Becoming Tess

by H K Thompson

  She stumbled into psychotherapy by way of a particularly acute psychological crisis one hot summer when she was about twenty-four. She had stepped out of her front door in north London to go to work and begun walking to the bus stop. Halfway there her legs had stopped moving. She had no say in this event, it just happened. She could neither persuade nor cajole her legs into action again. Instead, she sat on the garden wall of a large semi and decided to go back home. Her legs worked again and carried her back. With the help of her flatmate, who happened to be in, she was persuaded to find a therapist who could help her with her crisis and never looked back. She gave up her well-paid job and trained as a counsellor.

  Evelyn Doyle put the file down on the table and looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock and she had a call to make to the Director’s office before she had a morning cuppa prior to her session with Tess Dawson. There was an immutable procedure in place at Wellbridge House to ensure that the Director had oversight of the workings of the institution. No one was to slip between the cracks. Nothing was to happen that increased the likelihood of mistakes. Such an occurrence could become a negative factor in the unit’s reputation and Wellbridge’s reputation was synonymous with Peter Archer’s reputation.

  Evelyn had heard Peter Archer reiterate out loud on many occasions that Wellbridge House occupied a unique and innovatory position in the psychotherapeutic approach to those seen as criminally culpable, and offered a potentially curative remedy to the seriously distressed rather than the criminally disturbed. He usually spoke in a high-minded, portentous way; it was part of his charm. Peter Archer could be viewed, Evelyn thought in her more irreverent moments and never out loud, as the lunatic in charge of the asylum. On a good day his ego was as dapper and well tailored as his suits. He would be charming and affable and even amusing. On a bad day he was dangerous and unpredictable, given to dark moods and threatening auras.

  She knocked on his teak office door. It was the only polished hardwood door that had survived in the place. On it was a brass plaque declaring ‘Director’. From inside came the summons: “Enter”. Evelyn opened the door and walked into the well-proportioned and airy room furnished with two sofas facing each other over a highly polished coffee table in front of the fireplace. In front of the tall window looking out over the small formal garden complete with parterre, Peter Archer sat at his antique desk with his back to the light. On the desk in self-conscious formation were glass paperweights, wooden figurines of ethnic origin (perhaps African), a marbled blotter and an assortment of expensive fountain and ball-point pens. She noticed his green, marbled Mont Blanc and sighed. She caught herself judging him harshly and felt vaguely bad. He stood up as she entered and signalled her to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk. She chose the chair at an angle to his seat.

  “Thank you for looking in this morning, Evelyn.” He spoke as if there had been a choice and he said her name with an air of familiarity and authority, almost possessiveness. “You’re seeing your new patient today. Tess Dawson.”

  “That’s right,” she replied.

  “She is a curious case, don’t you think? This not speaking has us all guessing about her state of mind. What’s your take on her?” he asked.

  “I don’t really have a take on her yet. I haven’t met her,” Evelyn replied.

  “Yes, but you must have formed an impression from the file. What do you think so far?” he insisted.

  It was clear that he wanted something to hold on to, some definition of who Tess Dawson was, some partial and apt diagnosis of her mental state that would make him feel reassured, more secure.

  “Peter,” she replied, parrying both his insistence and his familiarity, “you know that I won’t give any account of a patient until I’ve met them personally. When I’ve talked with this patient I’ll let you know what I think but, really, not before. Other people’s files are a very small part of the picture I form of someone. You know that about me by now, surely.” She drew him into a professional intimacy to reassure him.

  “Well, I thought you might have some ideas,” he came back, sounding sheepish and hurt.

  “Peter,” she said in a comforting tone of voice, repeating his name again gently, “I will let you know what I think as soon as I’ve formed an opinion. Knowing what I do about her, especially that she has not spoken once to a staff member in three months, nor before or during her trial, it may take some time before I have much to report. You’ll be the first to hear.”

  “Yes, of course,” he pulled himself back into rational mode. “We’ll speak again soon. Everything else OK?” he enquired, again requiring no reply.

  “Fine,” said Evelyn, standing and moving towards the door. “I’ll look in tomorrow and update you if there’s anything to report.” She turned and opened the door, exiting into the hall and closing the door behind her, leaving Peter Archer to rally himself before his next encounter.

  *

  Evelyn placed her briefcase on the small table that served as a desk in counselling room 3 and took her place in the armchair. Sunlight poured in through the casement window. Evelyn looked at her watch and checked it against the clock on the wall facing her. She felt a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, her customary response to meeting a new patient. No matter how many years she had been doing the job she still felt the butterflies. She had done her homework and now was taking care to put the information given her out of her mind as she sat in silent contemplation awaiting the arrival of Tess Dawson. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and along the corridor and heard them stop outside. There was a knock, quite tentative, and the doorknob turned as she watched.

  Chapter 4

  Tess Dawson walked into the room feeling nervous. Her hands were shaking and she avoided eye contact with the person facing her as she entered. She took in only the vaguest details of Evelyn Doyle’s appearance, feeling flustered and wrong-footed, disadvantaged by a situation that she was unfamiliar with. She saw the woman smile and stand up, speaking to her and indicating the empty chair for her. She did not hear the words that she said, responding only to the sign, the instruction, reassured to be guided to her place. She sat down, holding the arm of the chair for support, and stared at the floor, at the yellow and blue rug that occupied exactly the space between the two chairs. She was trying to control her mounting panic. She thought of the garden and how she spent at least every Wednesday there helping out with the weeding, tending and planting. Her mind was racing. The summer months were busy and she remembered how she had been inducted into gardening duties early on in her time at Wellbridge House and the garden was burgeoning with growth and produce. Next spring she would learn about sowing from seed in the greenhouse that ran the length of the north wall, a beautiful Victorian brick.

  She looked forward to the gardening season. She loved the smell and the messiness of the potting shed, shelved with dusty planks that held an array of pots and seed trays of all sizes. When she was in the garden she was always filled with an unforgettable and simple excitement, not like the feeling that she was having now. This garden, like her garden at home, felt like a place where she could happily stay for the rest of her life. She was trying to project herself into that feeling as she took her seat, of peace and tranquillity and fresh air, without a care in the world.

  And then Evelyn Doyle spoke and interrupted the torrent of thoughts with which she had been fending off the panic.

  “Hello Tess. My name is Evelyn Doyle. You found the room OK, I see.”

  She held out her hand to Tess and Tess, taken aback, held out hers without thinking, a reflex. Evelyn noted that Tess’s hand was cold and clammy. Nerves, she thought. Her first impression of her new patient was of a young woman who was nervous, almost panicking (something in her eyes) and alert, her body language conveying caution, even suspicion, on this their first meeting. Tess looked at her only fleetingly and said nothing. She had nodded when they shook hands. A silent acknowledgement, Evelyn thought. It felt like a good start. She readied her
self for whatever the session would bring and for the long silences that she was anticipating.

  Tess felt jumbled and confused and these feelings were not getting better. She was trying to recall the greeting with which the therapist had introduced herself. She sat on the edge of the armchair as if perched to leave as soon as an opportunity arose. But then again, it felt as if all roads had led to here, to this moment of silent confrontation, with Evelyn Doyle sitting and looking at her, watching her as she hovered between panic and retreat. She knew that escape from the room was not an obvious option. She did not have the confidence or sufficient indignation to exit without invitation or permission. She felt that she was in a situation that was beyond her resources. She felt out of her depth, not knowing the rules of engagement.

  She sat feeling suspended in the presence of Evelyn Doyle. Her mind was fuzzy and foggy, the ramblings about the garden inside her head subdued by her next line of defence, blankness. And slowly it occurred to her that the blankness in her mind was a cul-de-sac already habituated to the lulling and comforting institutional routine of the day. It was comforting in an arid and vacant sort of way. As she sat contemplating the rug between them she had a sense that what she was facing now was the possibility of change. What was even more striking (she had never been struck by this up to now) was that people had believed in her enough to send her to Wellbridge House. This was a new insight and one that made her instinctively look up (however briefly) at Evelyn Doyle. For a second she felt that the oblivion she feared, falling into an abyss, might not come to pass, that there might be another way. Her hands were cold and clammy and her therapist must have felt that when they shook hands.

  She did not know if this woman could pull her back from the edge if she once opened the floodgates, for that is what she thought she might be about to do. She decided that she had to believe in her and, perhaps more important, in herself, so that she could take the next step, whatever it was. She looked at Evelyn Doyle again, risking connection. It was not a glance this time, but a look, into her eyes, taking in her face. She looked away after a moment and thought that Evelyn Doyle’s eyes were kind.

  Evelyn sat back in her armchair and looked at her new patient. She took in her posture and demeanour. Tess Dawson was tall and she had noticed a slight stoop as she came in through the door. There was a lack of confidence in her, as if she had never recovered from something heavy and wearying. She had dark hair cut in a careless style. Her face had a startled look to it and when not startled it seemed blank, expressionless, as if she were trying to hide herself. All in all there was something attenuated about her, as if she had been stretched beyond what she was capable of enduring, her resources depleted and drained. More than anything she looked exhausted.

  Evelyn reflected briefly in the silence on the notes in the file then pushed them to the back of her mind. She felt empathic, remembering briefly the first time she had ever seen a therapist. She too had been struck dumb. She had not known where to start. She could remember the therapist clearly. He was American and had what she would now call a ‘big personality’. She had grown to like him and his flair for the dramatic. She had decided later never to be dramatic in her sessions. She refocused on her patient. Tess was still perched on the edge of her chair as if she were deciding whether to jump or not. She looked tense and anguished.

  Evelyn was aware that Ann McKenzie’s notes had made a strong impression on her. Even when apparently banished, they re-emerged in her mind to corroborate her growing impression of Tess. Now, perhaps fifteen minutes into the session, she could see her anxiety continue to mount. Something was moving inside her as she became more agitated. When Tess looked directly at her, Evelyn met her look and said:

  “You find it difficult to speak.”

  Tess had not expected the directness of what had been said. It was simple, disarming and indisputable and, most importantly, there was no judgement. She was thrown into a quandary as she sat uneasily on her chair, moving and fidgeting, trying to find a comfortable position. She felt relieved that the therapist saw and understood how she felt without asking questions. But she also felt that she was facing a dilemma. How was she going to respond? It was not that she did not want to speak but she felt as if her voice were trapped in her throat. At first she felt a dull anguish at the incisive and simple statement Evelyn Doyle had made and then she felt the therapist’s statement having the effect of bringing her down to earth, of making her feel as if she were suddenly standing on solid ground. Seated here in the quiet of the cream-painted counselling room with the strangely reassuring presence of her therapist, she decided it was time to give it a go. It was one of those moments when she felt the world turn. Her way out of the fearful impasse she had been in for months (it seemed like forever, and perhaps that is exactly what it was) was by doing something different, something she had not tried before.

  She had always viewed herself as an independent woman, capable of running her own life, earning her own living, even having a child alone. In the time that she had been at Wellbridge House it had become clear to her that she was, in fact, totally dependent on the institution to hold her together. Only in Wellbridge House had she dared experience some sense of who she really was, a frail and dependent person. After years of struggle she had given up the pretence of being able to cope and thrown herself into, at first, an unwilling acceptance of being helpless and in need. That change in her, hard won, had altered the nervy distress she had always lived with on a daily basis. There was an ebbing of her anxiety as she settled into a life of quiescence and dependence. She stopped fighting. She said, out loud and unexpectedly:

  “I’ve stopped fighting, I think. I know I can’t do this alone.”

  Evelyn breathed evenly, calming the excitement she felt as Tess Dawson spoke her first words.

  “Then let’s begin together,” she said, after a few seconds’ pause to acknowledge the importance of the moment.

  She felt touched by reaching out to Tess Dawson in an acknowledgment of their joint venture. Evelyn found herself appreciating the struggle that Tess’s life had been. Struggle had been her way of surviving. She began to get the distinct sense that Tess believed that no one was on her side.

  Evelyn smiled at Tess. “I understand that this is a new situation for you. You probably don’t know what to expect. Part of your being here rather than in a prison is that being here gives you the opportunity to find out why the events that brought you here have happened. We know very little of the circumstances that brought you here because you haven’t so far talked about them. Would you like to begin to talk about them?”

  Tess looked at Evelyn and heard her words. They were calm, reassuring and matter of fact. She knew she was reaching the point when to be able to speak about the past months and years would be a relief, it was just that she was so unused to having someone to talk to about herself. At the age of thirty-one she considered this a strange and unbelievable position to be in. The loneliness of her life suddenly became clear to her and it came with a rush of energy, followed by a strange excitement in her stomach that caused it to flip and flutter. Then she was off on an inner ramble, reviewing her life.

  She thought of how, after she had been to university, when her inner world had already begun to fragment and close down, she had struggled with the conflicting call of her aspirations and what she knew somewhere inside her to be her instability. She had wanted to make something of herself and had made a promising start professionally, but as the years passed and she felt that everything she did, no matter how proficiently, was empty and without any sense of meaning, she fell into a deep depression. Or perhaps the depression was the cause of the feeling of meaninglessness. She could never tell which way round it was. A relationship with a work colleague had ended in pregnancy.

  She left her job before the pregnancy became noticeable. She avoided the company of others and the only people who knew about it were her GP and, later, her midwife. She had the baby in the local hospital and, as soon as
she had recovered, she fled the life she had made for herself and moved away from the city to the depths of the country. How she managed this she never really understood but she seemed to take the upheaval and dislocation in her stride even with the depression. Perhaps underneath the impetus to flee there had been a desperation that had driven her on, in an attempt to escape her state of mind. She soon realised that there was no escape. For a while she lived on the savings that she had, looking after the baby alone, seeing no one, and having no contact with health visitors or doctors in her new locality. She and her baby were anonymous and invisible.

  The circumstances in which Rachel died were still a mystery to her. It was the mystery that surrounded the event that made her feel unsure of herself, uncertain as to the role she had played in the death. It was as if she had blacked out before it happened and awoken from a very bad dream to find the baby dead. She had no memory of what had happened. In the days after the death she wondered with horror whether she had smothered her child in a fit of unconsciousness. She let her imagination play out different scenarios none of which she could eliminate entirely. In the end she found a compromise and allowed the guilt she felt about Rachel’s death to supersede any other consideration. She decided that living with guilt was better than imagining the scenarios. One way and another she was responsible. In her confusion and desperation she buried Rachel’s small body in the fireplace and tried to forget.

  Tess was surprised by the spontaneous reverie in which she had found herself, sitting opposite Evelyn Doyle. How much did she want to tell her? No matter how much her mind considered this question the words that came out showed her uncertainty about the situation she was now in. And there was a deeply ingrained inability to talk about herself, even though she knew now that was what she wanted and what she had to do.