Agape

At six and a half feet in height, and 250 pounds, Gerrard was an imposing figure. The Capuchin brother-cum-social worker had worked with him for months on the streets to gain his trust. Now, both were at the office.

I was seated in a large room together with several other therapists. Surrounding us were a series of one-way mirrored windows, each looking into a different consultation room. Donning one of the 1950’s-style headsets hanging together on makeshift hooks made it possible to listen in on the session of one’s choosing.

Only all the rooms were empty save one. The largest room in the complex. There, sat two people. One was Insoo Kim Berg; the other, of course, Gerrard – except he was not so much sitting as leaning. Forward. Side-to-side. Back with mouth agape, at times snoring loudly.

“Yoo hoo,” Insoo called out once, then again, “Yoo hoo, Gerrard.”

“I have an important question to ask you,” she continued the moment his eyes flitted open.

It was my second official visit to The Brief Family Therapy Center in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I’d met Insoo a year or so earlier while attending a workshop she was giving in Denver, Colorado on treating drug and alcohol problems.

“Why don’t you come visit us?” she asked on one of the long walks we took together in the mornings before the training began. It just so happened we were both staying at the home of a mutual friend. “Stay for a week. Watch cases,” adding, “You can stay at our home. We have an extra bedroom, with its own bath.”

I jumped at the chance.

When Gerrard’s head rolled back on his shoulders, Insoo quickly moved her chair forward and began patting his leg.

“Yoo hoo, Gerrard.” Pat. Pat. Pat. Raising her voice, “YOO HOO!”

“This guy is so stoned,” one of the clinicians said loud enough for all of us to hear through our headphones, “he can’t even keep his eyes open.”

That’s when I heard my name being called.

“Scott?”

Looking up, I could see Insoo was staring in the direction of the mirrored glass.

“Would you and Brother Joel come in here, please?”

Without thinking, I stood and made my way toward the door to the consultation room, Gerrard’s Capuchin escort not far behind

“Help me get him up,” she directed, “one of you on each side.”

We did as instructed, at times the two of us bearing Gerrard’s entire weight as we dragged him around the room, all the while Insoo hounding him with the types of questions for which she was best known.

When the meeting ended some 50 minutes later, I was physically exhausted. Making my way back to observation room, I sat slumped in my chair waiting for Insoo to return to discuss the session with the group.

Her response to the first question raised ensured it the last one asked. “Why,” the same person who’d commented earlier about Gerrard, asked “when this person is so high he can’t even keep his eyes open, did you carry on? Why not just reschedule when he’s sober and able to remember what happens?”

Insoo didn’t miss a beat. “This might be the only chance I get,” she instantly replied, “and if he has any memory of me at all, I want it to be that I tried.”

I did meet Gerrard one additional time. It was about a year later. As before, I was seated in the observation room waiting for Insoo to enter with her next client. Twenty-or-so other therapists from different states and countries were there to watch and learn. This time, instead of visiting, I was working full time at the center.

In she walked, trailed by a tall, well-dressed, bespectacled man.

“Shall I sit here?” he asked, his voice strong and diction clear. Parting his camel hair topcoat, he sat, crossing his legs at the knee. Our clients falling on the low end of the socioeconomic spectrum or often homeless, I admit thinking to myself, “I wonder what this guy is doing here?”

I blinked hard, twice, when Insoo began, “Gerrard, its so good to see you …”