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about her schizophrenia. Goodwin was all about reality, the bluntness of it. Each weekly session with her began the same way, with a ritualistic call and response:
    Did you take your clozapine?
    Yes.
    Did you take it last night?
    Yes.
    When will you take it again?
    Tomorrow, at seven p.m.
    Her first psychotherapist, Vince Trauger, had been gentler, more permissive. But Martha knew it was Goodwin’s hardheaded style that had helped her gradually make her way back from the storm of darkness and chaos that had nearly consumed her over a year ago.
    Martha crossed her legs. “I didn’t promise them anything, Gayle. They just insisted on leaving that stuff with me.”
    “You’re not ready for this. And I’m also concerned about this elderly couple. You’re giving false hope, and it’s not fair to them.”
    “The vision was so vivid, Gayle. It wasn’t like a hallucination at all. What if there is something useful in what I saw? I can’t live with the knowledge that I might have been able to help them and didn’t. I just have to find out.”
    Goodwin put her clipboard next to her ceramic desk lamp in the shape of a roosting hen.
    “Martha, studying the mystical practices of an ancient, superstitious people is already a risk for you. It’s very important that you maintain firm boundaries between what’s real and what isn’t. To think you are some sort of psychic detective crosses over a line. I realize you are responding out of compassion, but the most compassionate thing you can do is to send the box back with a clear statement that you are unable to help them.”
    Martha felt her cheeks growing hot. She looked at another picture on the wall—the silhouette of a farmer perched in the cab of a combine harvester. Noble, heroic.
    “Gayle, I feel I have to do this.”
    “It is not to be permitted.”
    “What if I decide to go anyway?”
    “I don’t know, Martha. Honestly, I might have to conclude that your behavior poses a risk to yourself and to others.” Goodwin leaned forward, index finger pointed up for emphasis. “Martha. Look at me. This is fraudulent. You are not to accept any more calls from anyone hoping to locate a lost loved one.”
    Martha felt her face getting hot. “I’m a free individual.”
    “I’m going to be very frank with you. There are many young people in your condition who end up homeless or institutionalized. The island and its residents, the community support you receive there, have enabled you to live a very free and stable life. It’s enabled you to do creative work. It’s unorthodox, but I support it. My role, as your therapist, is to remind you of your boundaries. And that’s what I’m doing now. This is past your boundaries.”
    “I just want to go look around—”
    “No.”
    Martha leaned back on the sofa, stared at the window with its checked curtains.
Now who is stepping over their boundaries?
    “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re one of the most resilient clients I’ve ever had, and I believe you can lead an independent, self-sufficient life. You’ll continue to become more independent. You just need to take things slowly, Martha. Don’t push your boundaries so fast. There’s plenty of time for you to grow in your independence.”
    “Then what do you think I should do about this couple, their request?”
    “I think you should package up those items at the post office and send them back to the couple, telling them you are very sorry but there is nothing you can do to help them. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it, Martha?”
    She felt her face burning.
    “Martha, I want you to acknowledge it. You are not a psychic. There is nothing you can do to help these people.”
    Martha nodded quietly.
    “When we meet next week, that’s what you will have done. I want you to say it to me.”
    Martha felt a lump in her throat. “When we meet next week, I will have sent the items back.”
    Goodwin nodded and stood. “We’ve reached the end of our hour for