Vanessa's Choice

I lowered my voice. "Do you think she was ever abused by your grandmother, the way she abused you?"

Vanessa got angry. "What the fuck difference does it make if she was? You think that's an excuse? Look at the way she treated me and I'm not like that. I try my best to treat people well and do things that please them."

I noted the phrase "pleasing other people" for future reference. "I'm sure you do. And no, I'm not trying to excuse your mother's behavior, just understand it."

"Well, don't waste your time. I hate her, I have nothing to do with her, and I won't miss her when she's dead. Hell, she may already be dead for all I know and good riddance to her. She killed Daddy."

I had to tread very lightly here. "Would you care to explain that, please? What do you mean she killed your father?"

Silence.

"Vanessa, did it have anything to do with your use of the word 'accusation' last week?"

More silence.

"Please, Vanessa, if I'm going to help you, I need to know. What did you mean? Whom did your mother accuse and of what?"

I'd said all that I could. I got up and sat opposite her as I had done the week before. Her shoulders shook and tears streamed down her face. She wore no makeup. I assumed she anticipated she might cry during the session and didn't want to be seen with a smeared face. She was clearly suffering. I wanted to put my arms around her and try to make the pain go away.

Some counselors do that, but never a psychiatrist. It's not within the clinical guidelines. And besides, I felt a strong physical attraction to her as well as an emotional one, straining my capacity to remain emotionally detached. Putting my hands on her lovely body would destroy any chance I had to help her, and I was desperate to save her. I mean that literally. I deemed her suffering so acute that she might attempt suicide. I sat and waited and said nothing more, fully intending to remain silent for the rest of the hour if necessary. I had shown her the road, but she had to walk down it on her own.

Her shoulders ceased to shake but her voice trembled. "One night when I was twelve, I'd been in bed for a while but I heard yelling. Both of them, which was strange, cuz Daddy seldom ever raised his voice. I got out of bed and sneaked up to the door of the living room. They stood there arguing.

"Momma shook her finger in Daddy's face. 'I know what you plan on doin'. She'll get her period any day now, 'n' then her hormones will start racin' and make it easy for you to do what you always wanted. Hell, you ain't touched me in fuckin' years, you goddamn child molester. I'm not young enough for your sick ass.'"

Vanessa choked. She curled on her side in the fetal position weeping soundlessly. I got up and crouched down beside her. She flung her arms around my neck and begged, "Please, make it stop. I can't stand it. He didn't do anything wrong. Not ever. All he did was love me. Daddy. Daddy. Where's my Daddy?"

Clinical guidelines be damned. I feared she'd never make it home alive. I returned her hug. I cradled her head and kissed her brow and muttered, "There, there, baby girl. I'm here. Nothing can hurt you here, I won't let it. Cry just as much as you need. Scream it out if you want."

I rocked her as one would a child. She didn't scream and she loosened her grip. I glanced at the clock. My three o'clock patient was probably waiting. I shushed the poor girl and kissed her brow again. "I need to get up and tell my next patient she'll have to reschedule."

She released her grip on me and whimpered. "I'm so sorry. I don't mean to be so much trouble."

I ran my hand through her hair and back under to cup her chin. I came close to kissing her lips, but managed to suppress the impulse. I stared into her eyes and whispered. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You've done nothing wrong. The woman in the waiting room will understand. I know her. She'd be angry with me if I stopped with you now and didn't make her reschedule."

Vanessa started to say "Thank you," but stopped and flung her arms around my hips and pressed the side of her face in my belly and then let me go.

When I returned from the waiting room, Vanessa was sitting in the side chair at my desk. A cigarette dangled from her fingers. She blew a long stream of smoke through her pursed lips. With the smoke expelled, she crushed out the cigarette and gave me a sheepish smile. "I know I didn't ask your permission, but I saw the ashtray and didn't think you'd mind."

I shrugged. "I don't smoke myself, but many of my patients do. Women come from all around South Mississippi to get my help. Most come to see me about far more serious issues than a smoking habit so I tolerate it with good grace. Do you mind?" I pointed toward the window.

Vanessa answered, "Sure."

I raised the shade and opened the window. I rented two rooms on the fourth floor of an office building with no elevator on Harwood Street, near the college, one for my patients to wait in and another for an office. The view didn't compensate for the climb, but the cheaper rent did.

I sat behind my desk. I needed some space between us. Gentle physical contact is nearly always a sure way to calm somebody, but my growing feelings for my lovely patient made it too likely for inappropriate behavior to develop and I had to avoid that at all costs.

I tried my best to look solemn and professional and asked, "Do you feel like going on?"

She met my gaze. I said to myself, "Truth. She's about to tell me the truth and it's going to hurt." To help her, I said, "Don't be ashamed. You said your father did nothing wrong and you loved him as a daughter should. I know you told the truth. Tell me the rest of it."

She lit another cigarette. "You know how they say schoolyard bullies are really cowards and if you hit back they leave you alone? Well, I wanted to hit Momma and make her stop bullying Daddy. But Daddy beat me to it. I doubt if he had ever laid a hand on her before. But she had pushed him over the edge. I think he went crazy when she accused him of ... that. He wasn't a big man, just normal size, but he back-handed her hard enough that he split her lip and she fell down. His eyes went big, as if he'd just realized what he'd done and he stepped back.

"Momma spat blood and started laughing. 'You're done now, asshole. I'm calling the cops and filing a report. Tomorrow I'm going to a lawyer and filing for a divorce. You are DONE. I'm gonna stick you with alimony and child support. And I'll make sure you never see your precious little 'Darlin' Girl' ever again. Oh, I've got you now, you son of a bitch.'"

Vanessa paused to wipe her streaming tears and blow her nose. She continued. "I saw the light go out of Daddy's eyes. That bitch was right on the money. He was done. His shoulders drooped and he walked outside. Momma dialed the phone and I looked out the window. Daddy sat on the steps and waited. A few minutes later, a police car arrived with two officers. One talked to Daddy and the other came in and talked to Momma. She told him they'd been arguing about money, which was a goddamn lie. I never knew what Daddy told the other one, but I saw him shake his head hard. He stood up and put out his hands for the cuffs. The officer put him into the backseat of the police car and waited. The other officer finished talking to Momma and put his pad away. He said, 'I'd like to talk to the child.' Momma said, 'No. I don't want her bothered. She's too young.'"

Vanessa paused again and took a drag from her smoke. Half of it had burned away while she talked. She dropped it in the ashtray and lit another. I asked, "Did you talk to the officer anyway?"

She shook her head. "I was angry and afraid. I started crying and ran to my room. The officer didn't come after me, so I guess he left."

She got quiet again, took a pull from her cigarette, and expelled the smoke.

I waited. She ground out the stub. "I never saw Daddy again. He came back a few nights later. I heard the car start. I got out of bed and ran outside, but all I saw were the taillights headed away."

I waited for her to continue, but she sat silent. "Do you know what happened to your father?"

She closed her eyes. "Somebody called the house the next morning. Momma answered and said, 'I see. Can you send somebody to get me? I don't have a car.' Then she hung up. I just stared at her. She said, 'Your father's had an accident. He's dead. I have to go and take care of some things. Go back to bed.'"

Though inappropriate under clinical guidelines, I offered an opinion to encourage her. "That was a cold way of handling the situation. What did you do?"

"I remember feeling numb. I don't remember going back to bed. I don't remember crying. I don't remember falling back to sleep. But I must have, cuz I woke up in the morning and my pillow was still wet. The next few days were a blur. There was a wake and a funeral. Family and co-workers came. I just sat quiet. I don't remember talking to anybody. I stayed out of school for a week, until Momma forced me to go back."

I asked, "Did you talk to your friends? A teacher? The school counselor?"

She shrugged. "I never had many friends. The two I felt most comfortable with didn't know what to say. Neither did I. The counselor tried, but I just sat there. I did what I was told, made up the work I'd missed, and didn't make any trouble. People just kinda left me alone."

I tried to keep her talking. "What about your mother?"

"The bitch left me alone, too. Good thing. For both of us. I wanted to stab her with the big knife from the kitchen. I'd get so worked up I could hardly eat and sometimes what I did eat came back up."

My eyes strayed to her curves. She caught my look and smiled. She crushed out her cigarette, sat back and crossed her legs, slow and sexy. I feared I had revealed too much and felt my face grow hot. I've always been a blusher. That's the main reason I lie so seldom.

Fascinated, I watched a different person assume her body. The feral gaze of the sexpot displaced the helpless child and the All-American 'girl next door.' The control of the conversation shifted. The act of smoothing down her blouse provided an excuse to run her hands across her prominent bosom.

When she answered, her voice dropped an octave. "You're right, Sue. I lost so much weight that even the sour bitch got worried. But after a while, I started eating again." She cupped her breasts, stared into my eyes, and pushed out her full lips in a sexy pout. "I think I developed well enough. Don't you?"

I gripped my pen so hard my knuckles turned white. I kept my gaze steady for a moment and then glanced at the clock. "Do you think that's a good place to stop for the day?"

She looked at the couch, back to me, and pushed out her lips even further. "Not really. Don't you want to, well, 'go on'?"

My eyes widened at the obvious sexual innuendo. I needed to regain control but couldn't think of a way. My personal feelings were getting in the way of my professional duties. If this continued, I would have to let her go as a patient. I cleared my throat and said, "Until next week, then."

She walked to the couch and bent over to put on her shoes, giving me a full view of her extraordinary bottom. She turned her head to make sure I was looking, then straightened up and sauntered to the door. I remained glued to my chair. She turned, winked at me, and left.

Regaining the ability to move, I got up and locked the door. My next patient wasn't due for twenty minutes. My panties were damp and I could smell my own arousal. I lay on the couch, lifted my skirt, reached inside my pantyhose and panties, rubbed my clit and thought of Vanessa cupping her breasts and pouting with those full lips. It only took a few moments for me to come. When I caught my breath I went into the ladies room down the hall. I wrapped the soiled underwear in a paper towel and threw them away. I wet another one, rubbed some soap into it and cleaned myself as well as I could. As I washed my hands, I muttered, "Oh my God, this has got to stop."

Session 03

Bill, my own therapist and a classmate from med school, sat there silent, looking at me. Because he was my best friend, I allowed myself to step outside the bounds of strict professionalism. In other words, I let my frustration show. "Well, dammit, say something."

He sighed. "Sue, you're one of the smartest people I know. You already know what I need to say so why make me say it?"

I darted my eyes down and to the left. "I'm not obsessed with Vanessa."

I heard the friendly derision in his voice. "You also know that the downward glance to the left always, and I mean ALWAYS signifies a lie. If you're not consciously lying to your old pal and your therapist, you're lying to yourself. She's all you've talked about since you started treating her. You're clearly obsessed. Combined with the tender feelings and the need to 'save' her, well," he shrugged, "speaking in the vernacular, you're in love with her."

I remained silent. He pressed on. "You must stop treating her immediately. For your own sake. At the very least, she clearly has a character disorder and you know what that means; manipulative and narcissistic. And Christ, I never heard of a nonpsychotic patient with such severe mood swings. Are you sure she's not bipolar? If not, you have to consider that she may just be playing some kind of sick game. She discovered your carnal interest in her, took control of the session, and offered you sex right there in your office. She has no reported history of drug or alcohol abuse and she's not on prescription meds. If she's not psychotic, she is severely neurotic and in that case, I'd say she uses sex as her drug of choice. It's her response to stress."

I stared at him for a few moments. "I've considered the possibility that she's bipolar, but I won't make that diagnosis until I've seen a lot more of her. And if she's just playing a neurotic game, I got her to reveal her hand. I can use that knowledge to take back control of the therapy."

He shook his head. "But at what cost? You're putting your career on the line. Having an affair with a patient is the easiest way for a psychiatrist to lose her credentials. Not to mention giving the patient a cause of action for malpractice. Do you want to be discredited, bankrupted, and mocked all because of one brief encounter with this woman?"

I reared up. "I won't give her the chance. You know how firm I can be when I make a decision."

That deflated him. He cast his eyes down and, when he spoke, I could barely hear his response. "Yes, I remember when you turned me down. And yes, I still think about what could have been between us."

I softened my tone. "I don't want to hurt you again, but I don't dwell on that aspect of our relationship. I have the ability to put such things behind me and move forward."

He closed his eyes and remained silent. I continued. "I know. I'm too competitive and that's not good for my emotional health. It makes me seem cold and distant. But that's MY defense mechanism and I've learned to live with it. I've already put my last session with Vanessa behind me. I'm not in any danger now. Really. I think the incident has given me the knowledge to treat her."

Bill shrugged. "What do you plan to do?"

"A character disorder is essentially self-delusion, a lie. I'll confront her with her failure to seduce me and probe her sexual history."

He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "As you wish. Good luck. But if the situation bites you in that sweet ass of yours, don't forget I told you so."

***

That session with Bill was on the Monday after "the session." When I invited Vanessa into my office on Wednesday, I noticed from the way she dressed that she fully intended to carry on where she had left off. She wore her makeup simple, but she had drawn her eyeliner past the corner of her eye, a sure-fire advertisement of sexual availability. Her skirt was tight enough to show the outline of her garter belt, the smoothness of her rear indicated no panty lines, her neckline plunged to exhibit plenty of cleavage, and on her feet she wore high-heeled sandals. A sultry smile complimented her outfit. She intended to seduce me or continue playing the seduction game.

She cat-walked to the couch but I stopped her. I sat behind my desk. "I think we should conduct this session as we ended the one before." I pointed to the side chair.

She stared for a moment and shrugged. "You know you want me. I know you want me. Why fight about it? We're adults, after all."

She wasn't going to give up easily. I thought, "Good. The more you fight, the faster this will go."

She glided to the chair, sat, and crossed her legs slowly. Her smile remained. Her eyes never left mine. Her skirt rode up significantly. I could see the top of her stocking was lace. Her perfume, an expensive one, filled the air. I let my eyes trail down to her legs and then back up. She smoldered, assuming the role of the cat to my mouse.

I thought, "Time to turn the tables, kitty." I said, "You are acutely aware of your physical attractions. It's too bad you view them mostly as a useful weapon in a game of conquest. I think it's time you realized that attitude will always impede you from achieving true emotional intimacy."

Her nostrils flared and she frowned. In an aggressive tone she asked, "What the hell do you know about my level of intimacy?"

I nodded. "Not nearly enough, yet. So let's quit the seduction games and get to work, shall we?"

She didn't surrender. "Christ, you are one cold bitch. And you've got the brass balls to lecture ME about intimacy issues? When's the last time you had a good fuck?"

I didn't flinch. "With whom, a man or a woman?" She widened her eyes. I nodded. "Yes, it does take one to know one, doesn't it? Now, let's pick up the story of your adolescence. Tell me about your life with your mother after your father died. What sort of accident was he in? Why did you say your mother killed him? That was clearly a severe trauma and I need to know more about it."

Her smile faded and she glanced down to the left. I cut her off. "No lies, please. I looked up the police reports on his arrest for assaulting your mother and his accident, so I'm armed to detect falsehood. Anyway, I think I've earned a bit of trust from you."

Again, her nostrils flared. "If you know so goddamn much what's left for me to tell you?"

"You need to tell me in your own words your interpretation of the events and how they made you feel then and how they make you feel now. If you think I'm being intrusive, well, that's what therapy has to be in order to do you any good."

She gave the seduction one last try. She switched to the All American Girl, bright-eyed and sincere, and reached for my hand. "But I thought you were my friend."

I didn't take the proffered hand. "I'm not your friend and I'm not going to be your lover. I'm your doctor and I'm trying very hard to help you. Please understand that and stop play-acting. Answer my questions."

Her shoulders drooped and the smile fell from her lips. She looked down and reached into her purse for a cigarette. Her hands shook as she lit it and expelled the smoke. "I read those reports too. After I turned eighteen. The cop who wrote up the one about the assault gave both versions, Momma's and Daddy's. But once they got Daddy back to the station, he agreed to not fight the charges if they left me out of it. He offered to make a deal. He'd plead guilty but get a suspended sentence so it'd be kept quiet and he wouldn't lose his job. He would move out of the house and let Momma have a divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty."

She paused. I had to prompt her to resume. "Under the circumstances, that sounds reasonable. Did the officer agree?"

She shook her head. "You read the report so you know he couldn't. That was up to the district attorney's office and Momma would have to agree to it. Good damn luck with that."