Shadowed Soul

by John Spagnoli

  Sophie and I sat in silence until I blurted out that my coping mechanisms were not in any way defined.

  “Well, if it's something you want to explore,” said Sophie nodding and smiling pleasantly. “I'm more than happy to help you.” I agreed I would like that.

  Sophie had become an important part of my life and I found myself thinking of her between our sessions. There was nothing romantic in my thoughts, far from it because all of the love that I had to give to a woman was directed at Beth. I found myself writing poems on a nightly basis, words that maybe Beth would never ever see but had great value for me and I found cathartic. In contrast, feelings I developed toward Sophie were based on the fact that she was such an easy person to talk to. I had been reluctant for years to visit anything resembling a shrink because I feared judgement. In reality Sophie’s compassion and direction were so consistent the idea of judgment never entered the picture. She was honest so I was feeling that I too could be honest. In the past the very idea that someone would ever dare question that I had never developed a coping mechanism would have sent me into a sullen mood that could have lasted for months, but I always left Sophie’s sessions feeling positive.

  Movement around me brought me back to the funeral of my mother. The priest had finished the eulogy. Utterly unprepared as I was for this event, I suddenly noticed people were looking to me to do something. But what? Panic rose in me as the labyrinthine process awaited my actions. Should I cry now? Was that what people were waiting for? A grand display of grief for my dead mother? Were these people judging me? This is how these people would remember me. If I did the wrong thing then I would be known to them as the man who did not care that his own mother was dead. I wanted to turn on them and explain what a cold hearted bitch she had been to me. But by the same token I also wanted them to believe I was a fully functioning human being. It did not matter to me how many times Sophie had said normality was relative. What mattered to me, the only thing that mattered to me, was that these strangers would never think of me as being the asshole that had ruined this woman’s funeral for them. It felt like I was on display in a macabre show. As I stood, floundering with social ineptitude I felt a hand slip gently through my arm and I turned to see Beth beside me. She gated me forward to the open grave.

  For a second I was gripped with a terrifying image. My mother would be lying there, looking up at me with her hooded judgemental eyes, as she found dark amusement in my inability to function properly even on her big day. Together, Beth and I walked to the grave. Suddenly, I understood what I was meant to do next. I scooped a handful of soil and gazed solemnly at the coffin before gently letting the dirt fall onto the wooden lid of my mother’s final resting place.

  This cue was followed by the other mourners and as they said their own good-byes to a woman I could never know. Maybe she was their friend and neighbour, someone whose death they believed was worth crying over. With genuine indifference, I received gentle platitudes and sympathies from each mourner. I nodded one by one they passed me. All I wanted to do was leave. Beth's hand gripped my upper arm reassuringly as my pantomime ran its ludicrous course. The priest announced refreshments would be served in the rectory of the church my mother had attended. Beth quietly told me she would come with me and offer whatever support she could. As we were leaving I turned one last time to look at my mother’s grave. In the shade of a nearby tree stood a tall, thin, bearded man who watched the proceedings. He was too far away for me to get a good look at his face in the shadow of the branches and the wide brimmed hat he wore. Still I had the distinct feeling that he was looking directly at me.

  When at last it was over and we could leave, Beth came with me back to the empty apartment just so I had company. I had readily agreed. There was no romantic intention; she just wanted to make sure I was not alone. I had not argued because although I could not see myself crumbling under the emotional weight of my mother’s passing there was a large part of me that simply did not want to be alone. It was an odd feeling, the thoughts that I had expressed in Sophie’s office the previous day had drifted away. The anger and resentment I felt toward my mother’s death was not staying with me. I would miss her. The thought that she was no longer there, irrevocably taken from me, sank slowly into my mind. Oddly, a world without my mother had no appeal to me.

  Beth and I had chatted and held each other and listened to music as the evening passed. Our conversations were safe and easy. With Beth by my side and Bailey nearby, I knew at all cost I had to reconstruct our familial atmosphere of love and warmth. Whether I actually would was up to me. The progress I was making with Sophie was taking me closer and closer to a happy end, or perhaps a happy continuum interspersed by periodic downs. It was late when I finally broached the subject that I had been avoiding for weeks.

  “Beth, would you like to come to one of my sessions with Sophie?”

  “Is that allowed?” she asked, disbelieving.

  “Sophie encourages it. She says you’re affected by everything that’s going on in my life, so you should come.” I paused. “Sorry, but she thinks it’d be helpful if you attended with me.” I smiled a little.

  “Do you think it will help?” asked Beth. I nodded.

  “It’d give you a safe, structured environment to let me know how you feel.”

  “You know how I feel, Thomas,” said Beth and squeezed my fingers.

  “Yeah, but Sophie’s good. She has ways of just making you feel comfortable enough to be really, really open,” I said. “To be honest, I’ve learned more about myself than I thought possible.”

  “You sure you want me to come?” Beth stared me down.

  “I do,” I answered without hesitation. Beth’s presence would provide the key to settling my mania once and for all. She agreed that she would attend my next session and held me tightly until she fell asleep. My heart filled with love as I watched Beth sleep. When I finally dozed off I found myself back in the phantasmagoric street that haunted me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Do either of you have any idea what this street represents?” asked Sophie from across her desk. A week had passed since my mother’s interment. Life continued. My bereavement had not seemed to have given the Shadowed Soul any advantages. Perhaps he was feeding quietly upon residual venom. Beth had stayed through the day after the funeral and I had managed to let her leave without making any enormous scene or bombarding her with guilt. I asked about our boy and promised that I would come and see him soon. To my shame I had used mother’s death as a convenient excuse. Clearing out my mother’s home was another. In reality, my mother’s neighbor had offered to do it and I had readily agreed. The neighbor, Florence, a middle-aged divorce’, graciously assumed going there would be too painful for my broken heart to bear.

  “You were a lucky boy, weren’t you,” said Florence. Bile rose in my throat. “Your mother was such an angel. Such a good Christian neighbor!”

  During the week since the funeral, I had lapsed back into BDSM sojourns on the internet. Guilt no longer factored in; I had become desensitized to images of women coiled in serpentine hemp, their mouths distorted by thick gags. I was no longer disgusted by myself. No shock value remained in the images. Sexual arousal was long gone. The hours wasted online were mind numbing. My Pavlovian habit no longer delivered any particular emotional stimulation; it was merely a reflex. So immune to my stew of troubles, I had been reduced to a mass of emotional scar tissue and thoughtless reflex. A human soul trapped in tissue without synapses.

  My only nagging source of concern was my recurring nightmare. Several times each night it replayed: The ominous street and that weight in my pocket. Since the funeral, the nightmare had become more defined. Threaded into the dream was the potent presence of the solitary man with the hat who had stood away from the crowd at my mother's funeral. He lived on the edge of my consciousness since that day he appeared shadowed under the cemetery trees. What was it about him that terrified me? Had the Shadowed Soul gained so much power that he had
manifested himself into the real world. Had he crawled from the grave? Perhaps the tall man was merely the grave digger. Nevertheless, he now visited my nightmare, and waited for me at the end of the street. Obscured by shadows, yet I sensed his sadistic grin as I approached. As the dreams progressed my anger escalated. With each progression, the man with the hat appeared with two objects on either side of him, both of them around three feet high and covered in dirty sheets. It terrified me to imagine what was hidden beneath the sheets.

  With Beth by my side in the safety of Sophie’s office, I had found the courage to talk about the details of this recurring dream. I still felt uncomfortable telling anyone about what was in my pocket. I alone knew. And I was too ashamed to tell Sophie or Beth.

  “You know where the street is in real life?” asked Sophie. “Does it mean anything to you apart from being a street?” Sophie looked at me with interest and I shrugged.

  “No, it's just a street that I know,” I replied. “I've passed it a thousand times but there’s nothing special about it. I'm bewildered why I dream about it.”

  “What about you, Beth?” Sophie turned her attention to Beth. “Does the street ring any bells for you?” Beth shook her head no.

  “I think I know the street he's talking about,” replied Beth. “But, I don't think it's a particularly important street to either of us. Thomas never mentioned it before. Even passing it with him in the bus he's never really shown any sign of recognition or discomfort.”

  “Okay, it's interesting because it seems to be such a constant part of your dream, Thomas,” said Sophie. “Perhaps the dream has become such a part of your nightly routine that the street means nothing, but that would be unusual.”

  “Like a habit?” asked Beth. Sophie nodded.

  “Tell me, Thomas, what emotions go through your head when you're on that street?”

  “I'm usually angry. Furious. A steady rage rather than uncontrollable fury,” I said.

  “Yes, do you have any thoughts as to why you’re angry when you’re on the street in the dream?” asked Sophie.

  “Well, I know that I'm going to meet someone,” I said. “I’m going to punish someone but I'm not sure who it is and I'm not sure why I'm going to them. It’s redemption for something they’ve done to me.”

  “Have you a sense of what is making you want redemption?” asked Sophie.

  “I don't know. It's his actions that made me so angry,” I stammered, grasping for clarity.

  “His actions made you angry,” parroted Sophie. “And this tall figure, Thomas, the man who wears a hat? Who do you think he is?”

  “Maybe the Shadowed Soul, Sophie? I think that's why I'm going down that street, because I want to face the Shadowed Soul and kill him, or at least destroy his power. Crazy?”

  “Not crazy, Thomas,” assured Sophie, then turned her focus to Beth whose expression was untroubled but I also sensed that my wife was not feeling entirely comfortable in this setting.

  “Beth, I'm really sorry if you feel uncomfortable,” I said, and Beth turned her face toward me and smiled a little.

  “Thomas, I'm fine,” said Beth. “I just don't want to interrupt you.”

  “I mean, there's no real point of you coming here if you don't feel able to speak or see anything. You won't be interrupting. I want to know what you feel, Beth,” I said, believing my words would reassure her.

  “It's your dream, Thomas,” countered Beth.

  “I know but…” I trailed off not really knowing what else to say.

  “If I may,” Sophie deftly redirected us. “You need to take things at your own pace while you’re in here. You’re not obligated to say anything or have an opinion. I’ve worked with many couples. But usually they have come together to begin with and it can be difficult because neither really wants to be the first to say something negative or voice an opinion that the other one may not want to hear. Thomas has been an excellent client, he has been open, he has been honest and he has trusted me. That is a huge factor in making steady progress. One thing that comes from Thomas’ general attitude is the certain knowledge that he is ready to try to improve. It may not be easy for him. Most likely it's not going to be easy for either of you because he has a very difficult fight ahead of him. Now I'm sorry to be blunt but you both deserve my honesty and because Thomas has been suffering from this illness for such a long time and is going to be exceptionally hard for him to give up the depression.”

  “Give up the depression?” asked Beth. Sophie nodded. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “In fact,” continued Sophie. “…and I say this only from experience with other clients and not from a medical standpoint, but chances are Thomas will always have this condition. It never truly goes away for most people. But there are mechanisms that can be used to help alleviate the symptoms when they do come.” She paused, waiting for this to sink in.

  “You mentioned mechanisms?” asked Beth. Sophie nodded.

  “We’ll get to all of it, Beth,” assured Sophie. “Now, from what Thomas says, Beth, you are a very understanding and loving person. It's not just what he says it's the way that he says it. He is very much in love with you and from our very short time together I think it's safe to say that you feel equally so toward Thomas.”

  “I do,” said Beth squarely. “Thomas is everything I ever wanted in a man. He’s sweet, kind, funny, intelligent, handsome and thoughtful.”

  “And smart,” I added, winking.

  “No argument there,” assured Beth. “I know that he has his illness and I can accept that. I can fully accept that in the same way that he has accepted my blindness and the other things that are wrong with me. I love him. I love you, Thomas, and I hope you know that?”

  “I do know, Beth.” I squeezed her hand and she smiled slightly although I could see tears building up in her eyes.

  “And because you love him so much,” persisted Sophie. “I know that it is difficult for you to fully explain how you feel. I may be wrong so please feel free to ignore everything that I am going to say. In my experience, couples that are very much in love are the ones who do whatever they can to keep each other safe and sometimes that means that they jump through hoops not to hurt each other. I know from talking to Thomas that many of his decisions have been designed to try and cushion you from his condition.”

  “Like living separately at the apartment,” I interjected.

  “I know but I miss you, Thomas,” said Beth. “Sophie, I worry that if he is by himself then he won't cope very well. And he doesn’t.” Beth sobbed as she spoke and my heart felt as though it were breaking.

  “Thomas, how does that make you feel?” asked Sophie.

  “I absolutely hate to see Beth cry,” I blubbered. “I hate the fact that I have been the cause of so many tears in her life. If she had ended up with someone else then she would have been happier.”

  “No, Thomas, no, that's not true!” cried Beth. “I promise you that, listen to me. Yes, I have cried, of course, but when you get like this you forget that I have laughed and smiled much more than I have cried and that's because of you.” She turned to Sophie. “May I ask you something, Sophie?”

  “Of course,” confirmed Sophie.

  “In your honest opinion, and I do want you to be honest, do you think that Thomas can do this?” asked Beth. Sophie sat back in her chair and bit her bottom lip as she considered the best way to answer this question.

  I knew from my limited experience with Sophie that she was not particularly fond of answering these types of questions directly, she wanted to encourage her client but she felt uncomfortable giving definitive answers. Sophie wanted to facilitate but she had told me once that there was nothing helpful about the whole concept of false hope.

  “I think he can, if he chooses to,” confirmed Sophie. “If he chooses to. It may not be easy and he will have some dark times ahead of him, but he has endurance. I mean his family life growing up made him resilient. And crippled at times by his condition, emotionally
and mentally crippled, I mean, but he has gone on. He faced the world when it had seemed to be at its very darkest. He's come here and he has been open and honest and I know that he really wants to improve because he loves you and his family.”

  “I worry because I don't think you love our son, Thomas,” blurted Beth, her expression full of determination. “I'm sorry, Thomas, but that's how I feel. It’s like you have no real interest in him. I mean, you ask all the right questions, but you don't seem to have much true care or interest, and I hate the idea that you don't want him.”

  “I'm sorry, Beth,” I said, ashamed. But she raised a hand.

  “Don't be sorry, Thomas, just please let me know how you feel about our son.”

  The office seemed to twist and pitch as I was forced to confront something that I had done my best to avoid. I had no real idea what I felt about my son beyond a vague disinterest and competition for time with my wife. I knew I should love Jonathan, but in the same way that I knew I should love my mother I found the emotions difficult to conjure. I lacked passion. I was guarded. Like a marionette my movements surrounding my son were calculated to appear appropriate. Beyond appearances, I sought no connection with my son that required any commitment or intimacy from me. It was too big a risk. I lacked tools, never having learned them from my own parents’ toxic relationship. I wanted to tell Beth that I loved my son but I did not say anything definitive until I truly knew what my feelings were. I wanted to give her an honest answer.

  Sophie seemed to understand my discomfort but was not giving me an easy escape and I hated and admired her for this with equal ardor.