The Ninth Session

by Deborah Serani

  “I know.”

  “The best we can do in our line of work is to offer the possibility for change. It's up to the patient to take that further.”

  I tried to control my reeling emotions, but tears flowed out of me.

  “It’s all right,” she said, handing me a tissue.

  I choked on my words in-between breaths, ultimately saying nothing.

  Prader brought her index finger to her mouth and crossed both hands together at the wrists. Then she dropped her arms slowly and gently back to her sides. This sign has many meanings:

  Quiet.

  Be still.

  Peaceful.

  After a while, I was able to find my voice.

  “Susan, I told the police a lie.” I rarely called Dr. Prader by her first name, and when I did, it was usually at a most pressing moment.

  “A lie?”

  “Luke called me after he killed AJ.”

  Prader’s eyes narrowed as she thought about my words. “You’re saying you found out after-the-fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your patient did not call you to say he was thinking of hurting someone. He called you after?”

  “That’s what I'm saying. When Luke called me, I realized therapy would never help him. So I lied to the police. I changed the timeline.”

  “But you violated privilege, Alicia. You’ll lose your license when this gets out.” Prader rubbed her forehead as another consideration raced into her thoughts. “Luke’s lawyers will eat you alive.”

  “I'm not worried about that.”

  “Alicia, you’re not thinking clearly. This is a terrible error in judgment. You’re going to lose everything. Haven’t you lost enough?”

  “Stop. Enough,” I signed fast and hard. “I know this is bad. But, I have nothing to lose.”

  “Alicia, how can you think you’ll lose nothing?” Prader signed.

  “If you can hold my confession in confidence, no one will ever know that I lied,” I signed back. I looked hard at Prader. “And Luke isn’t going to tell anyone anything,” I said moving back to speaking.

  “You haven’t been able to control this patient from day one, and suddenly you're an expert on what he is and isn’t going to tell?” Prader asked.

  “I know what you’re thinking—the right thing would’ve been to stop treatment with Luke. But I didn't do that, Susan. I made the decision to stop him.”

  Prader remained quiet, and the silence stretched out painfully. She turned away from me, swiveling her chair to the side. I couldn’t read her body language, and I worried if she was responding in disgust or if she just needed space to think things through.

  Dr. Prader was like a loving, wise mother to me. Not only was I admitting the truth to my mentor, but I felt the shame of disappointing a cherished parent.

  “How do you know Luke won't tell his lawyers about your breach?” she signed,

  “I don't want to involve you more than you already are. Just know I can keep myself safe,” I signed back.

  Prader moved closer and spoke in a serious tone. “My responsibility as your supervisor is to tell you that you need to rectify this matter—and to make certain it never happens again. If you assure me of that, there’s no need for me to go outside of this room.”

  “It won't ever happen again,” I said. “You can count on that.”

  “You called her AJ. You knew this girl?”

  “She lived across the street from me.”

  “What?”

  Prader sat back in her chair, lifted her glasses to her head, and rubbed her eyes. As a stillness set in, I realized the worst was over. I was able to tell my beloved mentor and friend this terrible secret.

  “Take away all the rights and wrongs, the professional do’s and don’ts, and I’ll tell you what I really think.” She leaned forward and put her glasses back on. “I understand why you did this, Alicia. I don't agree with it, but I can make sense of it.”

  “I'm gonna slow things down in the office, refer patients out,” I told her. “Maybe close my practice.”

  “Wise decision.”

  “I’m also going to stop coming here—at least until things settle with Luke's case.”

  “I don't think stopping supervision is a good idea.”

  “I'm making a unilateral decision about this, Susan. I'll be back, but not right away.”

  I saw a tension build in her shoulders and then slowly release as our eyes met. “I’m worried about you. And about your professional future. You can't navigate all of this on your own.”

  “I know what I need to do.”

  “Then, I want you to think about resuming analysis again.”

  “I'm not going back into therapy right now. I have to get through this my own way.”

  “Well, why don’t we spend the rest of the session processing what happened with this case?”

  “No. I came today to explain what I did. You deserved to know the truth.”

  Prader rose from her chair and moved around the desk toward me. She took my hand and held it tightly, lifting me from my seat until I stood beside her.

  “All of us are much more human than otherwise,” she whispered. “We’re imperfect. Flawed.”

  And as she embraced me, I heard her bracelets jangle in and around my ears.

  I held her a long while knowing when I let go, I’d be losing so much.

  I was already missing her as I drove back to Brookville.

  Huntington Village

  Saturday, July 1

  C

  hris and Melanie planned to spend the morning at Heckscher Park while Isaiah was in day camp. I decided to meet them there—away from the news vans and chaos on the block. I’d been keeping a low profile, staying at Nicole’s, so the change of scenery was healing.

  But sometimes a series of horrifying images flared like a machine gun in rat-a-tat speed.

  AJ’s mangled face.

  Sunken dead eyes.

  Bugs crawling on her remains.

  Other times, just one scene flashed over and over in my mind.

  The moment Luke saw me in the Saab.

  And though it'd been days since it happened, I still felt the scorch of his rage.

  I was worried about returning to a park so soon after AJ’s murder, thinking the similar setting would lead to even more flashbacks. Before I left Nicole’s house, I popped a dose of Xanax from an old prescription I had when Ryan was ill. Back then, I took it when I felt panicked and helpless —when death threatened the only world I’d known. Now, in another state of ruin, the bitter taste of the pill sickened me.

  “Going to the park now,” I signed to Nicole, finding her in the backyard.

  “Okay. Take care,” Nicole signed. She walked up to me and hugged me hard. “Call if you need me.”

  I smiled, grateful.

  Nicole was my rock. Always was, always would be.

  Turning my attention to the kids who were in the pool, I teased, “Don’t turn into fishies before I come back.”

  The shrill of their laughter lightened the moment for a second.

  “Buh-bye,” they said twin-like and returned to splashing water at each other.

  Shasta, who was resting in a shady spot, usually sent me off with a lift of her head. Instead, she whimpered as I walked by.

  “Sick again?” I signed to Nicole.

  “Vet says no. Everything’s fine,” Nicole signed back.

  I leaned down and patted Shasta’s head gently. I walked to the gate, unlatched the lock, and clicked it closed just as Shasta fell back asleep again.

  The trip to the park allowed the medication to kick in, and I counted on nostalgia to bolster my soul. Heckscher was a favorite destination for my family when I was growing up. It was situated in the north coast town of Huntington—nearly seventy acres of grassland surrounded by water, brilliant flowers, and outdoor art.

  As a child, I loved the playground as well as the
small pier where the swans and ducks gathered. Nicole loved going into the museum on the park grounds, and my parents loved to view the seasonal blooms that lined the walking paths. As I got older, we visited less, though we always made sure to attend the annual Tulip festival and catch the National Theatre of the Deaf at the Harry Chapin stage when they were in town.

  Just as beautiful as I remember, I thought walking in the entrance.

  The meadows that bordered the property stretched out in the distance like lush emerald carpets, and glorious flowers tinged the air with a sweet, floral scent. I strolled down the walking path toward the playground pavilion, listening to the sounds of children’s laughter with each step. I noticed how the old stone bridge and the gazebo were still in one piece—and how regal the Museum looked in the midst of the landscaped grounds.

  “So far, so good,” I said, cheering myself on.

  As I walked further, a loose-limbed feeling settled in, and I felt my worries lighten. I thanked the side effects of the Xanax as I strolled to the pond. Soon I saw Chris and Melanie tossing snippets of bread to a pair of geese and their goslings wading in the water.

  “Alicia,” Chris called, catching my presence out of the corner of her eye.

  I raised my hand and I headed toward them.

  “How are you?” Chris asked, hugging me hard as we met.

  Before I had a chance to answer, Melanie leveled her eyes to mine and asked, “You doin’ all right?”

  “Could be better. But how are you all doing? Jesus, this has been so horrible.”

  Chris and Melanie looked at each other. Their sunken eyes and sloped shoulders told me they were faring just a well as I was—which was terrible.

  “So much I wanna talk about...but I don’t even know where to begin,” I said.

  Chris sat next to me and rubbed my back in soft circular strokes while Melanie stood in front of us, wiping away stray tears.

  “First, tell me, how’s Isaiah?” I asked.

  “He’s fine,” Chris said. “Don’t you agree, Mel?”

  “Yeah, he’s doing okay.”

  “We actually decided to keep AJ’s murder away from him for now,” Chris finally explained.

  A long pause set in.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “A lot of reasons, Alicia,” Melanie said. “He wasn’t around when the media came by, and no one in the neighborhood besides you, knew AJ was living with us.”

  “The press hasn’t made the foster care connection,” Chris continued.

  “But what about the police?” I asked.

  “They showed up twice. Each time when Isaiah was in camp,” Chris said. “And they said they’d work with us to minimize any future exposure to him.”

  “What have you told Isaiah?” I asked.

  “We said AJ went back to live with her parents,” Melanie said.

  “Isaiah’s just so young,” Chris said.

  “We thought it’d be traumatic to explain it,” Melanie said.

  “Have the police told you how AJ and Ferro knew each other?” I asked.

  “The Computer Forensic Unit told us they talked and texted,” Chris said.

  “He was this straight-edge, nice guy AJ said she met at the mall,” Melanie said.

  Nice guy, I thought to myself.

  “The detectives working the case said they met a few weeks ago at the mall. Got video of it,” Chris said.

  “But they didn’t meet by chance,” I said. “That’s not possible.”

  “Yeah, I agree.” Melanie thought further. “Was Ferro stalking you?”

  “Considered that,” I said. “Even followed him home to see if his car was there when I had that feeling.”

  “And was it?” Melanie asked.

  “It was. I’d been seeing this Cadillac at work and here at the house.” I stopped for a moment to recollect the images. “You guys ever see a long black caddy here in the neighborhood?”

  Melanie and Chris shook their heads.

  “That night where you almost hit AJ as she sneaked out, that must’ve been him,” Melanie said.

  “I never saw who was driving—or the color of the car. The brights flew on and off,” I said.

  “It was a red car. I saw it when it sped off from the window,” Chris said looking at Melanie.

  “Ferro drives a red Porsche,” I replied.

  “Yeah, it was a Porsche, for sure,” Chris said.

  “Guess he was making sure I didn’t recognize him by flashing those lights.”

  “Jesus, he was right there. Right our house,” Chris said.

  “I feel so awful…” My voice trailed off. “His working with me—how could I know AJ was in danger?”

  “You couldn’t, Ali,” Chris said.

  “He was a bad, bad guy,” I said, drifting off. The Xanax in full effect now, muting my sadness and my remorse.

  We sat for a while in the quiet, each of us tearful and lost.

  “We thought we’d grab lunch at Prime. Catch up on things,” Melanie said, breaking the painful silence.

  “I’m terrible company,” I said.

  “No, you have to come,” Chris said.

  I shook my head firmly. “Go have a nice lunch. Count your blessings. I’ll take a raincheck.” I looked back where Melanie and Chris were feeding the goslings. “Got any more bread?”

  Melanie reached into a tote and pulled out a plastic bag. “Just cheerios left. They really like them.”

  “Thanks, I’ll spend some time here before going back to Nicole’s.”

  I walked toward the pond as Chris and Melanie walked in the opposite direction hand in hand. And when they were out of sight, I peeled open the re-sealable zipper and tossed the little oat rings into the water. I watched the geese and goslings feed, taking simple delight in their little down faces dipping in and out of the water.

  When there was no cereal left, my thoughts turned dark.

  Sorrow overcame me.

  I was blunted by loss.

  And felt so much shame.

  For a fleeting second, I wondered how many pills of Xanax were left in the bottle in my handbag.

  And how deep the water was.

  Mineola

  Wednesday, July 5

  T

  he subpoena directed me to appear at nine o’clock a.m. in Grand Jury Room 356—and to bring any and all documents contained in the clinical records of Lucas R. Ferro to the proceedings.

  I managed to find a parking space in the tiny lot and slipped four hours of quarters in the meter. It was a hot summer morning, so I walked slowly through the hedge-lined pathway to County Criminal Court Building.

  As I neared the main entrance, I thought about what I read in the morning newspaper about Luke—that he'd been the target of several brawls at the Nassau County Correctional Center in East Meadow. How he was placed into a more restrictive setting for his own safety. Luke would be alone for twenty-three hours of the day, only having one hour out of the cell to shower, eat, or make calls.

  I thought about AJ’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, and how broken they were by the murder of their daughter. As I opened the heavy glass entry doors, I wondered if their addiction recovery worsened or improved with this unbearable loss.

  Stepping into the building, I brushed my hair to the side and squared the collar of my cotton shirt. I took in a deep breath as I tried to push away everything I felt inside.

  The lobby entrance was full of activity with court officers waving scanners around, people moving through metal detectors. Past the check-in area I saw lawyers conferring with clients, families huddling together, photographers checking their cameras, and reporters taking notes. Down the far end of the lobby, broad-shouldered security guards insisted on quiet as people neared the courtroom doors.

  I was grateful no one recognized me. I quietly made my way through the metal detector and to the elevators that took me to the building’s third floor. A sign indicate
d Room 356 was at the far end of the East wing of the building. As I reached it, the door was open, and the space was unoccupied.

  It was a rather non-descript area, beige-painted walls with similarly colored tiled flooring, a dozen or so mismatched metal chairs, and a small table tucked in the corner. As I stood by the archway of the room, I double-checked the number on the door.

  “You’re in the right place,” a voice called out.

  I turned to find a thin young man approaching me. He was dressed in a well-cut blue suit, a white shirt, and a neatly knotted silk tie.

  “I’m Assistant District Attorney Jeremy Clark. You must be Dr. Reese.”

  “Yes, Alicia Reese.” I reached out to shake his hand.

  “No need to be nervous, Dr. Reese. I’ll walk you through it all,” he said, escorting me into the room. “This is the grand jury waiting room. The official proceedings take place across the hall, where we’ll go in a little while.”

  He pulled two chairs close together and gestured for me to join him.

  “You brought the files we requested?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have them right here.” I tapped my briefcase with my fingertips.

  “Great, may I see them?”

  “Of course.”

  Clark took out a pad and a pen from his chest pocket and jotted some notes as he looked over the file. He had such a youthful face, but as I lingered longer on him, I saw the beginning flecks of gray peek through his jet-black hair, and soft wrinkles surrounded his equally dark eyes. I smelled the faint scent of cigarettes and coffee on his breath as he spoke again.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. The Grand Jury room is about as large as this one. There are twenty-three jurors, sitting in chairs just like these, a court reporter and court officer and myself. No judge. No defense attorney. And in case you were worried, no defendant either. You’ll sit in the witness bench, which is nothing more than a chair with some window dressing around it. I’ll be asking you questions about what happened that night with Ferro. And here’s the important part—don’t look at me when you answer questions. I want you to look directly at the jurors when giving your testimony, okay?”