“Haven’t we talked enough about things that make me angry? And what my anger thoughts are, and what my anger signals are, and how I can calm myself down, and what I can say to myself to make the anger go away?”
“According to your court order, one more group and two more therapy sessions will be enough.”
Kim didn’t speak for half a minute, then drew a deep breath, as if surrendering to the inevitable.
“Kim, haven’t you learned anything in the group or in here that’s helped you?”
“I learned that if you focus anger into a plan, then you don’t get in trouble, then you’re free to be guided, an instrument of karma, like we talked about.”
Allie said, “I’ve been thinking about that, about being an instrument. Being an instrument sounds like you have no choice, that you’re being used, maybe without even knowing it. Wouldn’t you rather be an 'agent' of karma? An agent is someone who takes responsibility for his or her actions.”
Kim took a peppermint candy from the dish on the table and turned it in her fingers, crackling the cellophane. “I think an agent of karma would act like a judge, jury and executioner, instead of someone who’s guided by a higher power. Weren’t you the one who told me that when you know something, when you’re sure of it without knowing why, you don’t question it?” She put the candy in her mouth.
“I guess I did.”
Kim said, “You were an instrument of karma when you came to Cottonwood, not an agent of karma.” Her eyes locked on Allie’s. “You didn’t even know where the Mogollon Rim was. You came without meaning to come, guided here.”
Allie’s elbow was propped on the arm of her chair with her chin in her hand. This woman had been a pleasure to work with and something of an amazement to her.
She straightened. “I’m not sure karma brought me here at all. This is about you, Kim. The point is that whichever it is, agent or instrument, I hope you don’t break the law again and get in trouble. That’s what brought you here, and that’s what I’m supposed to be helping you with.”
***
When Allie returned from lunch, both Doctor V and Sherry were in the break room. Sherry stood at the copier, making handouts for clients from a workbook on anxiety. Allie murmured a preoccupied greeting then went to the refrigerator to stash the remains of her lunch. As she turned to leave, Doctor V crossed to where his wife stood and pressed his body against her back. She leaned into him, turning her head to smile up at him. He gave her a quick slap on the bottom before moving away.
Allie glanced away in embarrassment but when she headed for the door she heard Sherry say, “You really perk up with just a little vacation time, don’t you, Ralph?”
“After last night I’m the perking up champ,” Doctor V laughed, his meaningful gaze not on his wife, but on Allie.
Sherry also looked at Allie. “Ralph is really very manly,” she said, “and he understands what women like.”
Allie was at a loss for words. She smiled at them politely then retreated to her office. The couple had just given her an unexpected glimpse of their personal life. She hadn’t asked for it and she knew it was distinctly unprofessional behavior for a workplace.
She had never thought of tall, gangly, intellectual Doctor V as a sexual person. This new perspective brought no pleasant images but for some reason her mind drifted to the early days of her marriage to Paul.
Often her first chore in the morning was to change the tangled and stained sheets. Over the intervening years, lusty excitement had faded to healthy passion, then to routine release. During the last year or so before the divorce, the marriage bed became tangled only by Paul’s restless tossing and turning and stained only by the sweat of her frustrated insomnia.
This morning she had slipped out of a bed virginal in its freshness, putting it in order with wistful hands making a few tucks, tugs and smoothing motions.
Abruptly, her reverie ended. The pen she twisted in her hands hit the desk with a small 'thunk'. Memories of her intimate life with her ex-husband had always been pleasantly erotic but now, she realized, they were by some strange psychological osmosis, connected to that image of Doctor V and Sherry. How gross is that? she wondered. It’s ridiculous. I’m not even attracted to him.
The phone rang. The voice of Wanda at the reception desk refocused her thoughts. “It’s that client of Betty’s on the phone, the one you agreed to fill in with while she’s away.”
A start of alarm went through Allie. “Oh, yes, Tim Smith. Put him through.”
“Wait. That client of yours, that tall Indian girl? The last time she was here, she called me 'Auntie'. I’m not her Aunt. You should tell her not to call me that.”
Allie shook her head in silent exasperation. “Wanda, Native Americans often call older people Aunt or Uncle as a sign of respect. It’s a compliment.”
“Not to me, it’s not.”
“Just put him through, Wanda.”
The voice sounded soft, timid. “Hello? Mrs. Davis?”
“Yes, Tim. Call me Allie. Betty told me you might call while she’s away. What can I do for you?”
“I had a fight with my mother. Then they left. They’re on vacation and won’t be back for two weeks days.”
“You sound upset.”
“She said I don’t deserve to live, that it’s my fault, after...after what I did.”
“Your mother said that? What, what’s your own fault?”
“The pain. She told me not to complain, that I deserve it.”
Allie needed time to think, time to overcome stunned disbelief. Why did his mother think he deserved pain? Had she really said those things to him? Betty had told her about this young man and his uncaring, narcissistic parents, but she was having a hard time grasping the reality of it.
“Is someone helping you with the pain, Tim? Do you have a doctor? Are you on medication?”
“Yes.”
“Would it help you to come in and talk about it some more?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then let’s make it today, at say, five-fifteen?” She heard a relieved sigh, and a soft, “Okay.”
***
Crystal sat on the edge of the chair, clutching her small purse with both trembling hands. Allie knew at first glance that this client was not doing well, either.
“How are you today, Crystal?”
The question was just an invitation for her client to begin. She was not prepared for the disturbing report that followed or for the flood of emotion.
“I saw him again! I took the kids to Dairy Queen on Sunday for a treat and he was there!”
“Your uncle?”
A nod. Crystal placed trembling fingers over her flushed cheeks. Tears began to flow.
“Did something else happen, Crystal?"
“He came over and tried to hug me. I wouldn’t let him. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to run but I couldn’t leave because the kids were about to get their ice cream. He looked at them and said how cute they were.”
Violent trembling in her hands rose up her arms and body then erupted in loud, wet sobbing. Crystal's face reddened, twisted in rage. She grasped her purse until her knuckles turned white. Suddenly she threw it across the room. Allie jumped. The purse smacked the wall and fell to the floor.
“I’ll kill him!” Crystal screamed. “He’s dead. He’s as good as dead.” Her face streamed tears and mucous.
“Crystal! I get it. I hear you. You’re angry, but you need to calm down. We need to talk about it.”
Allie leaned forward, trying to penetrate the storm of anguish. “Take some deep breaths for me. Here, use the tissues. Take a deep breath. Here’s the wastebasket. Another deep breath. Try again.”
Obedient, Crystal wiped her nose, mopped her face then discarded wads of tissues. Her heaving chest subsided. Gradually her eyes refocused on her therapist.
“Okay, now that’s better,” said Allie, with what she hoped was an encouraging tone.
Crystal dropped another wad of sodden
tissues in the wastebasket then closed her eyes. For a moment, a peaceful silence prevailed.
Allie said, “What else happened, Crystal?”
“I remembered. When I got home, I remembered what he did. What he made me do.”
“What? What was that?”
“You know what it was! He molested me. He raped me! Don’t expect me to tell you any more, because I won’t. I swear he won’t come near my children. I’ll kill him first.” She started to cry again, her face twisted with emotion.
Allie clenched her teeth. That threat! I can’t believe she’s telling me she’s about to kill him. She said, “I can understand your fury, Crystal. Lots of people talk about killing when they don't really intend to do it.”
“Oh, no, I mean it.” Crystal's voice was now a whisper. Her face serene, she rose and walked across the room to retrieve her purse.
Allie shook her head in disbelief. This can't be happening. She’s not capable of it. “You're telling me you actually plan to kill him? How?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Remember what we talked about? The limits of confidentiality?”
“I have a gun. It will be easy.”
“Crystal, we have to stop right now. We’ve talked about the fact that I can keep almost anything you tell me in complete confidence except a plan to hurt yourself or someone else. I have no choice now.”
“What do you mean, no choice?”
“The law requires me to warn him. It also requires me to arrange an evaluation. Do we need to hospitalize you to keep you from hurting him? What’s his name?”
“Hospitalized? You mean the psych hospital? The looney bin? I can’t go there. Who would take care of my kids? There’s no one but my husband and he can’t take time off from work.” Her voice rose in volume again. “You’re supposed to be helping me. I thought you were on my side!”
“I am on your side Crystal, believe me, but I also have to do what the law requires me to do. It’s the best thing for everyone.”
“Everyone? You want to do what’s best for that blood sucking monster? Do you actually think he deserves to live?”
“It’s not my place to judge...”.
Before she could finish, Crystal leapt out of her chair, jerked the door open and darted down the hall. The office door slammed against the door-stop then swung half closed again, punctuating the end of the session with an exclamation mark.
Allie felt exasperation and disappointment rise in her chest. She followed her own advice and took a deep breath. She got up to close the door. Wanda was striding down the hall toward her.
“What was that all about? She...”.
“Never mind, Wanda. I’m taking care of it.”
Wanda’s usual scowl turned into a grimace but she retreated to the waiting room.
Allie sat at her desk. Tarasoff. She reached for the telephone before she realized she couldn’t warn the uncle because Crystal hadn’t revealed his name. Her alternative was to call law enforcement. The Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction where Crystal lived. Damn it to hell, I don’t want to do this, but I’ve got no choice. She might actually try to shoot him.
The dispatcher put her on hold once and transferred her twice while the receiver grew slick in her sweaty hand. When she finally heard a deputy's voice, it was Mike’s voice with its soft Texas twang.
She explained the situation as quickly and concisely as she could.
She knew that both the Cottonwood Police Department and the Sheriff’s Department had received training on how to handle mental health emergencies but Mike was even more knowledgeable about those situations because of his relationship with Heidi.
He reassured her that he would do whatever was needed, both to warn the man and get Crystal evaluated by the crisis counselor on duty. Allie hung up the phone and sank back in her chair. So this is what it feels like to be on the 'opposing team'. It sucks, big time. She looked at the clock. She had four scant minutes to compose herself before the appointment with Tim.
***
In his early twenties, Tim appeared average in height and weight, but pale and puffy looking. His eyes appeared colorless until she saw they were grey. The outer side of his lids drooped toward his cheeks, giving him a sad clown appearance.
He wore beige slacks with a black t-shirt printed with the words, 'No boundaries'. The hand she shook felt thick. She saw ropes of scarring on the palms. The tips of his index and middle fingers were missing. The remaining skin had the slick, tight texture of burn scars. It fit with what Betty had told her.
Tim was familiar with the counseling routine. There were few preliminaries. He said, “I’m having surgery again in a few weeks.” He held out his hand for her closer inspection. “They say they can restore some range of motion by operating on the tendons. I might be able to use it again.”
“I hope that works out for you. Are you having any thoughts of wanting to hurt yourself again?”
He leaned back against the chair cushion and stared at his hands, palm up in his lap.
“No,” he breathed, as if talking to himself alone. “I won’t set myself on fire again. It was too painful and it didn’t do the job.” He looked up at Allie with a wan attempt at defiance. “I hated the hospital. They kept me for six weeks. I had pneumonia from the smoke getting into my lungs. The worst part was the skin graft, a split thickness graft, they called it. From my back, to cover the burns on my chest. My tattoo was ruined. I’ll show you.”
“No!”
Unheeding, he stood and yanked up the tee shirt to show his chest, where a patch of healthy looking skin about eight inches square was surrounded by puckered scarring. On the smooth skin she saw the head and torso of a figure clothed in green. Before she could make it out, he turned to display smooth, pink skin on his upper back. Beneath it was the image of a pair of legs and feet, also clad in green.
Allie was puzzled. What was she was seeing?
He put his shirt down. “It’s Peter Pan, my favorite Disney character. I got it as soon as I turned eighteen. It used to be on my back. They called my back the donor site. When they grafted the skin, the top half of the tattoo came with it, right onto my chest. I thought about asking them to get the bottom half too, but I knew they wouldn’t.”
Allie’s mind raced to understand. A grafted tattoo. Peter Pan, the eternal boy, a joyful free spirit without a mother or knowledge of what mothers do. What could she say? Finally, she managed, “You must like that character a lot.”
“He doesn’t have parents and he can fly. What’s not to like about that? We all wish we could fly. So, when is Betty coming back?”
“Next week, didn’t she tell you?”
“I guess she did. I miss her.”
“You’ve been seeing her for two or three years now, haven’t you?”
“Four years, since the first time I tried to commit suicide. I love her.”
Allie’s discomfort must have shown, because he blurted out, “No, not like that. Not sexual or anything.
She’s wonderful. She's really special.”
“She is. Aren’t there other people in your life who care about you, Tim? And don’t you care about you?”
“That’s a funny question.” He fell silent, thoughtful for a long moment then said, “A couple of years ago, when she moved into her place here, she sold some of her old office furniture. I bought her chair. Sometimes when I’m really depressed, I sit in it. It makes me feel better.”
Allie pictured him in Betty’s chair, trying to soak up the concern and caring of his therapist, as if through some magic he could experience the balm of love. She gulped, fighting back tears. She told herself, Cut the water-works. Be a professional here, for heaven’s sake! She needed to refocus the session on the problem Tim had presented when he called, a fight with his mother. Maybe she could help him with that.
Soon she found her attempts to engage him in problem solving went nowhere. He told her that neither his mother nor his father had ever in his memory hugged him or told him that they loved him
. He probably expected her to conclude, as he had, that it was hopeless.
He said, “So, she’ll be back five days from now?”
Allie nodded. With that, they both realized it was almost time to stop.
He said, “She told me she was going to San Diego, to the beach.” He obviously didn't expect a reply.
Allie felt drained, empty and inadequate. She reached for her bowl of transitional objects, rocks and shells. She showed it to him. “Why don’t you take one of these? Every time you look at it, you can think of her having a good time on the beach, and know she’ll be back soon.”
His good hand hovered over the container until at last he selected a small, pink shell.
“Thank you.” He gave her a weak smile. That facsimile of a smile still on his face, tears slipped from under his lids and began to roll down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, silent. Allie waited. Tears streamed down his face now, unchecked. Still he remained silent.
Allie asked softly, “Tim, what are these tears for?”
He reached for a tissue, although his face, neck and the front of his shirt were already wet. “She hugged me. At the end of our last session when she said goodbye, she hugged me.”
Alone again in her office, Allie put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands, willing to have no thoughts, no feelings. That song said it best, 'just breathe'. It didn’t work.
She could feel Tim's anguish for a denied birthright, love he had never known and never would know. The hug had given him a taste of what he lacked from the two people who had given him life, the love needed to keep any human being alive.
She wondered why some parents, like Crystal, were willing to kill to protect their children, while others weren’t willing to just love theirs.
With a weary effort, she raised her head to look at the framed drawing of the Navajo girl. So pure, so simple. Before the turmoil of puberty, embraced by tradition and tribe, in a landscape of sere beauty, at ease in her cotton and buckskin, holding a food that sustains life.
The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy Page 8