“I questioned her about a history of sexual or physical abuse but she said her husband would never lay a hand on her and she doesn’t remember much from her childhood. I told her abuse victims often think of suicide but they’re thinking of killing the wrong person.”
Allie’s head jerked back. Killing the wrong....? Oh! “She seems like a gentle person to me, Doctor V. She doesn’t seem capable of violence.”
“Don’t be misled by first impressions. She came across like an angel with me too, initially. When I offered to put her on an antidepressant, she refused. When I pressed the point a little, she got agitated. I couldn’t calm her down. She started to yell.”
“I can’t imagine her yelling.”
“You do have a lot to learn.” His voice changed as he imitated the client in a whiney falsetto. “She said, ‘What, you just want to throw the bitch a pill and shut her up? I won’t shut up!’ She looked like a harpy. I thought she was going to come across the coffee table at me. Don’t underestimate her, Allie.”
“It did occur to me that I might have to Title Thirty-Six her some day for danger-to-self, but I didn’t think we’d ever have to consider danger-to-others.”
“Think about it. We not only have to protect our own reputations, our licenses, our assets, we have to worry about every celebrity, politician, or abuser that a motivated and deranged patient might harm.”
Allie remembered, aside from senseless terrorist slaughters, an assassination attempt in Tucson and other killings that had made the national news years ago. She said, “Like the Congresswoman, the school and theater killings.”
“Right. Since she won’t take medications there’s no use in her coming back to see me. She’s all yours.”
Allie couldn’t say she felt gratitude that Doctor V had presented her with this client but she was determined to be polite. “It will be a challenge but I do appreciate the referral, Doctor V.”
Next, Allie glanced at her notes, placed them in a folder with other new-client paperwork and locked it in her desk drawer. Out of sight but probably not out of mind, she told herself, and wondered if this would be another keep-me-awake-until-all-hours case.
She leaned back and looked around her office. During moments of doubt, it gave her a reassuring sense of her own professionalism and competence. In addition to her desk and task chair, the office was furnished with a sofa and easy chair upholstered in muted tones of grey and peach that coordinated with the charcoal grey rug.
Between the sofa and chair, an end table held a candy dish filled with hard candies and a box of tissues within easy reach. Another candy dish on her desk held a collection of small sea shells and tumbled stones in a variety of colors, shapes and markings. She gave these small tokens to clients as transitional objects when she had to be away from the office, when clients had to miss consecutive appointments, or when they just needed some tangible symbol of her caring between sessions.
The office walls held her framed Master’s Degree from Tulane University in the place of honor directly above her desk, flanked by the Arizona Board of Behavioral Health Examiner’s license on the right and her under-graduate diploma on the left.
Allie hardly noticed them any more. When she did, they neither boosted her confidence nor inflated her ego. They were there for the benefit and reassurance of her clients. They validated her, authorized her to ask the questions, “What brings you here today…how well do you sleep at night…what about your relationship with your mother…what are these tears for…are you having thoughts of harming someone else…how dangerous are you to yourself?"
They were mundane questions, impertinent questions, intimate questions. The answers often shocked or surprised her. Following colleagues’ advice, she had placed the sofa and chair at the far end of the office where they wouldn’t block her speedy exit through the door if a client attacked or threatened her.
On her first day as a tenant here, the office manager had told her that in case she ever felt threatened by a client and needed help, she should call the receptionist to ask for a cup of coffee. That was the receptionist’s signal to send help, preferably in the form of someone large and muscle-bound, followed by a call to nine-one-one. In the three years Allie had done this demanding work, she had been lucky. None of her clients had ever threatened or tried to hurt her.
Now she considered the framed drawing on the far wall over the sofa and wondered if she should take it down. The exquisitely detailed, realistic pencil sketch depicted a Navajo girl in buckskin skirt and cotton blouse who held a bowl containing small ears of corn.
Recently a client had looked at it in surprise and asked Allie why she had a drawing of an elf in her office. Curious, Allie asked two other clients what they thought of the figure. One thought it must be a Hindu goddess and inquired if Allie herself was Hindu. The other client believed it depicted a homeless old woman. Intrigued, Allie asked coworkers and colleagues, none of whom had any trouble identifying the drawing as that of a pre-adolescent Native American girl.
Such is the power of projection, she thought. As with one of those Rorschach ink blot tests, people fill in gaps of detail from their imaginations, from deep wells of emotions, associations, images and ideas. Ideas from their unconscious minds, if she wanted to psychologize about it.
She glanced at the clock. Almost time for her next appointment. The next client, like Crystal, was new to Allie. She was intrigued that the woman was a member of the nearby Yavapai-Apache Indian tribe. Allie was proud of her own one-eighth Cherokee blood, although she had no feeling of belonging to that tribe or any detailed knowledge of her heredity.
In fact, Allie had what one colleague called 'a fixation' about Native Americans. It may have started in graduate school when she watched a video about the Hopi Tribe, whose young women wore their hair in two wing like arrangements on the sides of their faces, meant as a likeness to butterflies. The Navajos’ intense appreciation of beauty expressed in their poetic chants and songs resonated with her as well. She told herself if she wasn’t careful, she could become an Indian groupie.
The first glimpse of her next client, Kim Altaha, almost stunned her. Graceful, powerful! she thought. Kim was obviously not burdened with the internalized shame afflicting some Indians as a result of centuries of White prejudice.
Kim carried herself with the dignity of a beauty queen. She stood almost six feet tall, with slender limbs, long, silky black hair, and a lovely face. Her forehead was high and broad, her jaw line square. Her high bridged nose was strong rather than beaked or prominent. Her dark eyes were large and deep set. She wore little or no makeup and had dressed simply in a white blouse and knee length cotton skirt that set off her smooth, sun burnished skin.
Walking down the hall with her client, Allie thought that here was the beautiful Indian princess pictured in paint-on-velvet and described in lurid western novels. Beauty like this had inspired foolish romantic dreams and steamy sexual fantasies in both men and women since the days of Columbus himself, from Pilgrim John Smith to the kid down the block reading a graphic novel. She reminded herself sternly to contain her awe. None of that counter-transference. No hero worship.
When they reached the office, Kim appeared composed and confident as she took a seat on the sofa and waited for Allie to speak. Allie hesitated for only a second before she began the session as she usually did, with small talk, pleasantries, then an orientation to counseling. Finally, she got down to business.
“What brings you here today, Kim?”
“I’m here because I got arrested.”
“Oh, are you court ordered for treatment?”
“My sentencing isn’t until November fifteen, but I figure I’ll be ordered for anger management counseling, so here I am. The judge might be satisfied that I’m here on my own and let it go at that. I don’t want to go to jail, and I’d rather do individual than group.”
“You were involved in a fight or an argument? With your husband?”
“Not married. It was my neigh
bors who were fighting. The jerk was beating her up. I went over and helped him stop.”
“Helped him stop?”
“I beat the crap out of him.”
Allie could picture this obviously healthy and fit young woman flattening a male opponent who would be no match for a goddess incarnate. She was careful not to show her amusement. Instead, she moved easily to history taking, an integral part of every first session. She learned that Kim was single, lived alone in a small house in the nearby town of Camp Verde and worked at a hardware store. She had no history of arrest or mental health treatment.
Allie wondered, is she really here to change things about herself, or just to avoid going to jail? Why me? There are therapists closer to where she lives. For that matter, why doesn’t she get counseling through the Tribe? She could probably get it for free instead of using her employee insurance. With me, she has a copay.
She said, “Kim, I’m glad you came today, and I hope I’ll be able to help you although I really don’t know how much effect I can have on your legal problems.”
“That’s fine. I’ll take my chances.” Kim looked away from Allie, then reached over and selected one of the hard candies from the dish on the end table. After she unwrapped it and tucked it into her cheek, she said, as if she had read Allie’s mind, “The reason I didn’t get counseling in Camp Verde or through the Tribe is because it’s a small town and a small tribe. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. They don’t need to know any more of mine.”
“I can understand that. I’m curious about the woman you helped, your neighbor. Are you and she very close? I guess I’m wondering what prompted you to take such decisive action.”
“I’m an instrument of Karma.”
Momentarily speechless, Allie leaned back in her chair.
Kim’s face hardened. “What? You think Apaches don’t know about karma? We’re all just ignorant savages to you?”
“No, of course not! I would never...I respect.... It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone say that before.” She silently told herself to regroup. “So if you believe in karma, don’t you believe that we’re all instruments of karma as well as recipients of karma?”
“Maybe. But some of us have more of a…duty, I guess you’d call it, a direction.” Allie remained silent.
“I don’t know how to explain it but sometimes I have an urge to do something that’s more than an urge, it’s a mandate. I know it’s the right thing to do even if it’s against the law--White law or Indian law. That’s what I call karma.”
Allie nodded. “Of course. Now it’s gotten you in trouble. I’m curious. Do these urges or mandates come in the form of voices talking to you?”
Kim’s chin tilted upward, the line of her mouth hardening. “I don’t hear voices. I’m not crazy.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you’re crazy, or psychotic as we call it. People who are psychotic seldom question their unreal ideas or beliefs. They think they’re sane and the rest of the world is crazy. From what you’ve said to me so far, it sounds like you’re well grounded in reality.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about, knowing you have to do something even though it doesn’t make sense to other people?”
“Most therapists understand there are things in this world that can’t be explained by psychology or science and that aren’t crazy. An inner guidance, inner knowing, is one of them.”
Kim tilted her head to the side, as if to question. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who gets these…instructions. How can I explain it to people?”
“Do you have to explain it to anyone, if you’re sure it’s right?”
Kim put her hand to her cheek and stared into space, appearing to ponder the question.
Allie didn’t interrupt her train of thought. She wondered if she should speak about herself at this point. She asked herself the therapist’s duty question, If I self disclose now, is it truly for her benefit, or for some benefit of my own?
She said, “I’m going to share a personal story with you, which I don’t often do with clients.” She searched Kim’s face for a sense that Kim felt comfortable enough to hear personal information about her therapist.
Reassured, she continued. “During my last month of grad school in New Orleans I came down with a killer virus that put me in bed for a few days. Unfortunately, it gave me time to wonder where I would end up when I finally owned my Master’s degree. I had never planned to stay in Louisiana, but other than that, I just hadn’t planned.
“The second day in bed was horrible. Fever, misery and worry. Toward afternoon I drifted off to sleep when a voice, like my own inner voice, said, 'Up and over the Mogollon Rim'. That’s all, just that one phrase, not like a command as much as encouragement. It sounded so clear it woke me up, but since I had no idea what or where the Mogollon Rim was, I wondered about it for a few minutes, then went back to sleep.”
Kim said, “But you must not have forgotten it. Isn’t that why you came to Cottonwood?”
“Not consciously, anyway. I thought about the--the dream, I guess you could call it, a few times but I didn’t know the Mogollon Rim was in Arizona. After I got here, I saw the name on maps and in magazines but I didn’t recognize it until I heard someone say it. Then I remembered. The word is pronounced so differently--'Mo-gee-on,’--from the way it’s spelled. I only recognized it by the sound, not by the written word.”
“Hum.”
Allie shrugged, ready to refocus attention on Kim. “Anyway, Kim, I appreciate the trust in me you showed by telling me about yourself. I want you to know you’re not alone. Lots of people who see therapists struggle with some hard to understand experiences. People can have a spiritual crisis just as they can have an emotional crisis. In your situation, it’s healthy to question yourself about those mandates or instructions you get. Check it out with me or someone else you trust. They call it 'reality testing.' We all need to do it now and then.”
At the end of the session, Kim stood then paused in the doorway. Looking at the framed drawing on the wall she said, “I like your picture of the Navajo girl. Did you do that?”
Allie managed a calm reply that didn't convey her surprise. “It was done by a talented artist up in Flagstaff.”
***
She left the office after five o’clock. The sun was settling behind Mingus Mountain, shedding a golden afterglow across the valley. She drove south on Main Street past Cottonwood Kids Park, and turned west onto Highway 89A, known locally as Cottonwood Street here. On its northern stretch, its name changed to Main Street. If she had continued on past the intersection, she would have been headed east-northeast, toward Sedona. Of course, she couldn’t afford to live in Sedona, she thought, somewhat wistfully. She had found an apartment less than a mile away on a quiet side street.
As she drove, she noticed again and loved the fact that the local streets honored their western identity with names like Mesquite Drive, Ocotillo Circle, and occasional wild cards like Marauder Road and Dancing Apache Lane.
Gradually her focus turned back toward the day’s events. When Kim came to mind, the uneasiness inside her defied her own analysis. She felt a real mental connection with Kim. She also felt that Kim was not trusting yet. There was much Kim did not want to share with her.
Then, thoughts of Crystal, sweet, pale, mommy Crystal, with a trick or treat bag around her bloody wrist. Allie didn’t know if she felt more compassion or more anxiety about this client. Would she be able to help the troubled woman before she really hurt herself--or someone else?
She glanced out of her side window toward the sun-bathed mountain top nearby and shook off her preoccupation. Be here now, she told herself, a mantra from Gestalt therapy.
The air flowing against her skin from the open car window felt just a few degrees below balmy, thin and bracing like mountain air, for heaven’s sake, while Halloween was approaching and November was just around the corner. Back East it would be cold, if not freezing, by now.
When new in the
Valley, she had made it her goal to explore the area in any weather, so every weekend she visited a nearby town or tourist attraction and on Sundays she hiked with a local group led by a wiry, deeply tanned and apparently indomitable woman in her seventies.
Cottonwood, in the Verde Valley, is on the southwestern edge of the Colorado Plateau, not far from the escarpment called the Mogollon Rim. The Rim, like a scar across the midsection of the state, extends two hundred miles from western Arizona almost to the border with New Mexico. Thousands of square acres around it are considered 'Rim Country'. however, the Rim itself is a distinct feature that appears as an extended two thousand foot cliff marking an abrupt change in elevation from six thousand feet to four thousand feet.
Cottonwood is just one of three towns in the Verde Valley with a population of over ten thousand. The others are Sedona and Camp Verde. Although 'Verde' means 'green' in Spanish, Allie thought it was a misnomer. Viewed from a higher elevation, only a narrow strip of green appeared in the valley, along a meandering north-to-south trail cut by the Verde River. Stands of the water-loving cottonwood trees that gave the town its name marked the river's path.
So many sights in Arizona were unique, she thought. On one sight seeing trip, she was startled to see the western character of the little town of Jerome suddenly morph into a glimpse of Tuscany, with villas capped by orange tile roofs set on sloping hillsides with long, winding access roads gracefully demarked by dark green spires of Italian cypress.
By far, her favorite places were Montezuma Castle and Montezuma Well. She especially loved the Well. Like the locals, Allie understood that shade and water were luxuries here and they drew her as other luxuries couldn’t.
Almost home, she drove past the blackened frame of a house set in a plot of scorched weeds. She thought, they need to tear that down and build again. She was glad the Verde Valley had escaped the ravages of immense wild fires that had devastated the eastern portion of the Rim not long ago. She sighed and squinted against the last rays of the sun reflected off her un-tinted windshield.
The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy Page 2