Fidelity

“I’m not saying that people with psychotic illness like schizophrenia shouldn’t benefit from surgical intervention,” Neal felt compelled to explain. “God knows they need help. But Claire simply feels some things more intensely than most. That’s what makes her an artist.” Malcolm poured more wine for them.

“When I was sixteen,” he said, “I was in a similar state to Claire—a confused suicidal mess. I had psychiatric treatment which enabled me to see that I was a social misfit not because of my feelings but because I was denying them. My therapist brought about a change in my mental state which was beneficial to me.”

“Yes, but he didn’t tamper directly with your brain.”

“Actually, it was a she, but no matter. Her tools were psychological rather than chemical, it’s true, but her aim was the same as that of the psychosurgeons—to modify the individual consciousness.”

“But you did it out of your own volition, through a process of self-enlightenment. Psychosurgery is so mechanistic. It’s a denial of free will.”

“How so? Claire made the decision to undergo the operation freely. It’s just that the process of self-enlightenment, if you want to call it that, is now achieved through extraneous action, though objective rather than subjective processes. Personality restructuring is a far more exact science these days. Older methods were far more random and uncontrolled—and much less effective.”

He stared at Malcolm, saying nothing. Malcolm studied his wine glass. “I’m not saying that psychosurgery is necessarily a good thing. But this much is clear: if you have grave mental problems which are interfering with your life—by which I mean endangering your very existence or that of other people—if this is the case, then I think that psychosurgery is often the only possible solution. What I object to is the gratuitous modifications which people with no deep-rooted emotional problems undertake.”

“So you think Claire has done the right thing?”

“I’m afraid so, Neal.”

***

He rang the hospital again the following morning. Claire would see him at noon. Had there been any complications? None, she was fine. As he replaced the receiver he felt the anger and frustration of the past two days melt away, leaving a core of apprehension.

Malcolm was due to return home that afternoon but he agreed to accompany Neal to the hospital. They arrived fifteen minutes early, Neal a little groggy from the mintranqs he had been sucking all morning.

Claire was ensconced in a private room at the end of a long corridor. The doctor—a different one from the woman he had spoken to—talked about the operation, explaining how it was all accomplished with hypodermics and short-wave radiation, how there were no incisions and therefore no scars. Neal and Malcolm sat down on the leather bench outside the door while the doctor entered Claire’s room to announce their arrival. Neal felt giddy, weak with anxiety. Malcolm talked soothingly, telling him a frivolous story about one of his holidays, but he could not concentrate on the tale.

The doctor emerged and said to Malcolm: “She’d like to see you for a few moments first.”

Neal sat squirming in his seat, wondering why Claire had insisted on seeing Malcolm, for whom she had always expressed a mild dislike. He felt abandoned, snubbed, at a complete loss to know how he would handle his own meeting with her. Past experiences might not help him at all now that she had undergone psychosurgery.

Malcolm emerged within minutes, age-long minutes for him. He smiled faintly and said, “Go on in.” Neal pushed past, afraid even to look at him.

***

Claire was sitting up in bed, three pillows at her back, a padded white skullcap covering her shaven head. He’d been prepared for this, having been told that pinpoint accuracy was required in the insertion of the hypodermics. But the cap, and the white hospital gown, gave her an institutionalized look. She appeared perfectly alert, though, her hazel eyes regarding him calmly as he took a seat beside the bed.

“You look well,” he said immediately. “I was expecting a bolt through your temples.”

It was a feeble, ungracious attempt at humour, but she smiled. In the past she might have been offended by the comment.

“I’m fine,” she said. “A little dizzy if I move my head too fast, but the doctor says that’ll pass in a few days. Otherwise, I feel good.” She looked healthy, somehow more robust now that the anxious wildness was gone from her eyes. She’d always been an especially beautiful woman in repose: at nights, when things were good, he would sometimes wake and just lie there, watching her sleeping.

“How did it feel?” he asked. “The operation, I mean.”