“Without one,” he answered deliberately, “the other can't exist. You've never trusted anyone completely, which should be a normal phase of development for a child. You've never felt safe enough to do that. But if you don't go through that phase of total trust, of total vulnerability, you can never grow to independence. A large part of you does trust me, and I know that. But a part of you doesn't. And as long as it doesn't, it won't reveal itself, and fears and anger will stay buried.”
“It isn't natural!” I cried. “Not natural at all. No one in their right mind would leave themselves open like that!”
“A child does. She has to. It's the only way she can learn how to trust.”
“Well, there you have it then. I'm not a child. In case you didn't notice, I turned thirty-one years old a few weeks ago.”
“The part that won't let go to trust is a child.”
“You've got a lot of nerve, do you know that?” I shook my head in disgust. “You expect me to rip myself open and just sit here and bare my soul. Would you completely expose yourself and leave yourself wide open?”
Silence.
“You don't answer my question because both of us know what the answer is. You wouldn't because you don't have to. You don't have to do anything here. I'm supposed to tell you everything; you don't tell me a damned thing. What in the hell makes you so worthy of trust anyway?”
“That's something you have to determine on your own: whether or not you are completely safe here. From our very first sessions, Rachel, I've never asked you to blindly trust me. I've encouraged you to be as skeptical as you need to be, to question me at every turn. Ultimately you have to be the one who determines if I'm safe to trust. When you are ready to do that, you will. But there's nothing I will say to try and convince you. Trust is given, not coerced.”
“Great,” I quipped sarcastically. “‘Trust me.’ Famous last words. Walk to the end of the plank with a blindfold on and just hope that somehow everything's going to work out. Hope that I won't be shark bait. No guarantees, mind you. Just ‘trust me!’”
“You're afraid.”
“Of course I'm afraid, you fool! Who wouldn't be? Trusting completely is an invitation to be burned.”
“In your past experiences, yes,” he said, ignoring my insult. “Which is why you have to learn that trust doesn't universally lead to being burned. Sometimes it leads to feeling even more loved, safer, and more secure than before.”
“But don't you see? It hurts to trust. It already hurts to need you, to trust you as much as I do.”
“Why?”
“Because, once I open up, I can be burned at any time. I could let go, and you could decide to quit seeing me. Or go start a practice in a different city. Or maybe get in a car wreck, go nuts, even die! Do you have any idea how much that would fuck me up? Do you have any idea what you're asking me to do?”
“Yes, I do know what I'm asking you to do. That's why I'm saying that you shouldn't trust me because I tell you that you need to, but because you've looked at the history of this relationship and drawn your own conclusions. It's painful and it's hard, but it's necessary. If it weren't in your best interest, I wouldn't even bring it up.”
The sharp crackle of a nearby lightning strike and a pounding, shaking jolt of thunder rumbled the room.
“I don't know. I'm going to have to think about this a helluva lot more.”
“Take all the time you need. I'll be here for as long as it takes.”
Driving home in the storm, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the wall of rain, I found myself praying to God to take me right then if I were destined to be devastated anyway.
How am I supposed to trust this man, I asked the skies, when I can't even trust You! Where were You the first time I trusted when I was a kid, when I was supposed to trust? You sat back and watched me get screwed! And didn't do a thing.
Do me a favor, God. If I decide to trust Padgett, and I'm destined to get screwed again, strike me dead right now! Take me! Because if I do let go, and I get burned, I'm not going to take the pain of being burned twice. If that's my fate, You may as well strike me dead this minute, or I'll just do the job myself later.
Chapter 23
I'm sitting on the front porch of my childhood home, grown, but still living there with my parents. A sleeping bag and overnight case are parked next to me on the wicker chair as I wait for my ride to show up. I don't want to go, but Mom insisted. The man's rich and successful, and she says it's high time I learned how to be rich and successful. “You don't turn down an invitation to a mansion on the North Side,” she said. So, despite my own reluctance, here I am, sitting alone, waiting.
A black stretch limo pulls up, complete with mirrored one-way windows and a mustached driver clad in uniform and cap. As he places my bags in the trunk, I can see my mother peeking through the living room window, happy to be rid of me once again.
She's right about one thing. Dr. Padgett's place is certainly a mansion. It's a replica of a European castle with a stone wall and gated entry, a long road leading to a circular driveway, and a plush, immaculately kept meadow of a lawn punctuated by colorful flowering gardens and gazebos. Dr. Padgett greets me with his customary welcoming smile. He's wearing a baby-blue Polo golf shirt and khaki shorts. He shakes my hand and then gives me a warm hug. The implications of the moment finally hit me.
I've been touched. I've been invited to his home, his private life, to be like his real daughter. A dream come true! Excitement and anticipation fill me as I realize I'm no longer limited to just the therapy hours. He'll be there for me all the time.
I follow him into the mansion to meet his family. A matronly woman with gray, thinning hair; thick, knotted hands; and a mossy-toothed smile emerges from the parlor.
“This is Anita, my wife,” Dr. Padgett says.
At first I thought she was the maid, having expected the doctor's wife to be an aristocratic goddess. What she lacks in presence, however, she makes up for in warmth and sincerity, making me feel welcome.
Dr. Padgett invites me to drive tee shots out on the grounds with him, but I decline not being much of a golfer. I'm more interested in exploring this man's castle, his family, his lifestyle, the parts of his life I've never seen.
A husky teenage girl with frizzy, strawberry blonde hair and a sea of freckles invites me into the lower-level rec room. Husky, actually, is a generous term. The girl is fat and plain with the glassy eyes and pale complexion of a veteran partygoer. She's as friendly and warm to me as her mother, opening the refrigerator to pull out a few beers. She's probably not a day over fourteen, and it's not even noon yet. But I accept one anyway.
Turning on some acid rock music, she returns with a small mirrored tray filled with lines of cocaine, politely offering me a shortened straw. I decline. I want to keep my wits about me as I observe the other side of Dr. Padgett. She's not offended by my refusal, instead cleanly snorting a few lines herself.
“So Dad brought you by for a visit, huh?”
“Yes, he wanted me to be like part of the family.”
She rolls her bloodshot eyes.
“Typical,” she says. “Good old Dr. Compassion, saving the world again.”
Her voice drips with angry sarcasm.
“Does he do this a lot?”
“Oh yeah. He brings his patients here a lot. Watches them walk around in awe; these people worship him.”
My heart sinks. Somehow I'd deluded myself that his invitation had set me apart, made me special.
“He is a great guy, don't you think?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes again.
“So he's got you fooled too, eh?” she laughs, shaking her head. “God, what a prick. Come on, Rachel, I'll introduce you to my brother.”
Dr. Padgett's son is sitting out on the huge screened-in porch with a panoramic view, leaning back on the padded wicker couch, eyes glued to MTV, not bothering to turn around at the sounds of our footsteps. He's a suburban parent's worst nightmare—hair sh
aved to the skin on one side, hanging down past his ears on the other, feathered earrings dangling from both ears, acne scarring his face, and a tattoo on his left arm. His eyes are glazed as the tiny burned end of a joint smolders in the ashtray.
At that moment Dr. Padgett comes in through the back door, face flushed from activity, wearing the same greeting smile he had when I'd first arrived, the one from the beginnings of sessions.
“So you're meeting the family?” he smiles at me.
“Yes, they've been very nice.”
He moves directly in front of the couch, deliberately obstructing his son's view of the television.
“Paul,” he says, still smiling, “did you finish your overdue science project yet?”
Paul says nothing, just glares at his father.
“You're pushing your luck with the extension, you know,” Dr. Padgett says, his smile now clearly forced from the strain of knowing he is being observed.
“You were gonna help me, remember?” Paul finally speaks in a voice saturated with resentment.
“Well, you know I've been busy with my patients,” Dr. Padgett replies, the smile no longer concealing the anger in his eyes. It's a phony and none-too-convincing facade for my benefit.
“When aren't you, Dad? How come all of a sudden you give a shit today? Is it because you have one of your precious little psychos here?”
The sarcastic jabs bounce back and forth, raising the tension in the room to a crescendo. Dr. Padgett is restraining himself but is slowly and obviously losing control.
Finally the sharp crack of his hand slapping his son's face ends the argument.
“Damnit,” he says underneath his breath and through clenched teeth, “you worthless little piece of shit. Act straight, will you?”
“Go ahead, Dad, beat the shit out of me! Why not? Why don't you let your little patient here see the real you?”
For some reason I feel I have to cut in and defend the man who's shown me nothing but kindness for as long as I've known him.
“He's always been good to me.”
“Yeah, you and all the others. Dr. Wonderful. King of the Lost Causes. You're just the next experiment, the next big challenge. Just wait. He'll give up on you too, leave you hanging. Just like he has with us, just like he has with all the others. He does pretty damned well on his fees, wouldn't you say?”
There's another slap—harder this time. And another. Then a fist blow to Paul's stomach, knocking him to the ground. Then kick after kick after kick to the stomach, the head, the groin, until Paul is silent, lying there bleeding.
I run out of the place, vomiting. My fantasy dream has turned into a nightmare. I can't stay there. I can't go home. I just keep running.
Another rousing shake from Tim made me realize that it had only been a dream. Yet the anger I felt for Dr. Padgett did not fade, as if the whole scene had really happened. I chose not to mention this to Tim, who himself had tired of awakening to a wife embittered at him for something that had happened in a dream. The fine line between conscious and subconscious, already blurred, was obscured again.
Thinking rationally, I realized that my dreams were rarely the premonition variety of biblical fame but the embodiment of my deepest fears. A small part of me, however, wanted to cling to this dream as tangible evidence of the danger and folly of letting go of the last remaining walls and trusting Dr. Padgett. Granted, there was no proof whatsoever that even the most minute aspects of the dream could be true. But, I reminded myself, there was also no proof that it was false. For as long as I had been seeing Dr. Padgett, there was very little that I knew about him outside of therapy. It was the most diabolical of conspiracy theories: all of the “history” of therapy, all his kindness and patience had been a deliberate act to set me up, to persuade me to let go and be vulnerable, and then to render a crushing blow. Why? Because he hated me. Which only made sense. There was plenty to hate. No one knew that better than me.
My next session was like an FBI interrogation, a no-holds-barred inquisition in an attempt to unearth some sordid alter ego that lay hidden and dormant behind the blank screen, in the “other life” in which Dr. Padgett would not include me. In typical fashion he refused to confirm, deny, or directly respond to any of my inquiries. Not only would I be forced to judge for myself whether he was worthy of trust, I would have to judge for myself whether or not he was a murderer, rapist, child molester, or any of the many other accusatory labels I hurled his way. He was implacable as always.
It figured. Both Tim and Dr. Padgett had been put on trial before for the actions and contents of dreams. It had always unnerved Tim, but Dr. Padgett must have been a tested veteran since he showed not a shred of emotion.
True to his word, the therapist was not going to lobby for his cause or campaign for my trust. I would have to make this conclusion, like so many others, on my own.
Chapter 24
With fall came a renewal of annual traditions. Once again I sent Jeffrey and Melissa off to the first day of school. Jeffrey was in the first grade, already at an age where he was becoming reluctant to show the world that he had a mother. Little Melissa was no longer so little, the baby talk and baby fat fading as she diligently worked to learn her letters, colors, and numbers.
Fall meant the return of Saturday soccer games. Last year's little mob of five-year-old boys had developed into a coordinated team of six-year-olds. College football season had come once again. We watched the afternoon games and colorful marching bands on TV while devouring beer and pretzels. Now that we were able to afford a road trip to a game, we had too many commitments to get away.
Autumn also marked a new season for the church choir after the summer break. It meant a lot to me to be in this group, a curious assortment of strange bedfellows who were anything but pious yet were a close community. The strains of practices, the demands of weekly Masses, the Christmas and Easter seasons, and the concert performances often led to frayed nerves, short tempers, and frequent bickering by the season's end. Refreshed from a three-month hiatus, however, we were ready and eager to begin anew.
The choir had been like a family to me when my family of origin had turned its back. Its members had not gossiped when I'd endured the embarrassment of three psychiatric hospitalizations. Instead people pitched in to help. They had cooked meals for Tim and the kids when I'd been away and even for a while upon my return. They had visited me, bringing cards and flowers. Above all, they didn't think I was crazy or wretched. They didn't judge or condemn me but prayed for me. They had been there to listen, offering shoulders to cry on.
Like any group that worked together closely and intensely, the choir had its share of rivalries and occasional harsh words. But, in moments of crisis, we somehow managed to pull together in support of whoever needed it.
Often I couldn't help but wonder if my presence there wasn't a grand act of hypocrisy. Here I was, the agnostic soloist, sweetly singing words she could not bring herself to believe. The choir director had always known my feelings, as had the pastor, but neither seemed to have a problem with my obstinate agnosticism. People who are honest with themselves, they had both said, have doubts sometimes.
Faith, Father Rick had said, was like passion. Sometimes intense, sometimes seemingly nonexistent—it could never be forced. I had been torn between accepting their views and believing their acceptance might be rooted in their desperate need for a first soprano.
Despite my unease, I never seriously considered leaving the group. Music had a way of releasing my passion, of calming my soul. And, despite the battles I'd had in my worst moments with both the director and others in the group, I needed these people. They were like the family I'd never had, a lifeline as critical to me as therapy had become. Like my ambivalent, often turbulent relationship with Dr. Padgett, being a part of this group was something I could not give up, no matter how much it confused me at times.
The first Sunday Mass of the season was always a big event. We had practiced for a few weeks to get back to fo
rm, assembling a selection of our best hymns and musical pieces. A kickoff for a new year.
For some reason I was seldom nervous when soloing. Perhaps I felt that those who'd dare be critical when they were supposed to be praying were far more hypocritical than even I was. I had come to develop a performer's detachment, the calm confidence of a professional. I had managed to separate myself from my emotions even at the funerals I had sung for occasionally. I no longer worried about the effects of stage fright. But sometimes I wondered if, perhaps, I should be feeling something. Music, as in so many other realms of my life, was yet another case of all or nothing—drowning in emotions or total detachment, with little in between.
Entering this first service, I was unexpectedly seized by a feeling of unease, the butterflies of nervousness once banished by years of experience now back in force. I wasn't sure if it was because I was back with the group again after a long absence or because of the unpredictable emotions spurred by therapy. But I could feel the stinging in my eyes, the pit in my stomach, and the quiver in my voice as I stood with the soprano section for the opening song.
I felt a tinge of panic. What would happen when I sang the solo piece after the sermon? Would I fall apart? I found myself wishing that the piece, which I loved, had gone to another soloist.
After the scripture readings the choir and congregation were seated to listen to the homily. Our church was our new associate pastor's first assignment since ordination, and he was fumbling through his notes as he struggled through his sermon on pain and loss. The parishioners had already come to know him as long-winded and not particularly compelling. I noticed a few of them beginning to nod off, and I drifted off into my own world.
Pain and loss. My eyes wandered to the large, sculpted crucifix hanging over the altar. I had seen it countless times. Yet this time it captivated me. It was an exquisite work of art, the realistic sadness in the eyes of the crucified figure, the sagging, slumping body. Pain and loss. Suffering. Betrayal. Crucifixion.
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