I asked her: "Have you presented at all this semester?"
"No." Alarmed.
"Do you have any case you could discuss?"
"I... I suppose so." She gave me a look more pitying than resentful: You're hurting me but it's not your fault.
Shaken a bit, I said, "Then go ahead, please."
"The one I could talk about is a woman I've been seeing for two months. She's a nineteen-year-old sophomore. Initial testing shows her to be within normal limits on every measure, with the MMPI Depression scale a little elevated. Her boyfriend is a senior. They met the first week of the semester and have been going together ever since. She self-referred to the Counseling Center because of problems in their relationship—"
"What kinds of problems?" asked Gray Hair.
"A communication breakdown. In the beginning they could talk to each other. Later, things started to change. Now they're pretty bad."
"Be more specific," said Gray Hair.
Sharon thought. "I'm not sure what you—"
"Are they fucking?" asked Ponytail Walter.
Sharon turned red and looked down at the carpet. An
old-fashioned blush—I hadn't thought it still existed. A few of the students looked embarrassed for her. The rest seemed to be enjoying it.
"Are they?" pressed Walter. "Fucking?"
She bit her lip. "They're having relations, yes."
"How often?"
"I really haven't kept a record—"
"Why not? It could be an important parameter of—"
"Hold on," I said. "Give her a chance to finish."
"She'll never finish," said Gray Hair. "We've been through this before—terminal defensiveness. If we don't confront it, cut it off where it grows, we'll be spinning our wheels the whole session."
"There's nothing to confront," I said. "Let her get the facts out. Then we'll discuss them."
"Right," said Gray Hair. "Another protective male heard from—you bring it out in them, Princess Sharon."
"Ease up, Maddy," said Aurora Bogardus. "Let her talk."
"Sure, sure." Gray Hair folded her arms across her chest, sat back, glared, waited.
"Go ahead," I told Sharon.
She'd sat in silence, removed from the fray like a parent waiting out a spat between siblings. Now she picked up where she'd left off. Calm. Or on the edge?
"There's been a communication breakdown. The patient says she loves her boyfriend but feels they're growing distant from one another. They can no longer talk about things they used to be able to discuss."
"Such as?" asked Julian, through a cloud of smoke.
"Just about everything."
"Everything? What to have for breakfast? Stuffing versus potatoes?"
"At this point, yes. There's been a complete breakdown—"
"Breakdown," said Maddy. "You've used that word three times without explaining what you mean. Try clarifying rather than restating. Operationalize the word breakdown."
"Things have deteriorated," said Sharon, making it sound like a question.
Maddy laughed. "Terrific. That makes it perfectly clear."
Sharon lowered her voice. "I don't really know what you're getting at, Maddy."
Maddy shook her head in disgust, said to no one in particular: "Why waste time on this shit?"
"Second the motion," someone said.
I said, "Let's stick to the case. Sharon, why does this girl feel things have broken down?"
"We've discussed that for several sessions. She claims she doesn't know. At first she thought he'd lost interest and was seeing another woman. He denies that—he spends all his free time with her, so she thinks he's telling the truth. But when they're together he won't talk and seems angry at her—or at least she feels that. It came on all of a sudden, got worse."
"Did anything else happen at that time?" I asked. "Some kind of stressful event?"
Another blush.
"Did they begin having sex at that time, Sharon?"
Nod. "Around then."
"Were there sexual problems?"
"It's hard to know."
"Bullshit," said Maddy. "It would be easy to know if you'd done your job properly."
I turned to her and asked, "How would you go about getting that kind of information, Maddy?"
"Be real, establish rapport." She ticked each phrase off with her finger. "Know the specific defenses of the client— be prepared for the defensive bullshit and roll with it. But if that doesn't work, confront and stay with it until the client knows you mean business. Then simply go for it— bring up the subject, for Christ's sake. She's been seeing this woman for two months. She should have done all of that by now."
I looked at Sharon.
"I have," she said, the blush still in force. "We've talked about her defenses. It takes time. There are problems."
"Sure are," said Julian.
"Seck-shoo-all problems," enunciated Maddy. "Say the 'S' word, honey. Next time it'll be easier."
Scattered laughter. Sharon seemed to be taking it calmly. But I kept my eye on her.
"Share the problems with us," Walter was urging, grinning and playing with his ponytail.
"They... she isn't satisfied," said Sharon.
"Is she coming?" asked Julian.
"I don't think so."
"Don't think so?"
"No. No, she isn't."
"Then what are you doing to help her come?"
She bit her lip again.
"Speak up," said Maddy.
Sharon's hands began to shake. She laced her fingers together to hide it. "We've... we've talked about... reducing her anxiety, relaxing her."
"Oh Christ, blame the woman," said Maddy. "Who says it's her problem? Maybe it's him? Maybe he's a bumbler. Or a preemie."
"She says he's... okay. She's the one who's nervous."
"Have you done any deep muscle relaxation?" asked Aurora. "Systematic desensitization?"
"No, nothing that structured. It's still hard for her to talk about it."
"Wonder why," said Julian.
"We're just working on trying to stay calm," said Sharon. It sounded like self-description.
"Hard to be calm about primal issues," soothed Walter. "Have they done oral sex?"
"Uh, yes."
" Uh, in what way?"
She looked back down at the carpet. "The usual."
"I don't know what that means, Sharon." He looked at the others. "Do any of you?"
Orchestrated smiles and shakes of the head. A predatory bunch. I pictured them as full-fledged therapists in a few years. Scary.
Sharon was looking at the floor, fighting a losing battle with her hands.
I thought of intervening, wondered whether that violated the norms of the group. Decided I didn't care if it did. But being too protective would harm her more, in the long run.
While I was deliberating, Walter said, "What kind of oral sex?"
"I think we all know what oral sex is," I said.
His eyebrows rose. "Do we? I wonder. Do any of you wonder?"
"This is bullshit," said Aurora. "Got too many things to do." She stood, hefted her carpetbag, and stamped out of the room. Three or four others followed quickly.
The door slammed. A tight silence followed. Sharon's eyes were moist and her earlobe had been tugged scarlet.
"Let's move on to something else," I said.
"Let's not!" shouted Maddy. "Paul says no holds barred—why the hell should she be the exception?" Her anger seemed to lift her from the floor. "Why the hell does she get saved every time she gets into her defensive mode and shuts us out!" To Sharon: "This is reality, honey, not some fucking sorority game."
"A fucking sorority game wouldn't be half-bad," mused Julian. He sucked on his pipe ostentatiously.
"Back off," I said.
He smiled as if he hadn't heard me, stretched and recrossed his legs.
"Sorry, Alex, no back-offs," Walter informed me. "Paul's rules."
A tear dribbled down Shar
on's cheek. She wiped it away. "They do the usual."
"Meaning?"
"Sucking."
"Ah," said Walter. "Now we're getting somewhere." He held out his hands, palms up, fingers curled. "Come on, keep going."
The gesture seemed lecherous. Sharon sensed it too. She looked away from him and said, "That's all, Walter."
"Tsk, tsk," said Julian, raising a professorial pipe. "Let's operationalize. Does she suck him? Or does he suck her? Or have they advanced to mutual sucking, the old six-nine pretzel?"
Sharon's hands flew to her face. She coughed to keep from crying.
"Camille," said Maddy. "What bullshit."
"Enough," I barked.
Maddy's face darkened. "Another authoritarian father figure heard from."
"Easy," said someone. "Everyone mellow out."
Sharon got to her feet, scooping up her books, struggling with them, all white legs and rustling nylon. "I'm sorry, please excuse me." She made a grab for the doorknob, twisted it and ran out.
Walter said, "Catharsis. Could be a breakthrough."
I looked at him, at all of them. Saw vulture smiles, smugness. And something else—a flicker of fear.
"Class dismissed," I said.
I caught up with her just as she reached the sidewalk.
"Sharon?"
She kept running.
"Wait a second. Please."
She stopped, kept her back to me. I stepped in front of her. She stared down at the pavement, then up at the sky. The night was starless. Her hair merged with it so that only her face was visible. A pale, floating mask.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She shook her head. "No, it was my fault. I acted like a baby, totally inappropriate."
"There's nothing inappropriate about not wanting to be bludgeoned. They're some bunch. I should have kept a tighter rein on things, should have seen what was happening."
She finally made eye contact. Smiled. "That's all right. No one could have seen."
"Is it like that all the time?"
"Sometimes."
"Dr. Kruse approves?"
"Dr. Kruse says we have to confront our own defense systems before being able to help others." Small laugh. "I guess I have a ways to go."
"You'll do fine," I said. "In the long run, this kind of stuffs irrelevant."
"That's nice of you to say, Dr. Delaware."
"Alex."
The smile widened. "Thanks for checking on me, Alex. I guess you'd better be heading back to class."
"Class is over. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, trying to get a firmer grip on the books.
"Here, let me help you with those." Something in her was bringing out the Lancelot in me.
She said, "No, no, that's okay," but didn't stop me from taking the books.
"Where's your car?"
"I'm walking. I live in the dorms. Curtis Hall."
"I can drive you to Curtis."
"It's really not necessary."
"It would be my pleasure."
"Well, then," she said, "I'd like that."
I dropped her off at the dorm, made a date for the following Saturday.
She was waiting at the curb when I came to pick her up, wearing a yellow cashmere sweater, black-and-yellow tartan skirt, black knee socks, and loafers. She let me open the car door for her. The second my hand touched the steering wheel, hers was upon it, warm and firm.
We had dinner at one of the smoky, noisy, beer-and-pizza joints that cling to every college campus—the best I could afford. Staking out a corner table, we watched Road Runner cartoons, ate and drank, smiled at each other.
I couldn't keep my eyes off her, wanted to know more about her, to forge an impossible, instant intimacy. She fed me nibbles of information about herself: She was twenty-one, had grown up on the East Coast, graduated
from a small women's college, come west for graduate school. Then she steered the conversation to grad school. Academic issues.
Remembering the insinuations of the other students, I asked about her association with Kruse. She said he was her faculty adviser, made it sound unimportant. When 1 asked what he was like, she said he was dynamic and creative, then changed the subject, again.
I dropped it but remained curious. After that ugly session, I'd asked around about Kruse, had learned he was one of the clinical associates, a new arrival who'd already earned a reputation as a skirt-chaser and an attention grabber.
Not the kind of mentor I would have thought right for someone like Sharon. Then again, what did I really know about Sharon? About what was right for her?
I tried to learn more. She danced nimbly away from my questions, kept shifting the focus to me.
I experienced some frustration, understood for an instant the anger of the other students. Then I reminded myself we'd just met; I was being pushy, expecting too much too soon. Her demeanor suggested old money, a conservative, sheltered background. Precisely the kind of upbringing that would stress the dangers of instant intimacy.
Yet there was the matter of her hand stroking mine, the open affection of her smile. Not playing hard-to-get at all.
We talked psychology. She knew her stuff but kept deferring to my superior knowledge. I sensed real depth beneath the Suzy Creamcheese exterior. And something else: agreeableness. A ladylike niceness that caught me by pleasant surprise in that age of four-letter female anger masquerading as liberation.
My diploma said I was a doctor of the mind, a sage at twenty four, grand arbiter of relationships. But relationships still scared me. Women still scared me. Since adolescence I'd indentured myself to a regimen of study, work, more study, struggling to pull myself up out of blue-collar purgatory and expecting the human factor to fall into place along with my career goals. But new goals kept
popping up and at twenty four I was still pulling, my social life limited to casual encounters, mandatory, calis-thenic sex.
My last date had been more than two months ago—a brief misadventure with a pretty blond neonatology intern from Kansas who asked me out as we stood in the cafeteria line at the hospital. She suggested the restaurant, paid for her own meal, invited herself to my apartment, immediately sprawled on the couch, popped a Quaalude, and got peevish when I refused to take one. A moment later the peevishness was forgotten and she was buck-naked, grinning and pointing to her crotch: "This is L.A., Buster. Eat pussy."
Two months.
Now here I was, sitting opposite a demure beauty who made me feel like Einstein and wiped her mouth even when it was clean. I drank her in. In the candle-in-chianti-bottle light of the pizza joint, everything she did seemed special: spurning beer for 7-Up, laughing like a kid at the misfortunes of Wile E. Coyote, twirling strands of hot cheese around her finger before taking them between perfect white teeth.
A flash of pink tongue.
I constructed a past for her, one that reeked of high WASP sensibilities: summer homes, cotillions, deb balls, the hunt. Scores of suitors...
The scientist in me snipped my fantasies midframe: total conjecture, hotshot. She's left you empty spaces— you're filling them in with blind guesses.
I made another stab at finding out who she was. She answered me without telling me a thing, got me talking about myself again.
I surrendered to the cheap thrills of autobiography. She made it easy. She was a first-rate listener, propping her chin on her knuckles, staring up at me with those huge blue eyes, making it clear that every word I uttered was monumentally important. Playing with my fingers, laughing at my jokes, tossing her hair so that the light caught her earrings.
At that point in time I was God's gift to Sharon Ransom. It felt better than anything else I could recall.
Without all that, her looks might have snagged me. Even in that raucous place teeming with lush young bodies and heartbreaking faces, her beauty was a magnet. It seemed obvious that every passing man was stopping and caressing her visually, the women apprai
sing her with fierce acuity. She was unaware of it, remained zeroed in on me.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 04 - Silent Partner Page 7