by Tom Saric
Sheila huffed. She didn't like when I cut her off but I didn't want to get into it with her. Sheila always made sense. But sometimes, I just didn't want to hear it.
"Something about her brother. Something about him being back."
Clients usually embellished when they wanted to be seen. Sort of like when I have a sore throat for a few days I tell the doctor it’s been a week so I will get a course of antibiotics. Say what will get you in the door.
But Wanda's brother had been imprisoned for ten years. And her testimony had buried him.
"Randy's back. Okay, I'm coming in. I'll be there by ten."
2
I parked in the lot in front of Buck's Hardware, my truck taking up a space and a half. The fall mums were already on sale, stacked on display crates on either side of the entrance. After a quick look at myself in the rear-view mirror, I wiped some dirt from my cheeks and pulled a few dried leaves from my beard.
The sign above the door announced that Buck's had been operating in Bridgetown since 1950. When the original store was bought out by the House Hardware national chain, Buck Thompson was able to negotiate to keep his name on the sign. The new name was Buck's House Hardware. I walked through the sliding door, my steel toes tracking mud, and headed for the back of the store. Linda stood behind the cash register, so I waved and thanked her for the ginger molasses cookies. She'd brought them to me last week as a thank you for helping her six-year-old son beat his fear of Bloody Mary.
Sheila was waiting at the customer service desk, wearing her sharp red smock with a 20 years of service pin. Since it was Monday, her hair was freshly curled.
"She's already inside," Sheila said, looking over her reading glasses at me.
"Your hair looks nice."
I walked past the customer service desk and pushed through the swinging utility door. To the left was the public restroom and door to the warehouse. I took a right down the fluorescent-lit hall to what had once been a utility closet.
When Sheila had asked me to see one of her cousins who was struggling with the grief of losing her husband, I needed a place to see her. So Sheila cleared out one of the utility closets and threw a couple of clearance Adirondack chairs inside. I saw her cousin in the closet that smelled like bleach twice a week for eight months.
Then word got out, so my caseload increased. Sheila decided to renovate the ten-by-ten room. She replaced the fluorescent lights with a warm yellow pendant light and floor lamps. She painted the room burgundy and accented it with oak moldings. She found a few original oil paintings and some prints at the annual town yard sale for under five dollars a piece. She got one of her nephews to hand-carve a bookcase out of rosewood. When Sheila was done, the former closet looked better than my former office, which was a thousand square feet and overlooked Boston Harbor. I wondered what my former colleagues would say if they saw what I was doing now. I wondered what Alistair would say.
Sheila wanted to have my name embossed on the door, but I insisted on keeping the Utility sign. It was inconspicuous. Clients could anonymously walk in through the swinging door and leave through the back door. No one would see them come and go, and if they did, they would think they were just heading to the public restroom.
I pushed the door open and flopped down in my plush velvet chair. A jolt of pain ran up the side of my spine as I settled into the cushion.
Wanda sat across from me, looking like hell. She glanced at me and then hunched over, looking uncomfortable in a skin-tight tangerine dress cut six inches above her knees. A large ornate silver cross with a turquoise stone in the center dangled from her neck. Not that Wanda was religious; she inherited the cross from her grandmother. Her hair was messy, and mascara tracked down her cheeks. She smelled of cigarettes. Wanda looked down, as though she was cowering from me.
I sat and said nothing, taking a moment to settle and bring myself into the room. Although Wanda was still hunched over and crying, I could sense her eyes on me, checking me out, assessing me, taking my emotional temperature.
No doubt Wanda had noticed my boots, the mud caked on the sides, my grimy hunting jacket, my dirty fingernails. A woman like Wanda only needed a split second to size someone up. She was perceptive like that. It’s how she survived.
I felt no urge to speak. She had called the session, so it was important that she begin. For me to speak would only serve to infantilize her. Wanda was learning to be an adult, and there was no need for me to do things for her that she was entirely capable of.
That, and Wanda had done the doubled-over, wounded-fawn routine with me a dozen times over the years. We had worked through it, brought this behavior to her conscious awareness. She understood that this was one of the games she played. Part of her now consciously knew what she was doing.
"I told myself not to call." She kept her head down and swiped at her nose with a tissue. "I already know what you're going to say."
She made eye contact for a split second and then flicked her gaze downward.
I still said nothing. I could sense that she was projecting something onto me, casting me into some role from her past. I had a pretty good hunch who I was emotionally representing for her, but telling her that now would be useless. She needed to get there herself.
"Put on your big-girl panties and face it."
I've never said that. Never said anything remotely like it, in fact.
"Maybe you wouldn't say it like that." She smiled a bit and looked at me, seeing if I would reciprocate. I gave a muted smile. She was using humor, an age-old way to channel aggression. But under that anger was pain, so she was making a joke to try to avoid feeling that way.
"I've been outside, in the parking lot, since, fuck, I don't know." She looked at her watch. "Four a.m. Jesus. Just sitting there, smoking one after another. Thinking about you, what you're going to say when Wanda comes in with even more drama. Drama Queen is what I am. Queen of the Drama Queens. Drama Empress."
She laughed, but only with her mouth; her eyes didn't join in.
"I sat out there for four hours agonizing about what to say, and here I am, pouring my heart out, Gus, and you just fucking sit there."
"You look sad."
"Sad? That's all you got, the great Dr. Gus Young, world-famous shrink?"
I gave a half shrug. It was all I had. Part of me wanted to say, “Cut the crap, Wanda, you're projecting me as one of your abusers, seeing if I'll hurt you like they did. I'm not going to do that, so let's get past it and deal with what is happening right now.” But I'd be saying that out of anger, which would only reinforce her projection.
"I'm fucking mad. Mad ’cause I count on you and you just look through me. Maybe the papers were right about you. Fucking fraud."
That was vicious. It had only happened a few times, clients bringing up the story from years ago that was picked up by the Boston Globe, New York Times, and Washington Post. I wanted to lash out and correct her. Tell her what really happened. But therapy wasn't about me. It was about Wanda and she was projecting hard. She was testing me to see if I could withstand the force of her anger. She wanted to know if I could be trusted to contain her rage, her sadness, her pain without turning on her the way almost everyone else in her life had.
"You feel as though you don't matter to me."
"Matter? You've got your list of patients, you sit there, listen to them yammer on for fifty minutes, and then go hide in your cabin."
"What would it look like if you did matter?"
That question hit something deep. Her eyes widened and shifted. She sighed.
In Wanda's world, she was nothing, she barely existed. Her mom, a drug addict, let all sorts of men into the home who had their way with Wanda. Her dad, perhaps the only person who thought she mattered, killed her mom in a fit of rage when he walked in on her in bed with their neighbor. Poof. Just like that her mom and dad were gone. Wanda ended up raising her little brother and selling herself to make ends meet. She was considered a town pariah. So, yeah, she never mattered.
"I felt s
o stupid last night. I was supposed to meet Joe at eleven over at Schooners. I showed up, sat at the bar, ordered a beer, nursed it. Eleven came and went."
Wanda shook her head. She wasn't projecting anymore. She was more clearly identifying the source of her anger now. I was no longer the lightning rod.
"There was some guy, over in the corner all night, drinking his face off, playing with his phone. Never seen him before, but I could see him checking me out."
She leaned forward, pulling her shoulders back and pushing her breasts out. She ran her hands down her thighs, watching as my gaze drifted to her hands.
"Is this too much for you, Gus?"
Wanda was still projecting. But now she was testing to see if I would take out my own anger on her when she was acting vulnerable. Wanda tended to channel her pain either through anger or sex.
"Is what too much?"
"This story. Is it getting you too hot under the collar?"
I had to admit to myself that Wanda was attractive. She had gorgeous wavy long hair, a petite, curvaceous frame. But what Wanda didn't understand was that attraction didn’t equal sex. That love didn't equal sex. That two people could have an affinity for each other, care for each other, but not hurt each other. Her parents never taught her that.
"Wanda, as we've discussed before, my interest isn't in the content of what you talk about, but in why you say it and why you behave in certain ways. And I can't help but sense that part of you wonders, maybe because I'm a man, whether I'll hurt you. It's like you're seeing how close you can get your hand to the fire without getting burned. But I'm not going to hurt you, no matter how hard you try."
She looked at me, and I saw a flash of the Cheshire grin before she continued.
"Then midnight. Then one. Still nothing from Joe. So I started calling, over and over, but he's not answering. Probably knows it’s me. So I go over to the guy in the corner and ask for his phone. Call him from a different number, right? And guess what?" Wanda's eyes lit up. "Joe picks up on the second ring. Son of a bitch." She shook her head while pressing her tongue against her teeth. "I let him have it. And you know what he says?" Her eyes welled up. "'We're going to try and work it out.'"
I gave the classic, "Hmmm."
"Work it out?" Wanda's voice was loud. "Two years. Two years of promises, Gus. He told me. He told me he loved me. He told me he would leave her. And just like that. Like-"
"You didn't matter."
"Yeah." She looked at me with hurt eyes. The first genuine emotion I'd seen in her today. "For a while I thought I was something."
I let the grief hang there. She needed to feel that loss. The loss she'd been living with her whole life. The loss of self.
"He was so charming. Every time he came over, he brought me my favorite flower: gladiolas."
Two years ago, Wanda got a prominent client: Joe Barrington. Joe was married and a former college football player. He came from a prominent local family.
He was also the town mayor.
Wanda was giving Joe something he wasn't getting at home, and he was giving her a feeling of being something. She stopped charging him. Joe made her all sorts of promises, and it seemed that he was going to leave his wife. At least it seemed that way in Wanda's fantasy.
"What was I thinking? Town mayor moves in with local whore?" She shook her head and laughed. I didn't smile. "You'll never guess what happens next. The guy who gave me the phone says—wait till you hear this one. 'While he's working it out, in the meantime,' and he shrugs!" Wanda laughed again. "He seemed sweet. And I was mad. So I did what I do best, Gus." Wanda looked away and picked at her nails.
"And then you called me."
"I just needed to feel safe."
"That's what you've been searching for."
"No, no, it's not like that. It's Randy. He got out. And he called me. He wants to meet."
Things started to become clearer. Her brother, Randy, got involved with some local drug pushers. Ten years ago, in the midst of a turf war, he killed one of them and buried the body. Wanda's testimony had been pivotal in sealing his conviction.
"What did you say?"
"I said yes. But how do I know if he's mad at me? I had this dream last night, while I was in the car sleeping in the parking lot. I'm back in my mom's trailer. In the bed reading an Archie comic. I'm scared, though, trying to block out the noise. I can hear screaming, mom yelling 'no.' But I'm paralyzed. I hear footsteps coming and I just freeze up. The door opens and it’s Randy. Not little Randy, but Randy today. He's got a shotgun pointed at me. His finger tenses up. Then I wake up."
"You feel guilty about Randy."
"He was my brother. My little brother. I raised him, Gus. I was like his mom... and I gave him up."
"You had no choice."
"I could've shut my mouth."
"And then what would've happened to you? To him?"
"He was such a good little kid." Wanda covered her face and sobbed. "I fucked him up."
I could feel myself being pulled into her guilt. It was overwhelming. In therapy I always preferred interpretations over advice. I wanted clients to find their own answers. But sometimes it pays to be direct.
"Wanda, Wanda, look at me." She looked up, head stooped, but made eye contact. "You were put in an impossible situation. First, as a teenager, you were basically raising a little boy by yourself. Then, having to tell the truth not just to save yourself but probably him too. What you did was show strength and courage. To be frank, most people would've folded a long time ago. But not you. You don't give up. You always have hope. That has never died. And you know what? That's what I admire about you."
Wanda gave me a childish little grin. Pride. "Thanks."
I truly admired Wanda; none of that was bullshit. And for all the digging and interpretation I do as a therapist, sometimes it helps just to tell the truth.
"So should I go see Randy?" I stared at her. "I should go see him. I want to. You won't say anything about Joe to anyone, right?"
"Wanda, we've talked about this. This is confidential. The only time I'd say anything is if you told me you were going to go and kill yourself or someone else. And even then, I'd say the bare minimum."
"What if I tell you I've killed someone?"
"That's confidential." I raised my finger. "Unless you say you'll do it again."
"I killed Hoffa."
"I always thought so."
Confidentiality is the prerequisite for effective therapy. How could I expect people to discuss their deepest secrets, the ones that eat at them, if they couldn't trust me? The therapy room was sacred. Even if it was a utility room.
Wanda got up and walked to the door. "Who do you tell your secrets to?"
I shrugged and turned away.
"I can tell you have secrets too."
3
I finished writing the notes on my encounter with Wanda in a coil-bound notebook with her initials on it. I kept two records of my sessions with clients in these notebooks, one in a yellow notebook with their full name on it and the other in a baby blue one with only their initials. I wrote more details in the blue, not only to help me remember what was said from session to session but also to allow me to notice relationship patterns that repeated themselves over the course of years.
I lifted the painting of a mountain lake that looked like a Bob Ross duplicate off the wall. Behind it was a combination safe anchored to the concrete outer wall where I kept all my active client notebooks. No one, not even Sheila, knew the combination. My patients’ secrets were locked away. Most shrinks keep their notes in charts and store them inside flimsy file cabinets that their secretaries have easy access to. Not me. The notes were for my eyes only, and the only purpose they served was so that I could provide better therapy. But lately, it seemed I needed my notes more and more to jog my foggy memory.
I twisted the knob and pulled the handle. It wouldn't open.
I tried again. The number didn't work.
I closed my eyes and took a deep br
eath, trying to calm myself so that I could remember the code.
Karen's birthday.
The bolt didn't budge.
People forgot things all the time. Combinations, phone numbers, zip codes. We were inundated with numbers, so it was understandable for our memories to slip some of the time.
Backward.
The safe clicked and whirred and swung open. I filed Wanda's notebook, then shut the safe and hung the painting back up. I'd barely slept last night in the woods. Lack of sleep was the most common cause of a fuzzy memory.
I walked over to the customer service desk where Sheila stood, filling out a ledger.
Behind her stood Brian Gallant, store manager and the late Buck Thompson's grandson. "Sheila, I don't mind you doing this for the doc, but first I need the orders for the-"
"I've already taken care of the orders for the Hebb farm, Brian, and left them on your desk for your signature."
"Okay."
Sheila rolled her eyes at me as Brian left for his office. She could probably handle the work of five people and still get home and make a five-course dinner.
"Still not charging her, eh?"
"No."
"Just saying that you're putting a lot of work into that one, is all. The freebie, white-knight stuff is admirable. But now she is 'asking' for emergency appointments?"
"It's how it is."
"You're going to start resenting her."
"Sounds like you're doing it for me."
Sheila took issue with my seeing Wanda pro bono. She was partly blinded by Wanda's reputation in town as the riff-raff, the troublemaker. That, and Sheila quilted with Lorna Barrington. Most people in town speculated that something was going on between Good ol’ Mayor Joe and Wanda. But Lorna seemed oblivious. Maybe willfully so. And the people who whispered about it generally fell into one camp: it was Wanda the seductress’s fault.
Good ol’ Joe just couldn't resist. Wanda? Well, she was just a status seeker.
Sometimes people like Wanda just need someone in their corner.
"Just be careful with that one, is all," Sheila said.
