Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb
Also by George Rabasa
The Wonder Singer
The Cleansing
Floating Kingdom
Glass Houses, Stories
Miss Entropia and the Adam Bomb
GEORGE RABASA
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s 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 ill—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.A213M57 2011
813’.54—dc22
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
INSTITUTE LOISEAUX
REALIZING THE WHOLE CHILD
Woodington, MN 55414
520-645-9875
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 Webb’s untimely death, an e-mail with an attached file containing the document that follows. I couldn’t wait to examine Adam’s account, which serves as a definitive patient follow-up.
I read Adam’s 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 Adam’s 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 Adam’s effort. He has suggested some minor editing and the division of the narrative into chapters and principal sections, but otherwise, Adam’s words are left to speak in their full candor. It is particularly sad that this emerging talent will not flower to its potential.
While it’s not my intention to dispute details of the following account, I do wish to correct some exaggerations in Adam’s 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.
Adam’s 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 Adam’s story. I am proud to see that I had a strong influence in Adam’s 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
Part One
Chapter One
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 hadn’t been waiting and waiting, hadn’t heard Harley beeping the horn and cheerfully calling my name out the window.
I had no idea what had delayed Loiseaux’s 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. We’d 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 father’s shoes, squatted unsteadily, and unsnapped the latches. Everything was there—a 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 father’s 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