May We Be Forgiven

instability. We’re going for a multifaceted diagnosis and a prolonged treatment approach.”
    “Are you going to give him electroshock?”
    “No, but I personally think he may be a candidate for some of our newer psychosurgical techniques, such as gamma knife irradiation or, more likely, deep brain stimulation. We implant something like a pacemaker in the brain—drill a hole, place three leads, implant a battery-powered neurostimulator, calibrate the stimulation. It’s not without side effects—some decline in executive function—and of course we’re aware of what the court might say if we present your brother as having agreed to undergo experimental brain surgery.”
    I’m shocked by what he’s saying. I thought they might have something weird up their sleeves, but the old ice pick in the melon ball had never occurred to me. “So what you’re saying is something akin to a lobotomy?”
    “I wouldn’t call it that, but it does fall within the same rubric.”
    “And with the courts, do you think having brain surgery is a plus or a minus?”
    “It certainly says we took an aggressive approach. I’d say it’s a plus.”
    “And what does George say?”
    “He doesn’t know it yet; no one does. I haven’t even told Gerwin. I’m doing some research, and then I’ll make my case.”
    “Would you have psychosurgery?” I ask, knowing I never would.
    “In a heartbeat,” he says, “no pun intended. I wouldn’t even mind performing it on myself.”
    “Interesting,” I say, and that’s an understatement. Fucking crazy, is what I’m thinking. “Okay, so what else is on the docket, and how’s Tessie?”
    “Good. She had breakfast in the kitchen and has gone out for a walk. Our plan is to have you and George do some structured play, geared towards bonding and team building.”
    “Like what?”
    “Fun stuff.”
    I’m suspicious. George comes in from his morning session, stinking of sweat, his clothes plastered onto his body.
    “How are you?” I ask.
    “Fantastic,” he says.
    “Glad to hear it,” Gerwin says, following him into the room, carrying what looks like a cardboard treasure box. “So today I thought we’d play some games.”
    George’s eyes brighten, “Risk? Monopoly? Trivial Pursuit? Mafia? As kids we played murderball: you throw the big red rubber ball as hard as you can right at someone’s face and you murder them.”
    I can still remember the sting of the ball. “You weren’t supposed to aim for the face.”
    “Let’s start with a balloon,” Gerwin says, pulling a limp yellow balloon from his pocket, stretching it a couple of times, and blowing it up.
    “I’m not exactly the playful type,” I say, dreading whatever is coming next.
    “I can assure you we know that and have taken it into consideration,” Gerwin says, tying a knot in the end of the balloon. “I would now like the two of you to stand face to face.”
    We dutifully do.
    “I am going to place this balloon between you,” Gerwin says, fitting the balloon into the space between our bodies. The balloon slowly falls to the floor. “Let’s try again. Can the two of you move closer, more nose to nose?”
    George steps closer; reflexively, I step back—he’s out of focus. George steps closer again, and again I step back—like a dance.
    “Ahh,” Gerwin says.
    “The fact is, I can’t see him so close up, he becomes a big blur.”
    “Perhaps focus on a point beyond George,” Gerwin suggests.
    I do. And we stand with the balloon lodged between us, and I feel George’s hot breath on my face, I smell his sweat.
    “Are you bathing regularly?”
    “I think so,” he says, as though he doesn’t know.
    “Enough,” Gerwin says, and we are quiet.
    “The goal of this game is for the two of you, working together, to move the balloon from here to there”—he points to the far side of the room—“without letting the balloon touch the floor. Capisce? ”
    “ Capisce, ” George says, and he starts to walk south, towards the far wall. I take a couple of sideways steps to catch up with him. The balloon slides from our sternums to our diaphragms.
    “Should we make a plan?” I ask George. “Do you want to call out each step before you go?”
    “Step. Step. Step.”
    We make good progress, and then George seems distracted and heading not straight across the room but towards me. “We’re going more north—we need to head south,” he says. The balloon slips lower, we’re about to lose it, George