Chapter 4

Holly can feel her shoulders relaxing. The tension from the morning’s group session loosens the moment she steps through the doorway and into the open-concept living room which, thanks to its vaulted ceiling, has always seemed bigger than it is. Though Holly has never lived here, nowhere feels more like home. Sleepovers spent in the mid-century California rancher, perched in the hills above Dana Point, are among her happiest memories from childhood.

Ten years after her grandmother’s death, her grandfather still refuses to downsize. Even at the age of ninety, Dr. Walter Danvers insists on doing much of his own yard work, gardening, and pool maintenance.

“Papa?” Holly calls out, though she already knows where she is likely to find him.

“In the cave!” Walter replies in the baritone that has lost some of its rich timbre but is still reassuring to her ears. She thinks of rainy Saturday afternoons long ago, watching old movies with her grandfather in the den while Grandma made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.

Holly heads over to the third bedroom, which serves as her grandfather’s undersized office. She sticks her head inside to find her grandfather seated in his chair staring at the computer screen on the desk, which is crammed between filing cabinets and piles of other boxes. The walls are covered with framed black-and-white and Kodachrome portraits. Most of the faces belong to pioneers of the psychedelic movement. In one shot, a young Walter has his arm slung over the shoulder of a much older Albert Hofmann, the brilliant Swiss chemist and creator of LSD. In another, Walter is sandwiched between a laughing Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson, two of the sixties’ most famous proponents of acid.

Holly wouldn’t have invested as much of her career in psychedelics were it not for her grandfather’s influence. But when she was a child, those faces lining the walls meant nothing to her. They were only relics from the sixties. Like psychedelics themselves. It wasn’t until she had her own catharsis under the influence of ayahuasca that she came to share her grandfather’s passion.

That experience made her a true believer. It also saved her life.

Walter spins his chair to face her. “Koala!” he says, using the same pet name as he has for the past thirty years, ever since the then-eight-year-old Holly scaled halfway up a eucalyptus tree in the backyard. He points a knobby finger to his screen. The magnified font only partially compensates for his macular degeneration. “Did you read this latest article out of New Zealand? On the need for more precise phenomenology in objectively assessing psychedelic-assisted psychotherapy?”

“It’s great to see you, too, Papa.” Holly laughs. At ninety, her grandfather is as single-minded as ever about his lifelong mission, despite how much the quest has cost him, professionally and personally. She steps over to him, wraps him in a hug, and kisses the top of his balding head.

“I read it, yes,” she says. “And I totally agree. Mainstream psychiatry will never accept the wildly impressive clinical results that we’re seeing with psychedelics until we start measuring outcomes using the same accepted scoring metrics. In other words, speaking their language.”

“Precisely!” He pats her arm affectionately. “I’ve been beating that drum for decades. Rigorous science! None of this airy-fairy bullshit.”

Holly thumbs to a photo on the wall. “Says Timothy Leary’s pal.”

“Tim was a self-aggrandizing prick,” Walter grunts. “He helped turn LSD into a party drug. Did more to set back the cause of serious psychedelic research than almost anyone. He knew better, too. Tim was once a legitimate academic.”

Holly chuckles. “Then how come his picture’s still up on your wall?”

“Bob’s in the photo, too. I always liked him. But enough about us dinosaurs.” Walter rolls his hand with a flourish. “I’m in the company of the future of psychedelic therapy.”

“As if!”

“How’s the book coming along?”

“Really, Papa? I just signed the book deal.”

“You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot. You have the platform. And the credibility. That’s a rare combination, my darling.”

Holly clears a box off the only other chair in the room and drops down onto it. “It’s also a ton of pressure.”

“You’ve always thrived on that. Gold medal winner in your med school class. Chief psychiatric resident. Associate professor by the age of thirty-five.” Walter winks a watery eye. “Pressure is like eucalyptus leaves for you, Koala.”

“It might be too much this time,” Holly says. “Ever since Simon Lowry told his millions of Instagram followers that he was in therapy with me… I can’t keep up with the demand.”

“That busy, huh?” Walter asks with a pleased grin.

“I had to close my waiting list a couple of months ago. I’ve been bombarded with media requests. I even had to hire a publicist!”

Walter nods to the photo of himself with Leary. “Old Timothy must be spinning in his grave to see someone else get that kind of attention.”

“It’s too much, Papa. It feels like I’m under the microscope. But on the other hand, psychedelics are finally getting the serious attention they deserve. For the first time since Nixon derailed your career.” In 1970, with a sweep of his pen, the former president had banned LSD as a controlled substance, putting it in the same criminal class as heroin. Nixon did so largely out of his intense hatred for Leary, but the result was disastrous for psychedelic research and for the careers of serious academics who studied the drugs, especially Walter. “But if I screw this up now?”

“You won’t.” Walter’s hand trembles slightly as it wraps around her wrist. “Besides, who the hell is Simon Lowry, anyway? You want to talk real stars?”

She rolls her eyes. “Here we go…”

Holly has heard the story countless times. How in 1960, as a young post-doctorate researcher, Walter got a chance to intern under the legendary Dr. Mortimer Hartman. Despite being trained as a radiologist, Hartman performed group therapy in Beverly Hills with clients who were under the influence of LSD. He became the talk of Hollywood, especially after Cary Grant publicly acknowledged that he himself was a patient and a true believer.

“Such a kind man, Mr. Grant!” Walter says. “Not only a movie star, but a real gentleman. He always shook my hand and remembered me by name.”

“The Cary Grant story again? Really?”

“There are parallels to your current predicament,” Walter tsks. “Like you, Dr. Hartman was also overwhelmed with interest in his practice. Especially after Mr. Grant asked Good Housekeeping to share his story. You want to talk about an explosion in demand?”

“Fair enough.” Holly sighs. “Maybe I don’t have anything to complain about.”

Walter eyes her with that penetrating stare. “What’s really troubling you, Koala?”

Holly hesitates. “I took another step today.”

He tilts his head. “Which step?”

“Dual therapy.”

“Dual therapy?” His voice catches. “Two psychedelics simultaneously?”

“Yes. MDMA and ketamine.”

Walter’s eyes widen. “And?”

“Six of the seven clients tolerated it well.”

“And the seventh?”

“Not so well.” Holly describes Elaine’s intense dysphoric reaction and their awkward embrace. “The irony is she’s my only pro bono client in the group. Elaine came to me desperate for help after hiding an opioid addiction for years. She melted my resistance with her neediness.”

“You always did have a penchant for bringing home strays. Remember that kitten you found and foisted on your grandmother and me?”

“It’s different with Elaine. Turns out she suffered terrible sexual abuse as a young girl. And those memories only surfaced during our therapy.”

“The poor woman.” Walter sighs. “Still Holly, you can’t afford even one tiny misstep.”

“She’ll be OK,” Holly says, sounding more certain than she is.

“Why try dual therapy now? When your work has the attention of those who really matter?”

“We discussed this, Papa. You agreed. It’s the next frontier for psychedelics.”

“But the timing is poor. As you said, you’re under a microscope. If it doesn’t go perfectly, this could be the final frontier.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Don’t forget I’ve lived through this before.”

“Lived through what?”

“The repercussions of serious people, including doctors and scientists, being too ambitious, too aggressive, with psychedelics. People not unlike you.”

Holly dismisses the suggestion with a flick of her wrist, though she understands her grandfather’s concern. Why introduce dual therapy now when her newfound fame only adds to the risk?

But Holly knows exactly why. She intuited that the group needed more than a single psychedelic agent to hang on to their sobriety—or in Liisa’s case, to find it. And if she could show that dual therapy is effective for the most recalcitrant of addicts, imagine how many others could be helped? Maybe even cured? And how good would that be for her own reputation and career, not to mention sales of her upcoming book?

“What does the esteemed Herr Professor Laing think of your new clinical adventure?” Walter asks.

“Let’s not go there.”

“He doesn’t approve?”

“You’ll have to ask Aaron. We’re still separated.”

“But will you remain so?”

“Only time will tell, Papa,” she grumbles, but her grandfather has reason for his skepticism.

Holly and Aaron have been separated for six months. The second separation in their volatile ten-year marriage. Both times, Aaron’s professional insecurity and jealousy over her professional success—which often manifested as derision or spite—coupled with his possessiveness, had pushed Holly to the breaking point. And their issues are only compounded by Graham, the troubled one of Aaron’s two grown sons from his previous marriage. But Holly acknowledges that her laser focus on her own career has also affected her ability to prioritize Aaron’s needs.

After their first separation, Aaron convinced Holly he had changed. And he did, for a while. But he eventually reverted back to old habits. He once even spoke up in the middle of her presentation at a psychiatric conference, to disparage her conclusions on psychedelics. She thought that was the final straw. It wasn’t. There has always been an inexplicable, and not necessarily healthy, magnetism between the two of them. And despite her current resolve, she isn’t convinced this separation will end differently than the first one.

“Are you two on speaking terms?” Walter asks.

“Of course. Aaron and I are still linked professionally. Financially, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “But not emotionally?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Hmmm.” Walter eyes her quietly for a moment. “You remember Peru?”

As if Holly could ever forget.

She and Walter left for Lima exactly two years from the day of the car crash that killed her father, and Walter’s only son, Martin. Holly, who was sixteen at the time, had been in the station wagon, too, when it flipped and rolled. Aside from extensive bruising and a lingering concussion, she emerged physically intact, but she couldn’t shake the darkness and loneliness that followed. And while she had no memory of the accident, she felt somehow responsible. In the two years that followed, her pervasive guilt and hopelessness inched ever closer to suicidality. Her mom, who had never been emotionally well equipped, basically shut down after the accident. Only Walter recognized how dire his granddaughter’s situation had become. He forcefully persuaded her to accompany him on the ayahuasca retreat.

Though she left for Peru feeling nothing but doubt and dread, she returned with a new lease on life. The experience converted her into a devotee of psychedelic therapy. And she’s still in awe of its restorative power.

“What does my separation from Aaron have to do with Peru?” Holly asks.

Walter views her with an amused grin. “At the risk of sounding like a fortune cookie, Koala, sometimes you need to travel far away to make lasting changes at home.”

Holly can’t tell if he is encouraging her to reconcile with Aaron or to make the break permanent. And, at this point, she would rather not know.