Exiles in America(122)

wanted to kill her bratty son—who wouldn’t?—yet could imagine such a

thing only by killing everyone? Zack didn’t want to pursue that idea either.

“You don’t think my dream is about God?” said Fay abruptly. “Only

about stuff on the news?” She sounded hurt, indignant.

“It doesn’t have to be one thing or the other, Fay. Your dream could be

about several things: God and Iraq and your family too.”

“My family and I are fine. My fears are all about God. And maybe the



war.” Her button nose twitched. “All this war talk makes me wonder if He’s

really there. If He really knows what He’s doing.”

She talked about God the same way that Zack and his friends talked about

George Bush.

“Let’s forget about God for a minute,” said Zack. “Let’s just talk about the

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

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war. What are you afraid will happen if there is a war? Let’s focus on real

things that could happen to you and your family.”

Fay went through a list of terrible hypothetical acts: hijackers crashed a jet-

liner into Colonial Williamsburg, a car bomb exploded outside the office

where Yancy worked, poison gas or anthrax was released in the school that

Malvern and Melissa attended. Zack let her talk, helping her with questions

but only so she could flesh out her scenarios. It was Fay herself who asked,

“But why would terrorists attack Williamsburg?” The town was a symbol of

American liberty, but weren’t there better symbols to destroy? Fay wasn’t stu-

pid. She knew her atrocities were highly improbable yet couldn’t fully accept

it until she’d gone through her list aloud. She slowly talked herself out of her

fears, all but one. A friend had a brother in the army, she said, with an air-

borne unit down at Fort Bragg. They were afraid he’d be sent to Iraq.

“A justified fear,” said Zack. “You should keep that fear.”

She was calmer now, more focused, but Zack went ahead and wrote out a

prescription putting her back on Xanax.

He wondered how many talks about the war he’d have with patients in the

weeks to come. How long would it take for war worry to reach the wards at

Eastern State? Once a subject got into hospitalized heads, it was hard to get

out. They were still obsessed with the burning towers of 9/11, but so was the

rest of the country. A national tragedy can be like a mass dream dreamed by

millions. Therapists could use the upcoming war to explore inner lives in the

same way they used individual dreams. Yet Zack knew that one person’s anx-

iety projection in Virginia would be another person’s bombed-out home and

dead family on the other side of the world.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he told Fay. “If there are any problems, don’t hesi-

tate to call.” He opened the office door and saw a stranger sitting in his living

room. He’d forgotten someone had come in. There she was, a pretty African

American woman in a tweed suit. She held a trench coat over her lap, shifting

it aside as she stood up.

“Right with you,” Zack told her and escorted Fay to the front door. He

wondered if the stranger were a new patient and he’d forgotten to mark her

appointment. He saw the SUV parked on the street, with Fay’s husband at the

wheel. “Yancy drove you over? Good. You said he was being more sympa-

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

thetic.” He lifted his hand in a wave but couldn’t tell if Yancy saw him or not.

“Until Monday. And remember the words of good old FDR. ‘We have noth-

ing to fear but fear itself.’ ” Zack was embarrassed quoting the line, but it re-

ally was the great American mantra.

He closed the door and turned to the newcomer. “Good morning. I’m Dr.

Knowles. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Whitehurst,” she said. “Justine Whitehurst.” Her hair was

straightened, parted in the center, and pulled back tight, positively nineteenth

century. She took out a little wallet and showed him a badge, just like in the

movies. “I’m with the FBI.”

Zack brought a hand up and began to smooth his beard. He knew his

own body language and understood this was a nervous gesture, a guilty ges-

ture. But who doesn’t feel a little guilty talking to the police? Zack dealt reg-

ularly with cops, especially out at the hospital, yet the self-consciousness

remained.

“This is not about you. This is an unofficial visit, a friendly visit. I’d like to

ask a few questions.” She did not sound friendly but spoke with cool, hard

quickness. She was young, in her early thirties, and appeared to be overcom-