Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [97]
“What in the world for? I just got off the plane.”
“Dyan, the time has come for some professional help.”
“Professional help for what?”
“For our relationship.”
“Okay then, are you coming?”
“No, I’m not. Mortimer has recommended a psychotherapist and I think it’s very important that you spend some time with him. I’ve been on the phone with him myself, and I have to say I’m very impressed. This man, Bernard Martin, has broken new ground in the field, and Mortimer says he’s the best in the business.” Cary went on. “I wouldn’t have you bother with any of the garden-variety shrinks.”
“If this is for our relationship, then why would I need professional help more than you do?”
“Mortimer helps me with my issues with LSD therapy. But you’ve made it very clear that that’s not for you.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Cary was indeed doing LSD with his mahatma. I didn’t want to do LSD with his mahatma. I didn’t want to leave Jennifer either. I told him I wouldn’t go without her, and if I couldn’t take her, then I wasn’t going. Cary insisted that it wasn’t practical since I’d be having daylong sessions with the doctor and that I needed to keep my attention solely on that. We argued over that one for a while, and finally I caved because I felt it would be best not to put Jennifer through the disruption of the trip.
“When do I leave?” I asked with a long sigh.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Cary, that’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry for springing it on you like this, but this is the only week Dr. Martin will have time. He’s extremely busy, and he’s cleared his schedule just for you. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t want you dwelling on it while you were in Portland.”
Cary had called his friend Johnny Maschio and asked if his wife, Connie Moore, would be willing to go with me to New York. I didn’t know Connie very well. She wasn’t a close friend, but I liked her a lot, though it was odd that Cary would choose someone I hardly knew to accompany me on the Journey to the Center of My Mind. So Connie made the Sunday afternoon flight from L.A. to New York with me. At first it was a little awkward for both of us, but we soon got comfortable with each other.
That night we checked into the Sherry-Netherland Hotel, on Central Park, and the next morning, just before ten, I went to my appointment with Dr. Bernard Martin. He was in his early forties, with a voluminous body and a little head. I kept wanting to call him Dr. Pillsbury, after the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“Let’s get started,” he said. The fact that he had cleared his schedule for me made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know very much about psychotherapy, but something seemed amiss with the idea of being head-bombed for a whole week straight. If I really had that many bats in my belfry, it seemed like I ought to either be kept in a cage or rent my brain out to science.
I arrived in the morning and stayed as long as I could tolerate it. Sometimes the sessions were so draining that I’d have to break after an hour or two and walk around Central Park for a while to air out before we resumed. At other times we talked straight through the day into early evening.
Naturally, we talked about my childhood, and Dr. Martin alternately seemed deeply disappointed and downright put out that I would not own up to any mind-shattering childhood trauma. Naturally, we rehashed the history of my relationship with Cary. Not so naturally, he seemed to know a whole hell of a lot about my marriage for someone who was supposed to be a neutral, nonpartisan mental health practitioner. He asked me if I was committed to the marriage, which infuriated me. He asked why I was so intent on acting when I’d agreed to give up my career. That absolutely wasn’t true, so it doubly infuriated me. He pointed out that Cary was giving up his career, which first of all was not an established fact, and second of all, well . . . that infuriated me, too.