George Rabasa - Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

Also by George Rabasa

The Wonder Singer

The Cleansing

Floating Kingdom

Glass Houses, Stories

GEORGE RABASA

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Unbridled Books

Copyright 2011 George Rabasa

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rabasa, George.
Miss Entropia and the Adam bomb / by George Rabasa.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-60953-035-8
1. Mentally illFiction. 2. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.A213M57 2011
813.54dc22
2010040583

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Book Design by Claire Vaccaro

First Printing

For Juanita

Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb

REALIZING THE WHOLE CHILD

Woodington, MN 55414
520-645-9875
info@loiseaux.com

From the office of

RICHARD GUNDERSON, MD

It has been a dozen years since I last saw Adam Webb. He was then under my care while enrolled in the counseling/college-prep program at Institute Loiseaux, where I am now Director of Counseling Services. Adam entered the Institute at age 13 and in the following four years earned his high school diploma with exemplary grades. He also made remarkable progress in his social readjustment from a moderate personality dysfunction. In the years since Adam left our Institute to rejoin his family and, we hoped, to continue his studies at a first-rank college, I have thought of him often and, in fact, counted his stay here as one of the more persuasive case profiles in the history of this institute.

So it was with great interest that I received from the police department of Two Harbors, Minnesota, which was investigating the circumstances of Adam Webbs untimely death, an e-mail with an attached file containing the document that follows. I couldnt wait to examine Adams account, which serves as a definitive patient follow-up.

I read Adams words with a mixture of scientific interest, frank amusement, and, yes, horror at the unfortunate unfolding of events. After all, this was one of our most creative, intelligent, reflective clients, and his narrative engages even the most casual reader with its vivid storytelling, sharp psychological analysis, and emotional insights.

In truth, I am no literary critic, so I forwarded the document to my colleague Dr. Bart Roberts of our English department, who was one of Adams teachers during his senior year. I am happy to report that my taste has been validated. Dr. Roberts agrees with me regarding the literary merits of Adams effort. He has suggested some minor editing and the division of the narrative into chapters and principal sections, but otherwise, Adams words are left to speak in their full candor. It is particularly sad that this emerging talent will not flower to its potential.

While its not my intention to dispute details of the following account, I do wish to correct some exaggerations in Adams boasts of gaming the system at Institute Loiseaux. Clients do not have the opportunity to barter or sell medications to each other. Prescriptions are closely monitored, and the abuse of psychotropics and painkillers is virtually unheard-of.

Adams description of the confessional therapy developed by our dear founder, Dr. Clara Loiseaux, now retired, is oversimplified. In truth, the process is painstakingly methodical, with careful analysis preceding the medication and counseling protocols.

On a personal note, it was with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction that I saw myself portrayed as a character, albeit a minor one, in Adams story. I am proud to see that I had a strong influence in Adams therapeutic process through his years here, but I do take issue with his creative characterization of me. I could have deleted or amended some of his more fanciful conceits regarding my person, but I have let them stand in the interest of maintaining the purity and integrity of his memoir. Suffice it to say, with no fear of being contradicted by others here at the institute, that I am not generally known as Auntie Gunilla. And I rarely wear a cardigan sweater.

One last caveat: while there may be the temptation to enjoy this story for its prurient thrills, or out of curiosity based on the fleeting notoriety of its author, I hope that the following narrative will elicit compassion for the central figures and give us all time to pause and ponder the fine line that divides balance and harmony from the tipping point into dysfunction.

Richard Gunderson, MD
Institute Loiseaux
Woodington, Minnesota

Emerging whalelike out of the winter gloom, the white van with Happy Harley at the wheel finally came to a crunching stop on our gravel driveway. I remained seated on the front-door stoop, my blue suitcase between my knees, not letting on that I was aware of the sicko shuttle coming to get me, acting as if I hadnt been waiting and waiting, hadnt heard Harley beeping the horn and cheerfully calling my name out the window.

I had no idea what had delayed Loiseauxs van. Usually they reacted quickly to a call, always anticipating challenges with the pickup. Clients were all difficult to a degree; some of us, on occasion, downright alarming. From behind me, the flicker of curtains being parted and blind slats lifted indicated that my family impatiently wondered when I would again be removed from their midst. Wed all been waiting.

By the time I emerged onto the porch my well-traveled suitcase had been placed by the front door by either my brother, Ted, or my father, Albert, I clop-clopped to it in my fathers shoes, squatted unsteadily, and unsnapped the latches. Everything was therea worn copy of Das Kapital, my collected papers through the ninth grade, a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, and various meds. The only clothes inside were my pajamas. What a nice gesture! Thanks a zillion. I shouted, in case Cousin Iris was around to appreciate the irony; she was the one who had first introduced me to the sweet sensations of nude slumber.

I searched in the pockets of my fathers blue blazer that I was wearing and felt the envelope containing the two-page letter from my parents, a kind of report on this latest home leave, which I was supposed to hand to the attendants. I could read it if I wanted to.

The air had grown chilly as I waited, the darkening shadows of a November afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, blocking out the tentative sunshine of earlier in the day. One by one the windows of neighboring houses lit up. After a while the only dark house on the street was my familys, with all the lights off so as not to give me any ideas about being welcomed back. As if I would willingly return to their stares and smirks. I have my dignity. I imagined them scurrying about in the dark, Father occasionally dialing Loiseaux and asking in a whisper what was keeping the shuttle. Because frankly, there was some urgency here: the client (never patient) is not to be trusted within spitting range of certain family members. The problem is not just rudeness, though there is certainly enough of that. The fear is that the client in question might resort to violence. That has not happened before, but there are unresolved anger issues that could, if allowed to boil over, erupt into something of a physical nature. Whoa, there, people! Somebody might think the worst about me, that I might be a potentially fratricidal maniac, interfamilial fornicator, self-made orphan.