“Then your secret stays here.”
Luke sighed.
“The only way to get better is to trust me and trust how therapy works—no matter what you’ve done.”
“You don’t feel conflicted?”
“Well, actually, I do.”
“Wow, really?”
“Like you, I wish the family could know where he is. Nothing’s worse than not knowing.”
“It’s a no-win,” he said. “They don’t know, they suffer. They find out, I go to jail.”
“If we think of it in those black and white terms, I suppose you’re right. But maybe we can find some resolutions in the grays.”
“That was pretty blunt,” he said eventually.
“What was?”
“Telling me you’re conflicted.”
“But it’s the truth,” I said. “Being honest is important for you. And for me. Without honesty, therapy doesn't work.”
“I didn’t think you’d be so real with it. I mean, you’re not afraid of me. What I did and all?”
“I should be afraid because you’re some kind of monster? Is that what you said before?”
“Yeah,” Luke replied. “That’s pretty much what I think.”
“I was afraid of hearing what happened, the terror of it all, but I’m not afraid of you. I want to understand you and help you.”
Luke was silent, absorbing my words.
“Sharing this isn’t easy, I know,” I said.
“No. And now you know what my panic is really all about.”
I remained silent, feeling that his words were a powerful way to end the session.
Some patients who’ve been in treatment before instinctively know how time works in sessions. They can sense the end approaching. Luke was one of those patients and moved into a comfortable silence.
“Before we stop, Luke, how was lying on the couch?”
“It did make things easier to talk about.”
“And your anxiety?”
“It was there, but I was able to control it better. Just like you said could happen.”
“Good. We’ll keep doing this. But we have to stop for now.”
Luke sat up from the couch and was slow to stand. I rose as he did and walked to the door to escort him out. He was tentative as he looked at me, which I understood, given the nature of the session.
“See you Wednesday,” I said.
“Bye, Dr. Reese,” he replied—and was through the door and gone.
Notes
Luke Ferro killed Donald Gallin.
It was no accident. It was murder.
It was a deliberate act, violent. Luke physically beat him with his own hands. Broke his neck.
Luke had the foresight to cover his tracks—to erase his accountability when it happened—and even days later.
Transference: Luke remained positively connected to me. Layers of guilt, remorse, anxiety, worry. Shame and regret were noted in the session too.
Counter-transference: So many feelings for me. Mostly horrified and filled with terror. Traumatized by his story—felt detached and distant as I listened. Most likely from the revulsion, shock, disgust, disbelief.
But I still hold a positive connection to Luke. Want to help him.
Why do I still feel this?
Just touched my own teeth. I slid my index finger across them. It would take tremendous force for teeth to shatter. Outlined my face, tracing the arches of my brow and cheekbones, my mouth and jaw, imagining the force that crushed Donald Gallin’s face.
Relevant issues: Mixture of panic and rage set off by humiliation. Did alcohol set this into motion? Would this episode of dyscontrol happen if he didn’t drink that night? Did alcohol loosen his self-control?
Diagnosis: Panic Disorder. Now looking at Narcissistic Personality Disorder or possibly Antisocial Personality Disorder operating.
Prognosis: Guarded.
Monday Night
I
had to get to the ocean.
I needed the sights, smells, sounds, and touches of the sand and surf.
I was in a free fall, crushed by the session with Luke.
The office was a stone’s throw from the water—the singular feature that made renting here worth every penny. I dropped my things in the car and was at the beach in less than a dozen steps.
I kicked off my heels, letting the cool, wet sand to scrub against my feet and allowed the sounds of the waves and tangy salty air envelop me. It was almost nine o’clock, and the sun was inching its golden rim into the horizon. I watched as a few sailboats puffed toward the docks, done with the seafaring day, as others beamed running lights as they headed out to sea.
I walked the shoreline for nearly an hour. I replayed the session with Luke in my mind from beginning to end. Images of Luke’s descriptions haunted me, but it was hard to catalogue them in any kind of clinical significance. They flashed in pieces, delivering a shudder or wince as they randomly appeared. It was then I realized how traumatic it was for me to witness his story.
I found myself also thinking about Donald Gallin’s parents—and the enormous pain of them not knowing anything. The helplessness and hopelessness they’d be enduring must be indescribable.
They couldn’t experience the comfort I felt when visiting Ryan’s grave. A place I’d go to be near him. There’d never be any consolation in that permanence for Gallin’s parents. What a tragedy.
Feeling the lateness of the night, I strolled back along the beach and finally sat on a bench near the parking lot. I brushed the sand from my feet and placed my shoes back on. Steve passed as I walked to my car, giving a toot on his horn. I waved back, always grateful for his presence.
I lowered the vinyl top and turned on the ignition but couldn't free my mind from the horror of the session. I reminded myself supervision with Dr. Prader was tomorrow—and that all my flashbacks and flooding emotions would be explored there. I’d have to tolerate everything till then.
I drove home in what felt like seconds. After taking a long, soapy shower, I slipped into silver satin chemise, one I hadn't worn in months. I brushed my wet hair back into a ponytail while glancing at my silhouette in the mirror. As I clipped on a beaded barrette, I saw it in the reflection.
The unmistakable broad chassis of a black Cadillac.
I turned around and ran to the bedroom window, seeing the dark sedan turn into my driveway.
“Who the hell is this?”
I bolted from the bedroom and ran down the hallway to the front door. By the time I deactivated the alarm and unlatched the locks, the Cadillac backed out. As I flung the door open, I saw it head down the street.
As fast as I could run, I sprinted down the steps, across the grass, and over the curb, but by the time I reached the middle of the road, the car was out of sight.
“New York license plate.”
I bent over to catch my breath.
“C A X . . .”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember the rest.
“Dammit.”
I walked back to the house feeling defeated.
Luke drives a red car and has a Florida license plate, I thought to myself, closing the door. “Who is that?” I said aloud to Elvis, his tail big and bristled from the commotion.
I realized I was curious, not fearful as I’d been days ago. I wondered who I knew—friend, family or patient—that drove a similar car but couldn’t think of anyone. But I was relieved knowing what I saw was real and not imagined.
Shaking off my agitation, I re-set the house alarm, determined that I needed to be more attuned to everything in my life.
But for now, I was determined not to shut down, close off, or insulate myself.
I was emerging from a long absence.
Supervision
Tuesday, June 13th
“
What’s this?” I said opening the door to Dr. Prader’s office.
“Just got here and found it all.”
<
br /> Prader’s desk was turned upside down revealing its gray tubular steel legs. Along the walls, diplomas and artwork were upturned, as were the photos, which sat on her credenza. Two metal chairs draped with stethoscopes sat on top of the filing cabinets, which were shifted to the other side of the room. On the floor were dozens of latex gloves.
“I guess the psych interns have revolted.”
“And this is okay?” I asked.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Prader said.
“For who?”
“For them. For me. For our bonding and attachment as they go through training.”
“I enjoy a good joke, but this is kinda hostile.”
“Well, a prank is just that. Part fun. Part aggression,” Prader said. “I’ve been pretty hard on them. This is their way of getting me back.”
“So, this is a badge of honor?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, it’s good I don’t work here.”
“This place wouldn’t be a good fit for you, Alicia. But private practice wouldn’t work for me.” Prader signed as she tapped the desk with her foot. “Will you help me with this?”
“Sure,” I signed.
Together we upturned the desk and moved it back to its place. Spotting her white lab coat stuffed in one of the desk draws, I pulled it out with a laugh.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Apparently you’re not Dr. Susan Prader, Chief of Psychology anymore.”
Prader moved closer and narrowed her eyes to see the handwritten label over the embroidered left chest pocket. “Does that say Sarah Bellem?”
“Indeed it does.”
“Cerebellum. Very clever.”
Prader found a nearby broom and tried to sweep aside the surgical gloves, but they didn’t release their rubbery hold against the tiled floor. “I’m going to have to get maintenance up here to pick them up.”
“And to move these cabinets back,” I said, pointing to the metal behemoths. “We’ll need medical attention if we try on our own.”
Prader looked around and agreed. She moved her attention to our supervision. “So, tell me about Lucas. Did you learn more?”
“Yes. It’s as bad as something can get. He beat a man to death.”
Prader dropped the hold she had on the broom. “Damn. I was hoping for something else.”
“Me too.”
“What other things did you discover?”
“He buried the body. Been having panic attacks since.”
“Okay, so he feels bad about it.”
“He was smart about things too. Covering his tracks, wiping away his prints. Dr. Prader, he detailed so much of the crime—I was terrified and...amazed.”
“That he had such recall.”
“Yes,” I signed, afraid to say the word aloud.
Prader took both chairs down from the cabinets and draped the stethoscope around her neck. She motioned for me to sit down. “You feel safe in the session?” Prader signed.
“Luke’s on the couch. And it seems to calm him enough to explore issues,” I signed.
“Good,” Prader signed. “Did you talk about the Doctor-Patient privilege?”
“Told Luke as long as he doesn’t plan to hurt himself or anyone else, his disclosure’s protected,” I said, speaking.
“Any other violence reported?”
“I didn’t get to that yet. I’ll examine more next session.”
“Okay, good. You need explore his early childhood,” Prader signed.
“Yes, that’s already part of my treatment plan.”
“Good. What about you? Is there anything specific you’re experiencing with this patient?” Prader asked, returning to speaking.
“Got a lot of flashbacks to the session rolling around in my mind.”
“Imaging what he told you—or regarding Luke himself?”
“Visualizing what happened that night.”
“Yes, well, that’s par for the course. When I worked at Rikers, I didn’t sleep the first three months. Things I heard were horrific.”
“How’d you get through it?”
“It got easier. Less shocking over time. I used my reactions with the patients, sometimes sharing my counter-transference. Other times, I pulled the imagery as a tool to understand what the patient needed to control. Or kill off.”
“I see,” I said.
“You’ve done that before with patients, and I know you can do it with Luke. Just tell yourself to weave the frightening imagery into the psychoanalysis.”
I nodded. “Oh, and there was a car again in my driveway. I got the first few letters of the license plate,” I said.
“You know anyone who can do more digging for you?” Prader asked.
“Yes, the security guard at my office. Former cop. Shouldn’t be a big deal for him to check into this for me.”
“It’s time for us to stop, Alicia. I’ll put you in the book for next Tuesday.” She rummaged through the mess and clutter. “That is if I can find my appointment book,” she said. Without warning, Prader slapped her hands against her thighs, making her bracelets clang noisily together. “And where on God’s green earth is the phone?”
I stood in the archway of the door and glanced again at the chaos. “This still tickles your funny bone?”
“You’ve no idea.”
I left the hospital and headed back to the garage. The sun was hanging high in the sky, and I followed the form of my shadow as I walked. It was long and fluid and looked as if it was clipping at my heels. At first it reminded me of a puppy nipping at my heels. But as I stared at it longer, it took on a more malignant appearance.
The image became shapeless.
Amoebic.
Like a floating menace.
I suddenly felt uneasy again but made a mental note of my swirling reactions. By time I got to the Saab, the shadows were gone. And so were the feelings.
I phoned Steve as I made my way back to the office. When he didn’t pick up, I left a message on his voicemail.
“Hey Steve. It’s Alicia Reese. I need a favor. I’ll go into it more when I see you later, but I need a license check on a car.”
Tuesday Night
I
put in a full day at the office, working noon till seven. It’d been a tough few days since Luke’s disclosure, and I was looking forward to a quiet night. I imagined eating a late dinner of leftovers, cozying up with Elvis and reading a good book. Some P.G. Wodehouse or a Shakespeare comedy would do the trick. That’s what I needed.
Just as I approached the house, something darted out in front of me.
“Holy shit.”
I cut the wheel of the Saab hard to avoid it and jammed the brakes. The car stopped against the curb, scraping the front bumper. When I jumped out, I saw something on the side of the road.
“AJ—you all right?” I asked.
“I twisted my fucking ankle.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else, honey?”
“I’m not your fucking honey,” AJ said with a snarl.
“Well, I’m-not-your-fucking-honey, are you cut or bleeding?”
“No. Just my ankle,” she said, wrapping her hands around her foot.
“Okay, up you go” I hoisted her off the grass. “Can you stand?”
AJ balanced herself against me and pressed her weight down on her foot. “Ow, it hurts too much.”
“All right. I’ll drive you back to the house.”
“Great. Just great,” she said hopping into the car.
“Sneaking out or sneaking back?” I asked.
AJ tossed her long, red hair back and rolled her eyes at me. “Out. Met a cute guy at the mall. Supposed to go to the movies now.”
“Well, I’m really sorry this happened, AJ.”
“Not as sorry as me.”
“So...he’s cute?” I asked, trying to shift the mood.
“Yeah.” AJ cracked a small smile. “Straight-e
dge, smart. Different from the guys I go for.”
“But don’t you think a pick you up at the front door kind of date is what you deserve? Doesn’t every girl?”
AJ said nothing as she twisted her lip ring with her tongue.
I pulled into the long driveway to the D'Amico’s and shut the ignition off. After maneuvering AJ out of the car, she tried one last ditched effort to plead her case.
“Alicia, could you say I was visiting you and I tripped at your house?”
“No can do.”
“Traitor.”
AJ huffed as she unlocked the front door, and as soon as we entered the house, she pushed herself away from me. She limped toward her room cursing, and soon, the sound of a door slamming shut clipped her voice.
“Oh, snap,” Isaiah said as he poked his head out of the bedroom door, hearing the commotion.
In next to no time, Melanie and Chris walked into the foyer from the kitchen.
“Alicia, what’s going on?” Melanie asked.
“I, uh, don’t know how to say this, but I almost hit her with my car.”
“She sneaked out again?” Chris asked shaking her head.
Melanie tightened her lips and muttered something under her breath. She looked hard at Chris and left to check on AJ.
“This kid’s too much to handle,” Chris said to me. “Mel’s just about done with things.”
“Can’t we keep trying, Mom,” Isaiah said, grabbing Chris’ hand.
“We will. But listen, I want you to go back to your room for now.”
“Aw, okay.” Before Isaiah left, he turned to me and whispered, “Guess it’s your turn to be a broken arrow, Alicia.”
“Chris, I think her ankle’s sprained. She should get checked at the hospital.”
“Yeah, we’ll take her.”
“And I damaged my car.”
“How bad?”
“Scraped the bumper. I wouldn’t even bother filing an accident claim, but with everything going on with AJ and the courts, maybe we need to go by the book for this.”
Chris sighed. “Good idea.”
“Want me to stay with Isaiah while you guys take AJ?”
“No. Mel will stay home. I’ll field this one.”
The Ninth Session Page 7
