The Ninth Session

by Deborah Serani

  y the time I arrived home after supervision, the thoughts of Lucas Ferro and the worries faded from my mind. I peeled off my clothes, slipped into a long t-shirt, and washed away the remains of the day. While I started making dinner for myself, I wondered why Elvis wasn’t under my feet, pawing for his food.

  “El,” I called.

  Hearing nothing, I stopped midway of my sandwich-making and looked for him in his bed.

  “Elvis?” I said louder.

  I stepped into the hallway searching with my eyes. Seeing nothing, I walked into my bedroom and looked in his favorite hiding places. Under the bed. In the shower stall. Beneath the tiny space under Ryan’s dresser. He was nowhere to be found.

  Knowing Elvis could never resist the sounds of the can opener, I walked back into the kitchen and grabbed a can of food from the cabinet. “C’mon, buddy, chicken and giblets.”

  Still nothing.

  I heard a rapping at the front door and a sudden faint voice.

  “Just a minute,” I yelled out and ran back to the bedroom to pull on my bathrobe. I ran back to the bedroom and pulled on a bathrobe. I hurried back to the door and placed my eye onto the peephole. As I tried to focus on the figure outside, the doorbell rang.

  “Helloooo?”

  “Hey, Isaiah,” I said, opening the door.

  “Elvis has left the building!” he said with a broad smile.

  Turning my attention to the cat I said, “So there you are.” Elvis wiggled out of Isaiah’s arms and bolted into the house.

  “Found him in our yard again, Alicia.”

  “He shimmied the window. Again? But I left it just a couple of inches open.”

  “Don’tcha think Houdini’s a better name for him than Elvis?” Isaiah asked, brushing cat fur from his shirt.

  “He is a better escape artist than he is a singer. That’s for sure.”

  “Why do you think he’s always coming to my house?”

  “Well, your house is the place to be,” I said, touching his cheek. “Even I like it there.”

  Isaiah was one of two foster children who lived with Chris and Melanie D'Amico. Together, they owned several Best-Buy franchises in Nassau County and had all the latest media and gaming technology. To say it was a cool place to live was an understatement. It was heaven for kids and tech-geeks alike.

  I motioned for Isaiah to come into the kitchen. “I’m making a sandwich. Want one?”

  “Nah, I’m not hungry.”

  “How about another game of Scrabble? I’ve been holding back on kicking your butt, y’know.”

  Isaiah considered the offer for a moment. “Nuh-uh. My moms are gonna be lookin’ for me. I didn’t tell them I was coming here.”

  “Really? You better head on back.”

  As Isaiah nodded in agreement, shadows made a way across the street. We caught the shapes simultaneously. It was his mother, Chris, and his foster sister, AJ.

  “Uh oh. I’m busted.”

  Soon, they were at the door.

  “I see you have my broken arrow,” Chris said.

  “Isaiah was just returning Elvis back home. He managed to get out again today,” I said hoping to smooth the awkward moment.

  She smiled and then narrowed her eyes toward Isaiah. “Saiah, you have to let us know you’re leaving the house.”

  “But...I told AJ,” Isaiah fibbed while looking at AJ for support.

  “Yeah, uh, you didn’t tell me that,” AJ replied, sneering playfully at him.

  “Thanks, traitor,” Isaiah said and ran off to play with Elvis who was up in the loft. Soon AJ followed.

  Chris allowed Isaiah and AJ the moment and turned her attention toward me. “You got time for me on your couch, Doc?” Chris laughed.

  “Still having trouble with AJ, huh?

  Aurora Jean Sheridan, or AJ as she liked to be called, was an emergency foster care placement. AJ’s parents, George and Anita, struggled with heroin addiction—and as they recovered in a local rehab, Child Protective Services relocated AJ with Mel and Chris. I had met AJ several times since she arrived, and she struck me as precocious and street-smart. Her wild, long red hair and mischievous eyes gave her an alluring beauty—making her seem older than her sixteen years. She was a handful, no formal diagnosis needed.

  Chris touched her hand to her forehead as if she was suddenly afflicted with fever. “She ran off two nights ago. Got herself a lip-ring in the city. I’m sure that’ll go over great at the next court date.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Next week,” Chris said. “But who knows if she’ll still be with us. The judge might just place her in juvenile hall if she can’t work with the no-leave rule we got going in the house.”

  I’d been around AJ enough to see she wouldn’t be staying with the D'Amico’s long. She clearly didn't like being under the direction of anyone else’s rules but her own. And it sounded like Chris and Mel were realizing that now too.

  “And now this one thinks he can just take off and go anywhere too,” Chris said arching her eyebrows toward Isaiah.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, Alicia, but no. Sometimes we can make a difference. Sometimes we can’t.”

  I nodded, agreeing.

  Chris yelled out to Isaiah and AJ. “Let’s go, guys!”

  Within seconds, they hurdled down the stairs.

  “I win,” Isaiah said, sliding on his knees to the door first.

  “Not yet, dweeb,” AJ replied, her red curls wild in her face as she ran past him, out the front door, and into a tree along the walkway. “I win,” she yelled.

  “Enough,” Chris said to Isaiah, lifting him from the floor.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “Sorry about the Elvis thing. I really don’t know how he was able to get out again,” I told Chris.

  “No, worries,” Chris said as she opened the door to leave.

  As they passed over the threshold, I held out my hand and waited for a high-five from Isaiah. He jumped up and smacked it hard.

  “G’night guys,” I said.

  I watched as Chris and Isaiah walked down the steps, arm in arm. Just before they walked onto the street Isaiah asked, “What’s a broken arrow, Mom?”

  “It’s a military term. A broken arrow doesn’t fly straight, so the military uses it as a code for a nuclear threat,” Chris said, tousling his hair.

  “A broken arrow doesn’t fly straight? That’s tight,” AJ said jumping down from a limb. “Can we try that? Shoot a broken arrow?”

  “Not on my watch,” Chris said as they faded into the night.

  I closed the door, locked the bolt, and looked at my own broken arrow, who was now chowing down on his dinner. “You are so totally grounded, mister.”

  I legged it up the stairs and found the window open just as I’d left it, about two inches wide. No way he’d get out. But the screen was gone, and I saw claw marks on the sill and stray tufts of black fur on the floor. Tell-tale signs Elvis really might have pulled a Houdini.

  Maybe he was able to squeeze it open enough to get through it?

  I opened the window wider and eyed his escape route. A few small jumps from the roof to the overhanging soffit, and down the gutter.

  I slammed the window shut, locked it, and pulled the toggle to the ceiling fan. I watched the string sway back and forth as I walked downstairs.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said as Elvis crept past me back to the loft.

  Session Two

  Wednesday, June 7

  F

  erro said nothing but offered a thin smile as he entered the office. He was more casually dressed today, wearing a red short-sleeved polo shirt and frayed jeans. Again he was sock-less but in sneakers this time.

  “How’ve you been since our last session?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  “That’s good.” I watched him take a seat. “So your anxiety level’s less today?”
<
br />   “Yeah. Better. I have a feeling you could really help me.”

  “Really?”

  “Something about you,” he said, tossing his car keys on the table next to him.

  I looked closely and saw an insignia on the key fob but couldn’t tell what it was.

  “Our first session was rough,” he said, swallowing and staring off. “I totally fell apart.”

  “It was demanding. For both of us, I think.”

  Ferro looked around the room and then back at me. “You really took care of me. Made me feel safe. And you’re easy to talk to.”

  I said nothing, wanting him to continue.

  “That’s important for me. To be comfortable.”

  “To feel safe too,” I said, peering again at the key fob.

  Ferro followed my gaze with his own eyes. He sensed my preoccupation with the car keys and picked them up. “You drive a Porsche too?”

  I cleared my throat, feeling embarrassed. “Actually, I don’t. What kind do you have?”

  “Boxster,” he said. “My baby.”

  “Nice. Is that the only car you drive?”

  Ferro clasped the keys tightly in his hand. “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, Lucas, I’ve been asking each person I work with if they drive a black car.” I paused to consider my next sentence. “I saw one in my driveway a few nights ago, and it frightened me.”

  Ferro stiffened but said nothing.

  “It’s not unusual for patients to be curious about where their therapist lives,” I said, setting up the out if he needed it.

  Again, Ferro remained motionless.

  “I just need to find out who it is so we can talk about it.” I tried to be delicate. “You know, to find out the psychological meaning behind the visit.”

  Ferro placed the keys in his pocket and leveled his eyes to mine. “I don’t own a black car, Dr. Reese. Mine’s red.”

  There was tension in the air for a few moments. My mind wandered to supervision with Prader and how we considered my unsteadiness as coming from within myself. Not from outside sources.

  “Okay then.” I considered Ferro might feel offended and wanted to spare him any further discomfort. “Hope you can forgive the directness of my question.”

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “Good. I just needed to get that out in the open.”

  Ferro eased back into his chair. “You see, this is what I mean. There’s an honesty about you. Makes me feel like I could tell you anything.”

  I stepped back into the analytic rhythm. “You didn’t feel that in therapy before?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel it here.” I turned toward my desk and pulled out Ferro's file. “Let’s get things started then.”

  After going over how treatment works, getting a medical history, signing releases, arranging weekly payments, and finding three standing appointment times, we were ready to go.

  “Okay, Lucas. Tell me a little about yourself.”

  “Well, I’m twenty-seven.”

  My eyes widened, inviting him to speak further.

  “Just started working at the Long Island Tribune.”

  There was a long pause, and I watched as he winced, unable to pull out a conversational thread. “What do you do at the Tribune?”

  “Staff writer.”

  I waited to hear more, but Ferro quieted again. I sensed he needed more guidance and structure, so I became more active in the session. “Did you study journalism in college?”

  “Yeah. But originally, I was a business major.”

  “Why the change?”

  “Found business really boring.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I never took a business course. So, don't go by me.”

  “Trust me. It was dull.”

  “What didn’t you like?”

  “For starters, I didn’t wanna major in it.”

  I blinked hard and shook my head. “So, how’d that happen?”

  “Family business. Family pressure. Rule the kingdom kinda thing.”

  “What business is your family in?”

  “Ice.”

  “Ice?” I asked.

  “King Ice. My great grandfather, Robert Kingston, started it in the early 1900’s. We supply ice to places like the Fulton Fish Market, to stores and restaurants in the city and upstate New York. Block ice. Bulk ice. Turbo Ice.”

  “Turbo ice? Never heard of that.”

  “Nuggets of ice, for drinks and stuff,” Ferro explained. “Ice is big business.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Over fifty million last year.”

  “Wow. So, why not be part of the kingdom?”

  Ferro sighed. “I like spending as much time away from my family as possible. The business wasn’t for me. Besides, my brothers are the blue bloods. They run things now.”

  “I see.” I didn’t want to go too deep too soon, so I kept the interview light. “So, you ditch business and turn to journalism?”

  “Yeah. Sophomore year I took a couple of writing courses. Found I liked them—so I changed my major.” He held his gaze and looked at me. “After I graduated, I worked at The Miami Press for a while.”

  “So, what brings you back here to New York? The Tribune job?”

  “Actually, my mom died.” Ferro cleared away a catch in his throat. “This past January.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “No.”

  “What happened, Lucas?”

  “Long story.”

  “If this isn’t a place for long stories, I don’t know where else is.”

  Ferro nodded and lowered his head as if to collect his thoughts. Soon he raised his eyes to mine. “There was an accident in the factory—and my mother died. She was in the wrong place, wrong time. Typical for her.”

  “What do you mean, typical?”

  “My mother was very hands-on in the business. Pushing and controlling everything.” His tone was flat, unemotional.

  “Where’d she push herself?”

  “I’ll give you a great example. In the morning, she’d always be on the loading dock, making sure every cubic inch of space was filled with ice. Making sure every truck had a solid day’s work of deliveries. She had this nasty attitude and didn’t care if she made employees uncomfortable.” As Ferro finished speaking, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Was she like this in business only?”

  “No. She was difficult virtually everywhere—and with virtually everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother was a difficult person. And you didn’t have to know her for her to be terrible to you.”

  I nodded and moved my hand forward, gesturing him to continue.

  “She’d do things to strangers. For no reason. Like, stop in the entrance of a busy store to redo her lipstick. Or tie her shoe. She didn’t care she was causing a commotion or if people were inconvenienced.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Intentionally be a thorn in someone’s side?”

  “Exactly.”

  I sat back and began sorting the information. With more inquiry, I’d come to know if this was true or if his perceptions were off the mark. Consistency in a person's narrative helps a therapist formulate what's real in a patient's life.

  “If she knew the person behind her on the checkout line was in a rush, she’d deliberately sabotage things,” he said.

  “Like how?”

  “Pay for something and then decide to have it voided. Use coins instead of dollars. Shit like that.”

  “How’d you know she was doing these things deliberately?”

  “She’d tell us.”

  “Really?”

  Ferro raised his voice a register. “Did you see how mad that guy was when I made the cashier ring up the groceries in three separate payments?”

  My eyes widened taking this in.

  “Make me mad, you’ll pay in spades she�
��d always say.”

  “Sounds like your mother’s a hostile person.”

  “Oh yeah. And no one was off limits.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “She was an equal opportunity bitch. From dumping on employees to trashing her high-society friends. And everyone in between. She’d didn’t care who you were.”

  “You said she did this for no reason. You don’t really think that, do you?”

  “I guess not. She must’ve had a reason. Her brand of crazy was everywhere.”

  “How was she with you?”

  “Me?” His laugh was short and mirthless. “She made life unpleasant. Ever since I can remember.”

  “Tell me how she did this.”

  “Mostly with how she talked—and with looks,” he said, suddenly struggling for words.

  “What way did she talk to you?”

  “She’d bitch and moan about everything I did. Her recent rants were about how her grandfather started this business and how it was a slap in the face to her—and all the Kingstons—that I had no interest in it.”

  I noticed Ferro was beginning to get emotional, and, little by little, his tone grew more forceful.

  “She’d never let an opportunity slip by without telling me how journalism was nothing but junk food news.”

  “So, your mother didn’t like your choice of career?”

  “Not one bit,” he said. “There was no way to please her.”

  I sat quietly taking this in and began to piece together his early history.

  Sessions begin like a blank canvas. He was bringing color, texture, and tone to it.

  “You said last session you never really spoke about what bothered you. You just worked on reducing the panic with techniques with your other therapist. And yet, as I hear you talking about your mother, you seem bothered, agitated.”

  “That’s for shit sure.”

  Stillness, if used skillfully on a therapist’s part, can allow a patient’s thoughts and feelings to build and evolve. I fell quiet and waited to see where he would go within himself—and where he would take me as the session continued.

  “As a little kid, she used to call me Luc-ass. Like, Luke’s an ass.”

  “Terrible.”

  “The thing is, that was my mother all the way. If she didn’t like you, you knew it.”