â€œI thought you believed the delusion grew out of her unconscious,” I said.
    He shrugged. “I do. But it’s telling, is it not, that hysterical fantasies are seen almost exclusively in females? I don’t believe we can rule out a physiological predisposition in the weaker sex.”
    Again, I looked to Professor Bogard, waiting for him to refute this drivel, but he was busy rifling through some papers on his desk. I turned back to Mayhew. “A hysterectomy strikes me as extreme, especially when we haven’t even established that we’re dealing with a fantasy.”
    â€œHaven’t we?” he asked, his eyes widening in surprise. “Why, I didn’t think any doubt remained.”
    I could feel myself succumbing to that state of mute humiliation I’d experienced so often in class, when he’d caught me with one of his barbs. But we weren’t in the classroom now, and there was too much at stake to let him bully me. “I still have doubts,” I said.
    â€œDo you really?” He folded his hands delicately in his lap. “Then I’m afraid we must conclude that your tender feminine heart has caused you to mistake a hysterical woman’s wishes for the truth.”
    The ratty tails of his mustache twitched with satisfaction, as I’d seen them twitch so many times before. This time, however, I couldn’t hold back the anger the sight provoked. “Or we could conclude that she’s telling the truth,” I blurted out, “and that you, having so little regard for either women or the truth, are unable to recognize it.”
    For one exultant moment, I reveled in the flush that mottled his face—before the realization of what I’d done came bearing down on me. The last thing I needed now was the enmity of my professional peers. We stared at each other, he in outrage, I in an agony of regret.
    The professor unknowingly broke the silence. “Here it is!” he exclaimed, pulling a sheaf of papers from under his pipe rack and holding it out to me over the desk. “This is for you. It’s my response to Pierre Janet’s Harvard lectures on the major states of hystericals.”
    Another research assignment. I reached for it with a leaden arm.
    â€œIt’s a bit rough, I know, but I was short on time. Most of the lecture material is reprinted in these.” He passed me a heavy stack of Journal de Psychologie back issues. “I’ve jotted down the basic points, but you should of course feel free to add your own ideas.”
    I balanced the journals on my lap