In the dreamlike haze before I fainted, I saw Ryan.
And then he floated away.
Session Eight
Wednesday, June 21st
“
You’ve never worked with anyone like me, right?”
“I’ve worked many tough cases, but yes, never had a patient like you.” I watched for his reaction as he rested on the couch. He said nothing and showed even less. “How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“Just wondering.”
“It’s something new for both of us. The territory is uncharted, so to speak. But we have a plan mapped out. We have a way to keep you and others safe. And we have trust.”
“Yeah.”
“All of these things allow us to do good analytic work. And that’s all that matters.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Well, I’m hoping you can.”
Luke shrugged.
“Your panic brought you here. And you’re secrets will set you free.”
“I have been feeling better.”
“And don’t lose sight of the fact since your mother died, there haven’t been urges.”
“Yeah,” he said, absorbed in thought.
“Sometimes the hard thing to do and the right thing to do are one and the same. It’s painful coming to terms with all you’ve done, but it’s the right way to help you.”
“No pain, no gain.”
“In a matter of speaking, yes.”
The room grew quiet, and I waited for Luke to bring something forth. When he didn’t, I guided the session to a subject of importance.
“I want to talk about what was going at the time Donald Gallin was killed.”
“Okay.”
“What was happening with you and your mother?”
I watched as Luke closed his eyes. He folded his arms and crossed his ankles. The room was tranquil. The windows were open, with sounds of water and wind chimes filling the air. And the orange haze from the setting sun fell in slices through the blinds, their shafts of light bending on the carpet—softening his state of mind.
“My last year in college,” he said, finding the timeline. “And that semester, I was really sick. Had an ulcer. Almost lost my internship.”
I stayed quiet, letting the regression deepen. I didn’t want to interrupt the resurrection of these memories by asking questions.
Memories link to associations. Associations link to conflict. Conflict leads to trauma. And trauma leads to answers.
That’s the power of psychoanalysis.
“When I was a little kid, Eleanor would give me the empty coffee cans instead of throwing them out. I’d play with them. Hit them with spoons, like drums. I remember one time, I took one of the cans outside, and I put this big spider I found in it. I stood by the garage and rolled it all the way down the driveway. When I opened up the can to let the spider out, it kinda walked in circles, like it was dizzy.”
“You were just talking about being in school and having an ulcer. Then you jump to a memory about a dizzy spider. In that last year of college, were you feeling dizzy or unable to find your way—like the spider?”
“During that semester, my parents were updating their wills. Phone calls back and forth. Conference calls with lawyers. Lotsa bullshit. My parents wanted to leave everything to me and my brothers equally with the house. The money. But I was mad about how they were breaking down the business.”
“What was going on?”
“My mother wanted me to only get a small holding in the business. My brothers would get the lion’s share.”
“How was that structured?”
“Forty, forty, twenty.”
“Forty percent to each of your brothers and twenty percent to you?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the reasoning for this?”
“Well, like I said, I didn’t really have an interest in the business. My brothers worked directly in it, running the whole show. My father wanted us to share the business equally, but my mother was her usual controlling self. I kinda felt it was my mother’s way of punishing me since I was hell-bent on doing something different with my life.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“I was pissed off.”
“Your brothers feel the same way?”
“They thought it wasn’t fair either. They were making big salaries in addition to the shareholding. They felt we should be even shareholders. They knew what my mother was doing.”
“Sounds like it was rough on you.”
“It was a bad time. I remember my mother leaving me messages on my phone saying she and Dad were fighting. Telling me how I was ruining the Ferro legacy. Shit like that. After a while, I’d just delete the messages the second I heard her voice. It was like she was giving me a play-by-play of her misery.”
“I see.”
“Dad would call to check up on me, but I didn’t want to talk to him either. Didn’t want to deal with any of it. I had such a hard time studying for classes. Even went to the infirmary a few times. They gave me some tests and they found the ulcer. I was a freakin’ mess. Couldn’t get to class. Missed a lot of days at my internship.”
“Like the spider, you couldn’t find your way.”
“Stupid rich people and their fortunes. Money doesn’t buy happiness. By the end of the spring semester, I was done with the bullshit. I called my parents and my brothers to tell them to just leave it forty, forty, twenty. I didn’t care anymore.”
Something long hidden was now surfacing. Luke’s eyes fixed into an unblinking stare.
“I remember wishing my mother would drop dead. I even told her that.”
“You told her you wished she was dead?”
“Yeah, I said, drop dead you stupid fuck. It was the first time I told her how I really felt, and it was the last time I ever spoke to her. I hated her so fucking much.”
Luke was upset but in control.
“I dumped my phone and got another cell so no one could bother me anymore. I just graduated, had a job, and I didn’t need anyone’s money anymore. I had my own.”
“So you cut yourself off from them.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you think this links with what happened to Donald Gallin?”
“No clue, Dr. Reese.”
“You’re upset with your mother, wishing she was dead. Even saying it to her. But you can’t kill her off.”
“But I can hurt someone like her. Is that it?”
“Yes,” I said, moved by his insight. “You found someone to fill in for your mother.”
“Gallin was in the wrong place, wrong time.”
“Right.”
“He was an easier target for me. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I didn’t care about.”
“Yes.”
“And how he acted reminded me of all the things I hated.”
“That’s called displacement. Taking something you want to do to a person—but act it out with another person.”
“I get it.”
“It’s important we look at what happened with Penny and Gallin as part of a systematic cycle, Luke. We need to understand the psychic structures that made those things happen. It’s about understanding who you were then, who you are now, and who you are becoming.”
Breathing slowly in and out, Luke said nothing, but I felt he was taking in every single word I said.
“What happened to the spider?” I asked.
“I took him out of the can.”
“You did?”
“Yeah—and I let him go.”
And there it was.
I hoped the metaphor ignited his insight. How he was both the spider and the one rolling the can.
The abuser and the victim.
And by letting go, he abandons both roles.
I heard Luke’s breathing intensify and his body stiffen and constrict. But this was different. The sputtering and huffing weren�
��t from panic—but from the full force of catharsis.
Luke wept in waves of anguish, disgust, and shame.
It’s never easy watching someone go through that.
I sat still, wishing something curative would happen in the moment.
I watched Luke sob for the remainder of the session.
And waited.
Notes
Encouraged by Luke’s ability to use insight to examine disturbing experiences. Was able to tolerate comparing Gallin to his mother.
Talked about an early childhood spider/can game. I feel that this game is a metaphor for his life. Trapped. Controlled.
Continue to teach Luke about his maladaptive defenses.
Will continue to explore Luke’s earliest memories in the next session.
What other traumas are there?
Would like to learn about healthy moments in his life.
Is it possible to detect when psychopathy emerged?
Transference: Still positive.
Counter-transference: Positive and guarded. But feeling energized by the clinical work. Patient is capable of deep thinking. But remember—don’t let this cloud awareness that he’s a psychopath
Relevant issues: Symbol of PAPER again. The final straw that pushed Luke over the edge was about shareholding, paper holding.
Dangerous behavior pattern unfolds in the following way:
- Humiliation and/or ridicule = collapse of the self.
- Then rage evolves into need for complete annihilation of the person responsible for setting into motions these experiences.
Prognosis: Guarded, but hopeful.
Wednesday Night
I
was so pleased with how Luke’s session went, I decided to treat myself to a dinner at Walls Wharf down the road.
I thought about getting a table outside by the water and ordering some Firecracker Shrimp and a glass of East End Sauvignon Blanc from the Jamesport Winery.
On the weekends during high season, you couldn’t get near Walls. But it was a Wednesday night. And if by some chance I was wrong about it being slow, I’d get my meal and sit on the beach itself. They did that sometimes for the locals.
Before closing the office, I phoned Dr. Prader to touch base.
“Dr. Susan Prader,” she answered.
“Dr. Prader? What are you doing in the office so late? I expected to get your answering service.”
“Started teaching a workshop in my office on Wednesdays for the Postdoc Institute—and just finished up,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“I was going to leave you a message that my session with Luke went well.”
“So very, very good to hear that, Alicia,”
“Listen, I won’t keep you. I’ll see you next week for supervision.”
After ending the call, I gathered my belongings, locked up the suite, and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The building, as usual, was unoccupied at this hour, but I knew Steve would be somewhere making his rounds.
Before getting into the Saab, I made another quick phone call.
“Hi, Mel. It’s Alicia.”
“Hey there. What’s doin?”
“I’m getting home a little late tonight—and I was wondering if Isaiah would feed Elvis?”
“Actually, ‘saiah is out with Chris at a Mets game. But I’m home here with AJ. She and I can go over and take care of that.”
“Great. His kibble’s in a bin on the counter.”
“You mean the one I’ve seen a hundred times that says Cat Food?”
“Yes, smart ass. And don’t let Elvis talk you into giving him a second scoop. He gets pushy when I’m not around.”
“Okay, I will.”
“Thanks, Mel. Appreciate it.”
“Nice to hear you’re going out, Alicia.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only dinner by myself. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Baby steps, my friend,” Melanie said.
“Speaking of baby steps, how’s things with AJ?”
“The brace on her ankle slows her down, which is good because she’s still grounded.”
“How’s she doing with that?”
“Pretty good. She tests me and Chris, but for the most part, she seems to be in good spirits. AJ’s talking with this new guy a lot on the phone. When I hear the conversation, it sounds sweet. No bad language or plans to ditch the rules here. They talk about video games, movies, and things like that.”
“Sounds really great, Mel. Maybe all your limit setting and loving concern is making a difference.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” she said before hanging up.
I slipped into the car, cranked the ignition, and pushed the gearshift into drive. I passed Steve as he looped around the security kiosk and tooted my horn.
He honked back.
I turned onto Main Street and headed north toward Greenwich Avenue with a flicker of hope in my heart. It was such a good day.
And it would be a good night.
I was sure of it.
Session Nine
Friday, June 23rd
“
Dr. Reese, I—I did it again.”
“What? Did what?” I asked, blinking the sleep from my eyes.
“Ohmygod. I think she’s dead.”
I bolted upright, no longer in a dreamy haze and turned on the nightstand lamp.
“Who’s dead?”
“She—she’s not breathing.”
“Jesus, check her pulse.”
Over the phone, I heard whooshing and crackling sounds.
“Nothing. I got nothing.”
“You said you’d call before things got bad.” I jumped out of bed. “Before, goddammit, before.”
“I fucked up. Please. You gotta help me.”
“Where are you?”
“Cantiague Park—by the woods.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Though it was only minutes after, I was still bound to protect Luke.
I could not break privilege.
But I did.
I changed the timeline.
“This is 911, what is your emergency?”
“I’m Dr. Alicia Reese. A patient of mine he’s—he’s with a woman. Says he’s going to kill her.”
“Is your patient with you now?”
“No, he’s not here. He’s at Cantiague Park.” I put the call on speakerphone and scrambled to put on clothes.
“Okay, Doctor, what’s your patient’s name?
“Lucas Ferro. F E R R O.” I laced up my sneakers, getting ready to go.
“Who’s he with?”
“I don’t know. A woman. He told me he’s with a woman.”
I grabbed my keys and left the house. I ran to the car, opened the door, and flung my handbag in the passenger seat. I secured the cell phone in its carrier on the dashboard, not even stopping to connect the Bluetooth—and seconds later raced out of the driveway.
“He’s at Cantiague Park?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes! Check the wooded areas,” I said, flooring the car’s gas pedal.
“First responders are on route and we’re alerting Park Security. Doctor, describe your patient?”
“Twenty seven. Black hair, blue eyes, muscular build, about six feet.”
At this late hour, Route 107 was empty, which was good because my driving reached breakneck speeds.
“You’re at 917-555-0344?”
“Yes, yes, my cell. I’m on my way there.”
“Doctor, stay on the line.”
“I will,” I said and whipped around a curve in the road.
I flew past the 106 merge, going through red lights and blowing past slower cars on the shoulder. Taking the fork by the Broadway Mall, I clipped a traffic sign, knocking it out of the ground.
“I’m almost there,” I said to the dispatcher.
“We have cruisers on the grounds, Doctor.”
The mile to the park felt so out of reach, so far away.
Suddenly, a police car whizzed by with sirens blazing and red lights pulsing. I followed behind it and increased my speed.
“I’m behind car 214,” I said to the dispatcher.
“Okay, I’ll let them know.”
In seconds, I saw the officer’s right hand rise up to wave in the rearview mirror. Together, we rocketed the rest of the way, turning sharply at West John Street and again into the park entrance.
As we screeched to a halt in the parking lot by the hockey rink, two detectives emerged from the crowd.
“Dr. Alicia Reese?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Skolnik. This is Detective Lombardi.”
I shook their hands.
“Tell me why we’re here,” Lombardi asked, leading us away.
“Got a call from a patient. Said he was gonna hurt this woman.”
“This a dangerous patient of yours?” Skolnik asked.
“We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Right,” Skolnik said. “This patient got a name?”
“Lucas Ferro.”
“What about the girl?” Lombardi said.
“I don’t know anything about her. He’s in the park. In the woods somewhere.”
Skolnik and Lombardi looked at each other non-plussed. Without warning, their walkie-talkies blared out. “Got some clothes over by the golf course. Hole five,” a voice said.
“Copy,” Lombardi replied.
The three of us took off on foot. The golf course was dark, but we ran down the pavement toward the first tee using the distant beams of the searchlights as a guide. There was chatter from the walkie-talkies, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. I just wanted to keep up with the detectives.
The greens were wet from the muggy summer air, and my feet were soaked by the time we reached the second tee. As we closed in on the second hole, we cut across the fairway along with several other officers who fanned out in different directions.
The shortcut took us right to the fifth hole. Breathless and sweaty, I followed as the running slowed to a stop. Near a sand trap by the woods, beams of flashlights gathered together. Four officers circled around something, and as I got closer, I saw a body.
The Ninth Session Page 11
