Lying on the Couch by Irvin D. Yalom

mind at ease, Ernest. I'm a tough son of a bitch. I'll be all right."
    And with that, Seymour Trotter collected his canes and lurched out of the room. Ernest, still sitting, listened to the tapping grow fainter.
    When Ernest phoned a couple of weeks later. Dr. Trotter once again refused all offers of help. Within minutes he switched the conversation to Ernest's future and again expressed his strong conviction that, whatever Ernest's strengths as a psychopharmacologist, he was still missing his calling: he was a born therapist and owed it to himself to fulfill his destiny. He invited Ernest to discuss the matter further over lunch, but Ernest refused.
    "Thoughtless of me," Dr. Trotter had responded without a trace of irony. "Forgive me. Here I am advising you about a career shift and at the same time asking you to jeopardize it by being seen in public with me."
    "No, Seymour," for the first time Ernest called him by first name, "that is absolutely not the reason. The truth is, and I am embarrassed to say this to you, I'm committed already to serve as an expert witness at your civil suit trial for malpractice."
    "Embarrassment is not warranted, Ernest. It's your duty to testify. I would do the same, precisely the same, in your position. Our profession is vulnerable, threatened on all sides. It is our to duty to protect it and to preserve standards. Even if you believe nothing else about me, believe that I treasure this work. I've devoted my entire life to it. That's why I told you my story in such detail—I wanted

    you to know it is not a story of betrayal, I acted in good faith. I know it sounds absurd, yet even to this moment I think I did the right thing. Sometimes destiny pitches us into positions where the right thing is the wrong thing. I never betrayed my field, nor a patient. Whatever the future brings, Ernest, believe me. I believe in what I did: I would never betray a patient."
    Ernest did testify at the civil trial. Seymour's attorney, citing his advanced age, diminished judgment, and infirmity, tried a novel, desperate defense: he claimed that Seymour, not Belle, had been the victim. But their case was hopeless, and Belle was awarded two mil-hon dollars—the maximum of Seymour's malpractice coverage. Her lawT^ers would have gone for more but there seemed little point to it since, after his divorce and legal fees, Seymour's pockets were empty.
    That was the end of the public story of Seymour Trotter. Shortly after the trial he silently left town and was never heard from again, aside from a letter (with no return address) that Ernest received a year later.
    Ernest had only a few minutes before his first patient. But he couldn't resist inspecting, once again, the last trace of Seymour Trotter.
    Dear Ernest,
    You, alone, in those demonizing witch hunt days, expressed concern for my welfare. Thank you—it was powerfully sustaining. Am well. Lost, but don't want to be found. I owe you much—certainly this letter and this picture of Belle and me. That's her house in the background, incidentally: Belle's come into a good bit of money.
    Seymour
    Ernest, as he had so many times before, stared at the faded picture. On a palm-studded lawn, Seymour sat in a wheelchair. Belle stood behind him, forlorn and gaunt, fists clutching the handles of the wheelchair. Her eyes were downcast. Behind her a graceful colonial home, and beyond that the gleaming milky-green water of a tropical sea. Seymour was smiling—a big, goofy, crooked smile. He held onto the wheelchair with one hand; with the other, he pointed his cane jubilantly toward the sky.
    As always, when he studied the photograph, Ernest felt queasy.

    He peered closer, trying to crawl into the picture, trying to discover some clue, some definitive answer to the real fate of Seymour and Belle. The key, he thought, was to be found in Belle's eyes. They seemed melancholy, even despondent. Why? She had gotten what she wanted, hadn't she? He moved closer to Belle and tried to