Chapter Forty-Two
Ruth didn’t even attempt to sleep. Instead, she spent the darkest hours of the night replaying all the mistakes she had made to get her to this point. When had she stopped asking the critical questions that would have shown her that, for most, lobotomy turned out to be a horrible blight? Emeraldine—with her support—had been essential to its broad acceptance. Surely, she could have used that same influence to discredit the procedure? She had let this happen. No, she had made this happen. And now the problem was so much bigger than her hospital. Than her.
When daylight finally emerged, the sky turning from black to a purplish blue, similar to the hue under her eyes, she began to get ready. She took a cool shower to shake off the sleepless night, carefully combed her graying hair, and dressed in crisp linen slacks and a tailored blouse. She needed to look as collected as possible since, inside, she was falling to pieces. Glancing out the bathroom window again, she saw that Robert’s car was still gone. Her heart started to beat more rapidly. In spite of how he had behaved the night before, she was worried. He had been so upset when he left. What if he had gotten into an accident? She shook off this foolish notion. He had places he could have gone for the night, and for now, it was better that Robert was not there to try to sway her against what she was about to do.
At precisely 9:00 p.m. she sat down at her desk in the study with her third cup of coffee and began. She had met Joe Hunt, the new president of the American Psychological Association, at a luncheon the previous year. She wasn’t sure he would remember her, but she was certain he was well aware of Robert and lobotomy. It took a bit of digging but, within fifteen minutes, she had reached him on the other end of the line.
“Hello, Dr. Hunt? This is Ruth Apter from Emeraldine Hospital. We met last year at your introductory luncheon in New York? I really appreciate your taking my call.” She was babbling.
“Mrs. Apter, of course. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call today?”
“I have a pressing matter that I need some help with.” She hoped her shaky tone was imperceptible. “It is a bit sensitive.”
“I see. Well, I’m happy to help if I can. What is it that you need?”
“I need you to suspend a psychiatrist from practicing, immediately. One of my clinicians at Emeraldine.” She held her breath as she waited what felt like hours before he responded.
“Mrs. Apter, I’m not sure I understand. The APA doesn’t really have that kind of authority. If there is an incident that you would like us to investigate, I can put you in touch with someone who can help, but otherwise . . .”
“Dr. Hunt, you don’t understand. It’s lobotomy, you see, one of my doctors has killed someone.”
“Killed someone? That seems more like a legal matter?”
“Well, yes. It is that as well, certainly, but this doctor needs to be stopped immediately. Can’t you suspend him from practicing? Issue a bulletin for all members? He is going on another trip soon. He needs to be stopped . . . now. Today!”
“Mrs. Apter, I can hear that you’re upset. But surely you know there are protocols for this kind of thing. I am happy to transfer you to someone who can take a formal complaint from you now. And then, once we receive ample documentation, we can convene an investigation. But, beyond that, there is really nothing I can do to help. Have you notified your own governing board? Perhaps they could enact a suspension.”
Ruth sat frozen, the phone poised to slip from her hand. She was a fool. Of course she wouldn’t be able to stop Robert through the bureaucratic psychological association. And the board of Emeraldine would be no better; they, too, would need to enact a proper process. Plus, they wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing this to his private patients, or even at other hospitals, elsewhere. She needed to do something else, something immediate. Robert needed to be stopped now, today.
Ruth ended her call as quickly and politely as possible, her head a whirl, and then stood to gather the files she had taken from the carriage house the night before. Her hands were unsteady as she placed them into her leather satchel, the only indication of how anxious she felt about what she was about to do. Her husband was a murderer, and if the medical community couldn’t stop him, surely the police could.