by Neal, Toby
Mrs. Kunia’s daughter had died a few years ago of a drug overdose, leaving her and her husband to raise the children—a girl, twelve, and a boy, ten. Henry, the ten-year-old, had been killed accidentally by Frank six months ago in a hunting accident involving his rifle.
“Hi, Mrs. Kunia,” I said, holding the door open. “Come on in.”
“Brought you something.” She put the gigantic papaya into my hands. “You look like you need to eat.”
I laughed. “Thank you! I probably do. It’s beautiful.” I shut the door behind us, followed her into the inner office, where she took her shoes off at the door, walked in, and sat on the couch. I set the papaya on my desk, where it stood upright, majestic as a sculpture. “Did you grow it yourself?”
“Farmers’ market.”
It was going to be one of those nonverbal days, then. I settled myself into my armchair with my clipboard on my lap and my pen at the ready. “Tell me how you’re doing this week.”
A silence stretched out.
Mrs. Kunia, the strong, sturdy Hawaiian woman with her cracked heels and hands rough from work, stared at the designs left by Alison in the little Japanese sand garden on the table. Finally, she reached forward to pull a handful of tissues out of the box beside the sand garden. She spread the tissues open over her palm, layering them over one another in a precise stack. When the stack was of a suitable thickness, she pressed the tissues to her face and let out a sob.
What a sob. It was deep, aching, a wrenching sound that brought tears to my eyes too, echoing as it did my own grief. I got out of the chair and sat beside her on the couch. I stroked Mrs. Kunia’s back in little circles as she wept.
She saved it all for this office. She held it in and held it together as she must, for her husband who was eaten with guilt and for the twelve-year-old granddaughter, wild and angry as a cornered mongoose. But here she let it all go.
I was there to witness her pain. Validate it. Support it.
It cost me to empathize with the pain of clients, to genuinely share it—and yet nothing less seemed to heal as powerfully; nothing less seemed to honor what they’d been through. Sometimes I wished I’d worked in the time of the old psychodynamic model—detached from the client behind the couch with a clipboard, a therapist who could do a crossword, say “uh-huh” and “interesting” and send a bill.
Mrs. Kunia cried for two-thirds of the session, and when she was done, she pulled out a new stack of tissues and wiped her face with them. Little strands of her thick silver hair had come loose from the topknot on her head and clung to her cheeks. I got up and opened the little fridge, took out a cold bottle of water and handed it to her. “Fluid replacement.”
She gave a bark of laughter, unscrewed the lid, and drained half of it. “Thanks, Dr. Wilson.”
“I didn’t do anything. You’re the one doing all the work.” It’s something I tell clients often. The work is theirs; I am just a facilitator, holding the emotional container for what needs to be processed, reflecting their own healing back to them so they can understand it better. That’s why I don’t worry about “engaging” clients, keeping them coming back. I’m here and solutions are here, but I won’t ever work harder than my clients—because only they can do what needs to be done.
“Frank left.”
“Oh no. Why?”
“He feels so bad. He says we’re better off without him, especially with Maile still blaming him for the accident.” Maile, the angry twelve-year-old who refused to come to my office. I let a long moment go on, wondering if she had anything more to add. She did. “I worry he’s going to kill himself.”
“Where did he go?”
“To a hunting shack he uses. It’s on the mountain.” The “mountain” was nearby Kilauea Volcano, where pig hunting is allowed in the park year-round with a license.
“Did he say anything about hurting himself?”
“No, but I know him. That’s what he thinking. He took his guns.”
“I agree he’s at risk. Maybe he just wants to go somewhere and be sad; but a man alone and grieving in the wilderness with a gun is a recipe for suicide. Let’s call it in.”
“I no like. He’d be shame.” Her voice thickened into pidgin. “He be so angry wit’ me.”
“His life may be at stake.” We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and finally I said, “Remember when I told you what was confidential and what wasn’t? This isn’t. I have a duty to protect if I think there’s a real danger of suicide or homicide.”
Mrs. Kunia stood to her full five eleven. “I nevah tol’ you fo’ do that.”
“I know. Blame me. Tell him the stupid haole doctor wen’ do ’em,” I said with my best attempt at pidgin, and she shook her head and walked out, each footstep a stomp that shook the little old cottage.
But I knew she was grateful, and she’d be back. I just hoped we’d be in time to save Frank’s life.
I looked up my ranger friend at Volcanoes National Park in my cell phone. Bridget was the sister of a client, and she took it seriously when I told her all I knew and that there was a very credible chance Frank Kunia was going to his hunting shack to commit suicide. “Where’s the shack located?” Bridget asked.
I didn’t know that. “Call Mrs. Kunia. She’s reluctant to report this, so when you find him, if he’s okay, could you guys make some excuse? Tell him you’re checking his hunting license or something.”
“Of course, Dr. Wilson. We’ll get right on it. You know when someone’s in danger. Thanks for calling.”
I’d saved her sister’s life. Sally’s elliptic comments about ending it all in my office had culminated in a hanging attempt at home, which my call to Bridget had averted. Sally, my former client, was especially grateful. She was now married with a baby on the way. I gave Bridget Mrs. Kunia’s number.
Mrs. Kunia was my last appointment of the day. I was rattled and behind on my notes. I liked to complete them after each client, but that hadn’t been possible. I shoved down the longing for a drink that wound its way around my nerves.
I sat down at my desk and started my case notes, beginning with Alison’s session, because doing what I needed to do had always calmed me. I still liked to hand write my notes, and I took out a fresh form and the gel pen I used for easy flow.
D: Met with A. 50 min. and reviewed progress on goal of reducing problem behavior to 1x wk. A. affect sad, worried. Did 20-min. round of hypnosis using suggestion that feelings of frustration or loneliness could be addressed by self-care steps like calling a friend, taking a shower, exercising. Assigned hw of tracking mood, level of craving using 1–5 scale, and number of times she was able to deflect an episode and/or indulged behavior.
A: A. has made progress managing behavior. Continues to come to sessions regularly but does hw only 2/3 days/wk. Antianxiety medication may assist more rapid progress.
P: Make referral to personal doctor or psychiatrist for trial of antianxiety medication. Discuss in next session. Use motivational interviewing to explore ambivalence around recovery demonstrated by sporadic engagement with homework and follow-up activities. Continue trial of short hypnosis during sessions as A. says she thinks it’s helping. Monitor if actual incidents decreasing to verify.
Caprice Wilson, PhD
I’d gone to the DAP (Data, Assessment, Plan) note-taking format some time ago as it captured all the information I needed in a less-cumbersome format than the SOAP notes I’d learned in college. I also liked to keep clients’ confidentiality protected as much as I could even in my notes, since the insurance companies, ever vigilant of fraud, made us sign contracts to turn them in whenever asked for—a fact the public wouldn’t find palatable at all.
It wasn’t in Alison’s best interest for anyone to know that her “problem behavior” was stealing, and my priority was my clients and their recovery.
Which always brought me up against one of the moral dilemmas of life as a psychologist. Most of my practice was with law enforcement, and here I was, basically h
iding a thief. Fortunately, my ethical standards were clear. Unless the problem was causing harm to another, I had an obligation to protect confidentiality—and while it could be argued that kleptomania hurt the economy and retailers in particular, there was no direct physical harm to another as covered in Tarasoff and suicide or abuse reporting laws.
Perhaps Alison would be helped by a little jail time—but I doubted it. It was my job to help her on her journey to beat the problem herself. It still staggered me to picture Alison, with her tiny arms and feathery hair, lugging a giant flat-screen out of J. C. Penney, unchallenged.
And it was still my job to protect her, particularly from someone who might have approached her because I was her therapist—but hopefully I was overreacting, and she’d just dropped the collar somehow.
Alison had drawn a series of hearts in the sand garden with the little rake. Her design had survived the tears of Mrs. Kunia. We’d talked about her learning to love herself and that stealing wasn’t congruent with that. She’d drawn those hearts as she talked. Her relationships with men were a staggering series of disasters—she tended to like them with fast cars and gambling problems. I felt my affection for her rise up—she really was like a dandelion, fragile-looking but tough.
Maybe there was a third scenario. Alison was a compulsive liar when she was stealing. Maybe she’d spotted the collar, wanted it, and told me a lie. It was entirely within the scope of her behaviors and actually wouldn’t surprise me.
The security system was going to be put in tomorrow; there was nothing more to be done right now. I’d just have to live with the uncertainty.
I took out a fresh sheet and began Mrs. Kunia’s progress note:
D: Mrs. K. arrived with gift of fruit (culturally correct gesture on her part.) Affect flat, few verbalizations. Cried for 25 minutes. Disclosed fears of suicide for husband. Disagreed with this practitioner’s decision to notify Park Service and left upset. Followed through with notifying Park Service personnel Bridget Fukuda of concerns at 4:35 p.m.; referred personnel to Mrs. Kunia’s cell number for location of Frank Kunia’s reported destination.
A: Mrs. Kunia still experiences feelings of deep grief frequently, and fears for her husband triggered this bout of extreme crying. Though ambivalent about reporting, and outwardly angry with my decision, Mrs. Kunia knew what she was doing when she told me and the kind of action I would take. She was able to relieve herself of the responsibility of making the necessary calls, which could set her up for relational problems with husband later. She has difficulty with disclosure and self-reflection, skills that would help her navigate the losses she has endured.
P: Follow up with Park Service tomorrow to see if they located Frank Kunia. Continue to work with Mrs. K. on developing a broader range of self-reflection and communication skills.
Constance Wilson, PhD
I sat up abruptly, looking at the signature. Constance Wilson.
My dead identical twin sister was trying to take me over.
It was one of my very old fears, part of what had led to keeping her firmly locked away in my mind. I reached into my desk and took out the white-out tape, carefully erasing her name. Constance was definitely making her presence known—that bright presence, so charismatic that even before I knew what it meant to be a twin, I’d known she was the original and I, the copy.
I wished I’d been able to grieve for her normally. Maybe she wouldn’t haunt me so much now, in my current pain.
Caprice Wilson, PhD, I wrote, over the white-out tape, pressing hard.
Constance’s sudden death, hit by a car at age fourteen, had left me frozen with unspeakable loss. Numb. Cauterized as if halved by a lightning bolt. I’d been unable to cry or speak for weeks. When I did finally start talking, I couldn’t say her name or speak of her. I never did cry. I’d been hearing what sounded like her voice in my head lately.
You’ve got grief issues, Caprice, and that’s making it harder to deal with the divorce, that voice said now.
“Damn you, Constance. Why’d you have to go and die?” I whispered aloud.
I filed the case notes, locked the cabinet, and turned off the lights. When I went to the door, I peeked out through the window. No one was parked in the parking lot; no one was on the porch. I put my hand into my bag, unzipped the interior pouch where I kept my Glock, and curled my hand around the cool pebbled grip.
I unlocked the dead bolt, stepped outside, scanning like my law-enforcement friends had taught me, and saw the sun striking pink and gold off high cumulus clouds behind Kilauea Volcano in the distance. To the right of me, the clustered buildings of University of Hawaii were lit by the orange flame of blossoms on the African tulip trees.
Clumps of towering torch ginger, at least six feet high and until now something I’d treasured, blocked my view off the little porch. Someone could be behind them and I wouldn’t be able to see them—but otherwise, there was nothing out there but the lush overlong grass, empty little parking lot, and my Mini Cooper waiting for me, a dollop of whipped cream steel.
I finally let myself look at the mat—and there was another object there.
Chapter 4
My heart fluttered as I scanned the area. The white mug sitting there had not been there earlier, and it was doubtful Mrs. Kunia would have stepped over it on her way out and not said something. I bent, keeping my eyes moving, and picked it up, then backed into the office foyer and flipped the bolt to lock the door.
I turned the mug in my hands. Cheap china with the words world’s greatest grandma emblazoned on the side. This was Mrs. Kunia’s most prized possession, a gift from her dead grandson. She’d brought it in one day to show me. She would never just leave it on my mat, never!
I felt sick with a creeping horror, a nauseating feeling like the ripples of an unseen wind blowing across my skin, raising gooseflesh. Someone was stalking me by stalking my clients. Someone had taken that little poodle’s collar off and brought it here, left it on my doorstep like a cat leaving a mouse. Someone had taken the mug out of Mrs. Kunia’s unlocked truck and left it here when she’d gone, probably while I was making my phone calls.
But maybe she’d left it for me. Some sort of statement, or gift, or symbol of moving on. I could be overreacting. It was maddening not to know what was going on. I walked back into my office and called Mrs. Kunia from my office phone.
The call went to voice mail, and I said, “Mrs. Kunia, I know you’re upset with me and not taking my calls, especially if the rangers have contacted you. But this is important. Did you leave your mug on my doorstep for some reason? The one Henry gave you? Please, call me back on my cell phone and let me know if you did. It’s very important.”
I left my cell phone number and hung up. I did a couple of relaxation breaths.
There was no way to know right now. I’d just have to keep vigilant as if the threat was real but remain calm while I collected all the facts. Both of those items could have been placed on my porch by their owners, and the other two were unknown.
I carried the mug back into the entry room and set it beside the muddy high-heeled shoe.
I checked the window again, scanned again, my hand on the Glock. No one was there, nothing on the mat. I took my hand off the weapon, stepped outside, and locked the door.
I was probably getting paranoid with all the stress. Calling Bruce again seemed overkill when I wasn’t 100 percent sure of the origin of the new item. He was doing all he could already—maybe I just wanted to hear his big, calm voice again.
What I needed was a good chat with a friend—and I would have called someone if I had any friends to call. Driving home, I wondered how that had happened. It seemed to have been a slow erosion. My friends from college were scattered all over the United States and we were still in touch, but not enough for me to call one up and vent about my divorce and a “maybe” stalker. Over the years, friends we’d had as young parents had moved, and we’d moved to Hawaii and left everyone in California. We’d had country club friends w
hen I was with the ex, people he thought were worth networking with for his firm. I’d played my role with them, but mostly I’d been consumed with work and being a mom to Chris for the last few years—and it had left me isolated.
I did have my mentor, Judy Dennis, a retired psychology professor—but she’d been asking uncomfortable questions about my drinking lately and made no secret of her own membership in AA. Maybe it was time to tell her it was getting hard to cut back. Still, I just wasn’t up to trying to explain the layers of what I was going through and how drinking helped me cope. It sounded wrong even to me.
Fortunately, the home security guy had been able to come out that day; he’d texted me the new code for the door and put in motion sensors in a formation around the exterior of the house and an auto timer to enable the system if I forgot to arm it.
This meant that once we were inside and the house was armed, Hector was going to have to stay in for the night. He wasn’t going to like it.
I drove down the long driveway to the house. Automatic lights had come on with the timer, and one pointed at the limp American flag dangling from the pole. Once again I was irritated, seeing it. I’d always hated the way going up that driveway made me feel—pretentious, plastic. A California transplant, not someone embedded in Hawaii like I’d become. This was in the jungle, in Hilo, not a country club—but the ex had preserved that feeling in the layout of a house I wasn’t sure I loved anymore.
I didn’t have to have that damn flag out there if I didn’t want to. There was a lot in the house I didn’t really like and never had. Tonight might be a good night for purging. The hunger for a drink hit me hard as I unlocked the door, along with a wave of anger.
Anger at the ex, for turning my life upside down without permission.
Anger at Constance, for leaving me to muddle on without her.
Anger at the stalker or whoever the hell he was.
Anger at what I was becoming—not myself. A shaky, drinking shadow.