“Sorry I finished last,” Madison said as she came up to the desk and placed her exam on top of the pile.
Riley let her chair fall forward and smiled. “No worries. I’m sure it will be the best one I read.”
“Are you teaching in the fall?” she asked.
“No. Maybe next spring.”
“Then I look forward to having you again. I really enjoyed this class, Professor Dawson. You’re a great teacher.”
“Thanks. And you’re an amazing student.”
Madison smiled but seemed hesitant to leave. “I wish we’d had time to talk more about dangerous narcissists in the drama triangle.”
Riley remembered her promise to discuss it more if they’d had time. Madison’s interest seemed a little more than academic. She glanced at her watch. “I have to head to the office, but if you want to walk me to the parking lot, we can chat.”
“Sure.” Madison waited for Riley to stuff the pile of exams into her messenger bag, and they walked out together. It was another hot day as they left the air-conditioning of Lily Hall behind and wandered along a tree-shaded path across campus.
“I’ve been thinking of maybe going into forensic social work, which is why narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders fascinate me, but…well, I’m concerned about this guy my best friend is with.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure because I don’t hear from her too often since he came along…which is strange, considering we were inseparable. I know it’s a normal part of what happens—you know, two best friends who spend all their time together, and then one falls in love and the other feels like a third wheel. I get that. But this is different. Even her family is concerned.”
“How so?”
“Well, first of all, they moved in together after three months.”
“Red flag,” Riley said.
“Is it?”
“Someone who gets too close too soon is concerning. Intimacy is a process, something that evolves over time. It’s healthy to enjoy a courtship, a get-to-know-you period, like dating for at least a year or two before deciding whether you want to spend your life with someone, right? But narcissists depend on whirlwind romances, and they stage the perfect ones to play out the fantasy of perfect love. Yet just when you think you’ve met your dream-come-true, things become too real for them. They become bored, start seeing your very human qualities as flaws, intolerable imperfections, and will end the relationship. And you’ll be clueless, standing there scratching your head, not knowing what went wrong, and wondering whether they ever really loved you at all.”
“I wish it would go that way, but he’s doing the complete opposite.”
“That brings us to the other kind of narcissist—the ones who have their lives mapped out and see themselves becoming the person people will envy: successful career, nice house, beautiful partner, perfect children. What did we say in class? Narcissists are all about control and the appearance of perfection. They need to sweep you off your feet before you realize how self-serving they are and run away. I’m not saying your friend’s boyfriend is one, but if he is, he’ll want to marry fast. He probably won’t be faithful, but he’ll take their whirlwind romance straight to the altar. We say love is blind, and he’ll want to secure her while she’s still in that infatuated, love-haze stage and not seeing clearly.”
“It’s not like we didn’t like him in the beginning,” Madison said. “He was charming, hard not to like. Everywhere we went he was there—friendly, sociable, a drinks-on-me kind of guy—always super attentive and doting on her. But almost to the point of hovering, you know? I couldn’t shake the feeling he was putting on an act, wanting everyone to think they were the perfect couple.”
Riley let out a wry laugh. “It’s all about presentation.”
“Hm. He always asked lots of questions, too. About her personal history, her friends and family. But when we’d asked him things, like where he grew up or went to school, he’d just say his family moved around a lot. Or when a few of us threw a birthday party for her, and I invited him to bring his friends, he said they all worked crazy hours and didn’t live close by. Stuff like that.”
“Well, he might be vague because he has a lot to hide. On the other hand, by meeting her family and friends and finding out all he can about her, he’s able to develop a detailed sense of her likes, dislikes, her strengths and vulnerabilities—all the things a narcissist needs to know in order to manipulate you.”
“Since they moved in together, I hardly see her. Neither does her family.”
“Isolation. That’s their next step. Cutting off your support systems, finding fault with your friends, keeping you away from people who might see right through them. Or sometimes they go the other way, aligning themselves with people closest to you and dropping hints about how difficult and jealous you are, how you overreact, so that when things start to turn bad, your friends don’t know whether to believe you or him. They might even flip the script and tell you it’s your friends saying these things behind your back, so that eventually you don’t know who to trust or turn to…except the perpetrator.” Isn’t that what Jim Barrett had done? He’d aligned himself with Fiona’s parents and church friends.
“That did cross my mind,” Madison said. “When I spoke to her last week, something was off. She wasn’t her usual upbeat self. She said they’d had a fight over him working late a lot and some woman texting him. And he did what you just said—told her that if she was that paranoid and insecure, then she must be doing things behind his back. That led to a big fight, with her apologizing in the end for being insecure.”
“Gaslighting!”
“What?”
“It’s form of psychological abuse.” Riley looked over at her as they walked. “The term comes from an old movie called Gaslight, about an upper-middle-class woman whose husband murders the person living in the apartment above them. Worth watching. It takes place during a time when people were still lighting their homes with gas. Anyway, the husband keeps sneaking upstairs to that apartment, searching for hidden jewels that prompted the killing. But when he turns on the gaslights up there, the downstairs lights dim. The wife starts hearing noises, finds her husband gone, and notices the lights dimming and brightening. Of course, when she mentions this to him, he says her eyes are playing tricks on her. He denies having gotten out of bed and convinces her that she’s either dreaming or imagining these things. Night after night this goes on until the wife starts to doubt her own senses.”
“So, the narcissistic husband, who’s also a psychopath because he’s killed the neighbor, basically manipulates his wife into thinking she’s losing her mind?”
“She does begin to question her own sanity, to the point of seeing a psychiatrist who actually believes her. I won’t tell you how the movie ends in case you ever watch it, but when a person tricks you into doubting your own perceptions of reality—into doubting what, deep down, you know to be true—we say they’re gaslighting you.” It’s a form of mind control. Terrorists and gang leaders use it to distort new recruits’ view of reality. Narcissists use it in their personal relationships. They twist the truth, blatantly lie to your face, say and do things they later deny, until you find yourself questioning your own memory of events. Gaslighting is a great way to confuse a person. And, you know, the best way to weaken anyone is to confuse them.”
“So how do you know when they’re lying or telling the truth?”
“You don’t. They’re Oscar-worthy actors. When in doubt, ignore what they say and pay attention to what they do. That’s when you’ll realize that someone who says they love you wouldn’t behave the way they do.”
“Then what’s wrong with people who let themselves be manipulated like that in a relationship?”
“Nothing. Narcissists are just that good at what they do. They wear away at you so slowly you don’t even know you’re being used and turned into a victim.”
“But why would a person with any self-esteem wil
lingly get involved with a perpetrator?”
“Because they don’t come into the drama triangle as perpetrators. Think of Dracula…or the devil in Faust. If they introduced themselves as the evil monsters they are—one looking to steal your soul, the other looking to suck your blood—you’d take off like a bat out of hell.”
Madison laughed. “Yeah. I remember that about vampires. They can’t use force. They have to be invited in.”
“Exactly. And how do they get invited in? Not by scaring you, but by charming and seducing and presenting themselves as everything your heart desires.”
“Then they come into the drama triangle posing as rescuers?”
“Ideally, they’ll pose as both rescuers and victims—a tactic designed to elicit both your admiration and your sympathy. It’s a powerfully effective technique, something they often manage on the first date.”
“How is that possible?” Madison asked when they reached the parking lot and stood on the curb.
“It happened to a client of mine several years ago. She was gay, single, a successful businesswoman, and an art enthusiast. She met a woman online claiming to be an art historian who had traveled the world collecting art for a gallery she planned to open in New York City, until her mother became ill. She used the gallery money to help pay medical bills and ended up selling her collection to get herself out of debt…or so she said. The woman was smart, interesting, and attractive, and my client, who was admittedly lonely, fell for her—the classic whirlwind romance. I mean, here’s this fellow art lover who’s not only accomplished, but such a wonderful person that she gave up her dream to help her family. How can you not both admire and sympathize with a woman like that? It was all bullshit, of course. The woman was a grifter, just looking to sponge off someone. And my client wasn’t the only ‘sponge’ in her life. It took her almost two years to figure that out, and another six months in therapy to get over her broken heart and come to terms with the fact that a savvy and intelligent woman such as herself could be taken for a ride by someone who’d never really loved her at all.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately it’s not an uncommon scenario, so if you think your best friend is being manipulated and controlled, meet her for lunch when he’s not around. Do some reality checks. Tell her she doesn’t seem her usual happy self. Send her links to articles on being in relationships with narcissists. Maybe she’ll read the signs and wake up before she marries this creep.”
“I’ll take your advice, Professor. Thanks so much for talking with me.”
Riley gave her a hug. “Hopefully next time I see you will be during your internship at the office. You’ll have to let me know how things turn out with your friend.”
“I’m looking forward to it. And I’ll definitely catch you up on what happens.”
When Riley got in her car, her own thoughts darkened. She imagined how Fiona must have felt when she found out she was pregnant. Her parents hadn’t cared about her personal happiness. They wanted her married. To a man. And Jim, the great pretender—the shady guy posing as a poor victim who’d had a tough life and turned himself around in church—came to her rescue. Fiona had acquiesced because she had no other easy options and because she did what was best for her unborn child. And now here she was, disillusioned, humiliated, ashamed—just like Riley’s client had been—except Jim was a dangerous narcissist, a sociopath to boot, and Fiona had no way of breaking free. Well, Riley would just have to do the breaking for her, even if she herself ended up broken in the process.
For now, she forced those thoughts aside. They upset her too much, gave her goose bumps. She put a palm to her forehead, hoping her temperature wasn’t climbing. She’d remember to keep the remaining Ativan with her, just in case her emotions won out and the change gripped her at an inopportune time. Like while she was driving. She tried focusing on happy thoughts—like rolling around with her coyotes later tonight, and the fact that her cell phone was safely beside her and not in Jim’s pocket. And when that didn’t work, she reached into the console and pulled out a Muse CD. The percussive thumping of rock and roll was an effective means of drumming unwanted thoughts out of your brain. The song “Psycho” came on as she snaked her way around the twists and bends in the country road. If she wanted to beat Jim at his own game, she’d need to start thinking like a psychopath. And she would beat him, although she wasn’t quite sure how. But just then, another stray thought began bouncing around to the beat in her head.
It struck her, almost in the manner of a premonition, that she’d never made out a will. It was the sort of thing people knew they ought to do and often thought to do, but never got around to doing. There were, after all, far more pleasant things to plan for than one’s inevitable demise. Perhaps people hoped that if they refused to acknowledge the conclusion of life by signing a legal agreement to that effect, mortality might offer an exemption. That had always been Riley’s line of thought, at least, but of late, she felt her mortality written in stone.
Next week for sure she’d visit the lawyer down the road from her office, but for now she cranked up the volume to pound that stubbornly morose notion from her head. She needed to clear her mental workspace for her many clients today: two oppositional teenagers back to back, then her compassion-fatigue support group comprised of six caregivers. Next would be Mrs. Bilsner, the borderline, who thrived on chaos and left Riley more exhausted than the caregivers and teenagers put together. Last would come Emily, the new client Peggy had traded for Fiona. Riley had diagnosed the young woman with a generalized anxiety disorder, something Riley had come to consider a run-of-the-mill “normal neurosis” since it seemed to plague a surprising portion of the population. Riley loved working with anxiety disorders, mainly because they were highly treatable. Unlike people with personality disorders, who had limited insight and took little blame for interpersonal difficulties, those with anxiety usually had tremendous self-awareness, far more emotional depth, and took too much responsibility for things they couldn’t control. At the end of the day, it was easier to help a person take less responsibility than to assume more.
Unfortunately, Emily’s anxiety had been complicated by a bout of panic attacks, which were far more prevalent among females.
“They can be unpredictable and terrifying, I know,” Riley told her. “But dreading an attack will only set you up for another one. Better to make friends with your anxiety. It’s part of you. Embrace it. Laugh at it. Don’t give it power. There’s always a window of time between intense anxiety and a panic attack. So next time you feel it escalate, stick your head out that window, feel the wind in your face. Remind yourself that you’re not going crazy, not going to die…that it’s just your body responding to an unknown trigger.” Of course, Riley herself had a hard time sticking her head out that imaginary window when she pulled into the parking lot and panicked at the sight of the police chief’s SUV.
* * *
Peggy was standing by the Nespresso machine when Riley walked in the office. She let out a sigh of relief and motioned for her. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said under her breath, quickly glancing over her shoulder to make sure Miriam wasn’t listening. “Paul Foster’s in my office. He’s on duty, so hopefully he won’t stay long. He came in looking for you a few minutes ago regarding a 911 call that came in from your number yesterday.”
“Shit.”
“That’s what I said…to myself, of course.” Peggy gave her a look of disapproval, then closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t know what to say. I insisted on making him coffee to stall for time. And I really hope he doesn’t stay too long, because I have a session with Fiona soon.”
Riley raked her fingers through her short hair. The time she’d spent kayaking in the sun with Fiona yesterday seemed to have bleached it a shade lighter. “You think he suspects I broke the window?”
“I have no idea. Go on in. I’ll play along with whatever version of the truth you give him.” Peggy wasn’t comfortable with any
of this. She hated outright lying but decided that, for now, her conscience would have to compromise. That meant keeping quiet and following Riley’s lead, which wasn’t difficult. By the time she joined them with coffee, Riley was well into twisting the truth about what had gone on at the Barrett residence.
“With the boat launch busy,” Riley was telling Paul, “I drove up a little further and found another spot to put my kayak in the water. Right at the end of Blueberry Hill Road. Anyway, when I was loading my kayak back on the car a few hours later, I heard shouts coming from the woods and what sounded like a kid crying. There’s really not much else up that way except the old homestead. I figured someone was hurt or in trouble, so I jumped in the car, found the driveway to the place, and ran up to the house. That’s when I heard glass breaking. I got scared and didn’t want to make my presence known, so I followed the noise around to what turned out to be the kitchen window. It took me a minute to realize it was Fiona and Edy Barrett, our new mother-and-daughter clients. I figured the man was her husband. Pots and pans were all over the floor. I assumed he’d thrown one and accidentally broken the window.”
Peggy raised her brow as she listened, quietly amazed at how good a storyteller Riley was—almost as good as Jim Barrett at talking her way out of things. She waited for Riley to pause and handed Paul his black coffee.
“Thanks, Peg.” He smiled up at her and took the cup.
“Anyway,” Riley went on, “they were screaming at him, and that’s when I saw him putting a huge turtle in a lobster pot—right there on the stove.”
“What? A live turtle?”
“Not only alive, but presumably the family pet, because Fiona and Edy were fighting to get to it and begging him not to cook it.”
Coyote Blues Page 23