voca femina fiction

If stories come to you, care for them.  And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. – Barry Lopez

C’mon! Tell us a story…

Sad, silly, or suspenseful, funky, fascinating, or fantastical – give it a whirl! This is our fiction section, where we tell the truth disguised as entertainment. Something about a good yarn captures the imagination, and opens the heart to possibilities like nothing else. The form is wide open, we have no particular agenda. So sit down with your imaginative self and spin us a tale.

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Cold Counsel, Chapter 13, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

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Chapter 13

I think I’ll have a cigarette.

Every once in a while I come down here and sit for a smoke. Mostly it’s not worth the trouble hiding the evidence, but once in a while I get a craving.

It was Dad’s only vice, and he did it only occasionally. And with these – unfiltered Camels – believe it or not. These things’ll kill you faster than all the others, but it’s what he liked. This is the last carton he ever bought.

So, about the other night…

It was snowing already when I got out of the car. The whole night was as still as could be; big ol’ fat flakes floating down out of clouds so low and gray you could reach up and poke ‘em.

As soon as I stepped out of the car I lost all my jitters. I set up my stuff, just the way I’d planned. Then I went up and rang the doorbell, like a magazine salesman or something.

I had to ring it about ten times to make sure he came to the door. By then I was hiding behind that big juniper next to the porch.

“What the fuck is this?” he said. “Who the fuck is there? What the fuck is that sound?” Nice talk.

He wore those old-timey overshoes like my dad used to wear when we played boot hockey out on the lake. Those black rubber jobbies with the cool metal clamps. I wore them once in a while in a pinch. I hated them because they always collected snow in the clamps, so you have to take off your mittens and unclasp ‘em with bare hands. Nasty cold.

He had on a slinky nylon warm-up suit like the basketball guys wear, and he came down the steps like he owned the whole block. Then he got to my little display.

It was priceless. He stood there with his mouth open and went, “what the fuck?” He picked up the plastic mug and just stared at it.

He looked around, kind of stunned, and said, “Tracy? Is that you, baby?”

What did he think, that Tracy was coming to pay him a little visit after all this time? Come to chat over a cup of tea and catch up on old times? At two o’clock in the morning, in the middle of winter?

Is that you baby, my ass!

That’s when I knew there was no hope for the guy. He wouldn’t have stopped, he was just getting up the guts to go after her again. Would’ve said he still loved her. Would have strangled her with his bare hands saying, “why’d you do this to me baby?”

Something’s wrong with someone like that.

I stepped out from behind the bush with the bat in my hand and he didn’t flinch. I didn’t even use the pepper spray. He just stood there, stunned, lookin’ at me with this l’il puppy dog face.

“Tracy? Is that you baby?” he said.

Can you believe it? All that innocent puppy dog stuff, right alongside the violence and drug dealing. Thinking he was in love with her, right up to the time he nearly killed her. Even last night, still wanting her. Made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I knew there was gonna be no getting through to the guy.

So I looked him in the eye like I was eyein’ a fast pitch comin’ across the plate. He didn’t even flinch when I took my swing, and he went down like a sack of potatoes. Didn’t even put up his hands to break his fall.

I didn’t bother with the ankle. Seemed like overkill. A guy like that can’t understand the poetic nature of the justice I had planned for him.

As Susan would say, “he lacks insight.”

After he went down I noticed he had a pistol in the waistband of his pants in the back. Gave me pause, but I just collected my things and took them back to the car. Pretty sure that pistol is why they searched the house.

Anyway, I drove around for about an hour, took the loop around the city, too keyed up to go back to the house. Then I got curious and I had to drive by.

I expected the place would be swarming with cops, but when I got there – nothing. I drove down the street and nothing moved. It was snowing pretty hard by then, and as I passed the house I saw him laying there, collecting snow. Couldn’t believe it, so I drove down to the 7-Eleven and called 911 from the pay phone in the parking lot.

After that I came home, crawled into bed and slept like the dead. Pardon my expression.

story by phyllis mathis, all rights reserved

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Cold Counsel, Chapter 12 (part 2)

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

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Chapter 12 (part 2)

The clock above the desk ticked its steady beat, hinting something needful.

Susan snapped-to and checked the time. Ten after two. Dammit, Susan, you’re late!

Shaking off her reverie, Susan moved quickly across her office and down the hallway to the waiting room. Deserted. Even Chelsea the receptionist was not at her post. A no-show. Could it be? She checked her box for messages: one pink slip with a message from her three o’clock, the last appointment of the week. On account of the weather, her three o’clock decided to cancel. Could Susan call and reschedule? She uttered a sigh of relief and gratitude. She could go home.

On her way back to the office, she heard voices coming from the break room. She turned into the corridor on the left and stepped into the makeshift kitchen. Standing at the counter, huddled in front of their tiny TV stood Chelsea the receptionist, Ruth, Jack’s wife and office manager, and Ken. Eyes glued to the tube, they were watching the weather news.

“Hey there. It’s getting rough outside. Schools are letting out early and everyone is canceling,” Ken explained. “I’m getting ready to head home. How about you?” he asked.

“A no-show and a cancellation, so I’ll be leaving too. I’m so glad. Except for the weather,” she replied. “I can’t believe it’s snowing again.”

“It’s winter, remember?” Ken chided, “in Minnesota. That’s what it does around here.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Susan shot back, her eyes rolling. “Thought I was in San Diego for a minute. OK, I’m outta here. Have a good weekend, everybody.”

Susan hustled back to her office to finish her notes and gather her things. A nap in front of the fire would be just the thing. She rubbed her forehead and stretched her neck to the side. What a headache.

Bundled in wool and leather, mittened and scarved, with a pillbox hat on her head, Susan ventured into the parking lot. The snow swept her from behind, like a broom in the hands of a busy chambermaid, scooting her off the premises. She climbed into the Lexus, started the engine, and then, grabbing her industrial-strength scraper with the brush attached, returned to the howl to shove a good eight inches of snow from the car.

“San Diego, I wish,” she muttered as she climbed into the driver’s seat, fastened her seatbelt, set the heater on defrost, and eased into drive.

Two miles were all she needed to go, but visibility was poor, the traffic creeping. Susan turned on the radio to catch the latest update on the weather.

“…the snow will wind down about midnight as this fast-moving weather front moves into Iowa. Saturday looks to be clear and cold, with temperatures barely making it into single digits across the region. This is Marcella Jacobson, WCCO weather.”

“Thanks, Marcella. Marcella will be at the weather desk until this storm passes through, so we’ll be checking with her frequently throughout the evening.”

“In other news, Minneapolis police chief Royce Poland today announced that a major drug bust took place, almost by accident, in the early hours of Friday morning. Police received an anonymous call around three a.m., reporting an injured man lying facedown in the snow, in the Powderhorn neighborhood of south Minneapolis. Police searched the house, finding a major stash of pure cocaine, stockpiled in what appeared to be the family room of the house. The unidentified man is in critical condition at Fairview Riverside Hospital. Chief Poland described the bust as – quote – potentially a major break – end quote – and he expects several arrests to be forthcoming.”

Susan’s mouth dropped open behind her wool scarf, as she tilted her head and stared at the radio. Her thighs went numb, while a wave of tingles moved like lightning from the palms of her hands to her shoulders. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel as an ocean of dread moved through her midsection. Images, like drawings in an old-time flip book, flashed through her mind in an instant, and then went blank.

She inhaled sharply as she shook her head. Her mind shifted gears, like changing the channel on a television set.

“Huh,” she said aloud, dismissing sensations with a subtle shake of her head. “Drug bust is good,” Susan said to herself. She reached over to change the station back to her favorite jazz.

She shifted her attention to the drive home, inching along in the slippery white until she made the turn at the driveway and pulled into the garage. As she shifted into park and turned off the key, her cell phone rang.

She fumbled with her purse, digging for the phone, as she pulled a mitten off with her teeth and hit the talk button. “This is Susan,” she answered.

“Susan. I didn’t expect you to answer. I was just going to leave a message. This is Tracy.” Tracy’s voice was tense and hesitant.

“Tracy, hi. What can I do for you?” asked Susan, as numbness returned to her thighs, and her stomach dropped to the floor.

Sometime later, a clock ticked again, rousing Susan’s consciousness.  She looked around, finding herself in the corner of the sofa in the dark living room, facing an empty fireplace, still bundled for the storm. It was 8:23, the house silent. Gathering her bearings, she noticed pools of water where the snow had melted from her boots on to the floor. She stood and moved stiffly to the closet to remove her winter gear. Shuffling down the hall, she made her way to the bedroom where she peeled off her clothes, laid them neatly on the corner chair, climbed into her flannels, and put herself to bed.

story by phyllis mathis, all rights reserved

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Cold Counsel Chapter 12 (part 1), by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

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(Perhaps a synopsis would be helpful here. Susan Nelson, our favorite, less-than-mentally-fit psychotherapist has been under stress lately. Fortunately she has an alter-ego to help her out in a pinch. Tracy, one of Susan’s clients, has been stalked by a former abuser and husband, and is in danger of being attacked. Susan’s alter-ego has made it her mission to take care of the problem. Chapter 12 begins the day after…)

Chapter 12

Susan glanced at the clock above Tom’s head – 1:15. Fifteen minutes into the session and she was already fighting to stay present. She tilted her head and blinked hard, trying to focus.

Thank God, at least it’s Friday, Susan thought.

This was not a good day. Her ten o’clock had been a complete blur, her eleven o’clock had run over fifteen minutes, and the forty-five minutes she had for lunch, Susan had spent in the car, creeping through falling snow to hunt down some soup at a nearby supermarket. Driving the parking lot through heavy falling snow had put her even more on edge. The wild rice soup had been a good idea, just not potent enough to make a difference. Now that she was into the session, there was no escape.

She suppressed a burp and rubbed her temples.

Tom had been punctual, as was his custom. A 33 year old single man with Asperger’s Syndrome, Tom’s appetite for excruciating detail regarding the most trivial subjects had prompted a colleague to transfer him to another therapist. Any therapist. Susan remembered Aaron’s desperation at the staff meeting when he begged the group to relieve him of this client. Tom drove Aaron up the wall, and Aaron could not get past his annoyance in order to treat him successfully. Susan had volunteered, and for the last three years she’d made slow, steady progress with him. She made it her personal challenge to see how early she could interrupt one of Tom’s monologues, inviting him to make eye contact and hold a conversation, answering questions rather than delivering lectures. Today’s topic: snow, and the most efficient way to clear a driveway, depending on which type of snow had fallen, and whether one was using a shovel or a snow blower. Susan was well aware that gentle probing questions must begin early in the session, because if given a chance to build momentum, Tom’s verbal broadcasts would become hypnotic, self-reinforcing, and increasingly resistant to connection.

She didn’t have it in her today. Tom had launched, and Susan had let him, the pain in her head shouting down whatever questions she might have come up with. Thankfully Tom would never notice. He was deeply immersed in snow blowers. Toro versus John Deere.

Susan felt awful.

She’d had a rough start this morning. Her pounding head, together with her beeping alarm had rudely interrupted a tumultuous sleep. Reaching for the alarm, Susan discovered she had hit the snooze button more times than she thought possible. She was a full hour behind schedule. Stumbling out of bed, she had rushed through her morning routine, disoriented and in pain, dashing out the door with a protein bar in hand, eating her meager breakfast in the car. Now the headache was making her nauseous, and the Ibuprophen she’d popped earlier had failed to make much of a difference.

Susan’s hands trembled, and she felt anxious, ill at ease under her skin. Cold dread seeped through her pores. She couldn’t get warm, despite the cup of soup and the full set of silks she wore beneath her wool outfit. Her mind could not fathom why she should wake in such a state this morning, but the more she tried to think of why, the more anxious she became. Susan sent her gaze back to Tom, desperate to curtail her mounting anxiety. She took a breath, letting it out slowly.

Tom was alert and composed as he sat with his back erect on Susan’s green chenille sofa. Long and lean, dressed entirely in denim, he folded himself at the hips and knees, shoulders and elbows creating bony angles of movement as he spoke. Even his jaw was lean and angular. Often in the midst of one of his monologues, Susan had imagined Tom an animated skeleton, his bones gesturing gently, his jaw moving mechanically as he spoke. Tom’s elbows rarely left his side as he restricted his gestures to a space no wider than his sharp shoulders. Tom the skeleton, delivering his lecture from an invisible, upright coffin.

Today his demeanor calmed her; his precision comforted her. She began to breathe from her belly. She felt her shoulders ease down and the muscles around her eyes relax..

Susan shifted her focus to Tom’s hands, her secret fascination. Tom’s hands drew her gaze in every session. Creamy white skin, long slender fingers, lavender nail beds with half-moons at the cuticles, nails neatly clipped. His delicate fingers danced with every gesture, like ballerinas in midair. Their moves were beautiful, feminine, fascinating. Watching them move, in service to some bit of minutia, Susan began to relax, ease the tension in her face, and breathe into her limbs. Another deep breath and she came back to herself, tuning into Tom’s explanation of the various types of snowfall in Minnesota. His voice, soft and thoughtful, if detached, soothed her. She began to get warm. Then she relaxed, grateful for the certainty Tom had brought into the room.

At 1:45 Tom glanced at his watch. “I see our time is up,” he said, as he always did, and stood, his six feet and five inches stretching up to the ceiling. He extended his hand for a shake. Susan stood and grasped it gently, wishing she could hold its delicate softness for the rest of the afternoon. “I’ll see you next week,” he said. A sly smile appeared on his face, as he brushed by her on the way out the door, pleased that he’d made it through the session without interruption. Susan stood in the center of the room and also smiled, in gratitude.

Who should be paying whom, she thought, as she stared out the window, mesmerized by the hoards of snowflakes hurling themselves downward, piling themselves onto the deepening white.

“Why is it snowing? I thought it was too cold to snow,” she said to the window. She tried to remember the tutorial Tom had just delivered about the types of snow and the temperatures necessary to produce such conditions, but it was no use. She really didn’t care. It was snowing, heavy and sideways, and Susan longed to be home in front of the fire. Two sessions to go.

Tom’s compulsive punctuality had allowed Susan a quarter hour to catch up on the day’s notes so far. In a daze she moved to the desk and forced her mind to focus on the sessions she’d conducted today. What to write, she thought. Her brain was reluctant to function, so she paused, tapping her pen on the desk, waiting for her store of clinical jargon to rescue the moment, give her something to say in just the right way.

Susan wondered what she might write instead of her usual notes, what she might write if she dared to report what she actually thought:

“Shelly continues to avoid taking responsibility for her poor work performance, dwelling instead on petty slights from coworkers, irritating the hell out of everyone around her, including her therapist.”

“Jonathan’s depression is a result of the blatant selfishness of his disengaged parents. His addiction to gaming could be easily remedied if they actually cared enough to have a personal conversation with the boy.”

“Tom is a remote man, totally absorbed in a world of trivia, but able to lend peace and strange comfort to his beleaguered therapist.”

If only she could write such things.

She leaned back in her leather chair as she rested her pen on the desk and smoothed her wool skirt over her thighs. Her eyes drifted to a familiar spot on the wall, her favorite print, the purple iris, hanging next to her desk. Outside, a shift in the wind caused the building to moan a weary protest.

Susan focused her gaze on the shimmering purple of the lush blossom. She breathed a sigh and allowed her mind to find its way to a place inside that felt like home. The clock maintained its precise march into the future as her own sense of time slipped away. She settled into this dreamy respite like a child settling in for a beloved bedtime story, climbing into its warm comfort by following a well-practiced path.

Purple irises reminded her of Beverly. This was the one single memory Susan clung to; the one full and intact memory she had of her mother. Her first memory ever. Of anything.

It was a warm morning in late spring. Susan must have been about three. Grasping with eager fingers a much larger, but elegant hand, she and her mother crossed the damp green grass on the side of the house to the row of irises planted next to Mr. Torrington’s fence. Her mother’s name was Beverly. Susan loved that her own middle name was also Beverly. It’s as if they knew what was coming; knew that Susan would one day need proof that she’d ever had a mother at all.

That morning Susan and Beverly had crossed the lawn to gather purple irises for a crystal vase that, just a few weeks before, had been filled with lilacs from their neighbor’s bush. Susan stood next to her mother as Beverly knelt on the ground, inspecting the blooms.

Her attention drew nourishment from every detail: how the sun leant a drop of gold to her mother’s auburn curls, lighting up her gauzy white blouse with the puffy short sleeves. Khaki twill pants, tapered at the ankle, and white canvas Keds, tied in neat bows with white laces. She breathed the scent of soap on her mother’s skin, the damp earth, the greenest ever of all green grass, and the glorious sweetness of a hundred purple irises. Susan felt her little hand, resting on Beverly’s shoulder as she clipped five perfect blossoms. Five purple irises – flowers of the gods, Beverly said. Her mother’s easy smile below a turned- up, freckled nose. Her tender presence.

Of course there were pictures of Beverly, among her father’s things. By rights Susan should have them on the mantle. But they were stored in the basement now. She hadn’t thought to reserve them for herself the day she sold her father’s house to the Ferguson’s. Someone from church had packed them up, someone else had loaded them in the truck, and someone else had carried them down to the basement of her own little home. Someday she would go down there and find them. Someday she would remember more of her mother, more of the woman who shared her name, more of Beverly.

story by Phyllis Mathis, all rights reserved

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Cold Counsel, Chapter 11, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

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Chapter 11

Tonight’s the big night. God, I’m jumpy as hell, but I am so ready to do this. Let’s go down to the basement and I’ll show you my plan. Watch your head, and remember to be careful on the stairs.

I’ve been watching this guy for ten days now. He seems to be pretty predictable. He has a group of four guys who are distributing the stuff – I think it’s cocaine, but they don’t exactly show it to me so I can’t be sure. The nights they go out, they gather around midnight, and they leave about 12:00 with the stuff, then return about 3:00, with the money, I assume. They spend another half hour and then they either hang out and party or leave.

Psycho boy runs them and never actually leaves the house, except for the nights he drives over to Tracy’s to leave one of his little gifts and stare from the sidewalk. God he creeps me out! I’ve been going behind him and collecting the things so Tracy doesn’t see them. They’re in the back seat of the Camry.

He spends most of his time in the TV room, toward the back of the house. He’s a little couch potato, laying around and collecting his money, and smoking his weed, of course. He must be guarding quite a stash of coke in there. Hardly ever lets it out of his sight.

I figure tonight is the night. It’s a little sooner than I feel comfortable with, but Susan threw me a curve the other day with that guy Kevin. Unbelievable. He shows up at the clinic less than two weeks after they met – how does that happen? That’s not nearly enough time to bury the  memory of him. Plus, she likes him and I think that makes it harder to mask. Like I said, I’m not sure how it works, so sometimes it’s just trial and error. I didn’t figure he‘d show up again – especially not this soon.

Needless to say, I have a whole new set of challenges ahead of me now, so I would love to get our psycho boy taken care of. It’s now or never, I’m afraid. Luckily I have a plan. Let me show you.

I’ve been practicing my swing. I used to play softball – I know, cliché, right? But I could really hit it, back in the day. I figured I should practice hitting something besides a ball, so I strung up this half-empty sandbag. See here? I wrapped it in a chamois skin and strung it from the joist with this towing strap. Wanna try it? It’s good for getting a little rage out. No? You really should. It’s surprisingly satisfying, and much different from hitting a ball.

Watch.

YES MA’AM! Home run! It’s all in the follow-through, right?

I decided to use the aluminum bat. We don’t want any splinters showing up. Good thing I decided to practice. It made me realize how hard I have to swing to do the kind of damage I’m looking for. I just hope I don’t hit him too hard. Gotta send him to the ER, not the morgue,for my plan to work out. I don’t think I’m strong enough to kill him, so I think it’s a matter of hitting him hard enough to break something, but not hard enough to shut him down for good. I hope so anyway. I just need to remember to step into it all the way.

Ok, here’s the rest of my gear: my pepper spray, my little boom box, my TV tray, and this big flashlight with the handle. Oh, and my ski mask here.

What are you going to do with those, you ask? Let me tell you. God I love this plan!

Jeff lives in one of those old two-story Victorians over on Chicago Avenue. Big front porch, totally run down, with old ratty furniture on it, and a bunch of junk collecting snow in the front yard. I’m going to set up my little TV tray with all the items he’s been leaving at Tracy’s, along with this boom box playing Moon Over Miami, then I’ll ring the doorbell and hide next to the steps. If nothing else he’ll have to come out and turn the tape off before it annoys him to death. I’ll have the flashlight shining on the junk arranged on the tray, so he’ll start to wonder what the hell? He’ll know right away someone‘s on to how he‘s terrorizing Tracy.

Next I’ll jump out from beside the steps, hit him in the face with the pepper spray, and then step up and take my swing. The ankle will be easy after that. With him down for the count I’ll gather up my stuff and take off, leave him in the snow for his guys to find.

Paramedics, then the ER, then the police, and our guy is busted on an outstanding warrant for attempted murder, not to mention drug dealing if they look hard enough.

What’s that you say? Brilliant? Genius? Oh, you’re too kind. You would be right, of course. It is that, and more.

Ok, enough messing around. It’s time to move. Let’s get in the car.

It’s cold tonight. Hold on and I’ll get you some heat. Some night I need to come out and oil that squeaky door. It could wake the neighbors. We need to stop at Susan’s office and collect the items from the hope chest. I have all the keys here in my pocket.

I decided to wear dad’s old bomber jacket in case someone gets a glimpse of me. Hopefully I‘ll look enough like a man to pass for a drug dealer or something. I don’t want any suspicion to fall on Tracy. Or Susan, not that anyone would think to make the connection. I just need to be careful with the evidence, and then trust that the cops will be so happy they caught this scumbag, they won’t spend a lot of time invistigating the assault. Drug deal gone bad is what I’m hoping for.

I think that’s everything…

This is so thrilling. I can’t describe it. It’s like a good jolt of electricity running through the veins, the thought of getting away with something like this. It’s like taking a dare and doing something dangerous. You should try it sometime.

Susan could never handle it, of course. She’s too loaded down with shoulds and should-nots, appropriate this and appropriate that. She can’t stand injustice, but she can’t justify taking matters into her own hands. Most of the time she’s not in a position to do anything about it anyway, so she tries to stay focused on helping the victims get better. If they get better, if they heal, if they get on with their lives, then the perps don’t win. That’s what she says anyway.

Tracy’s a good example. They worked for years getting her healed up and moving in the right direction. It was really hard, but Susan was with her the whole way. It’s just too much that this guy tries to come around again. He shoulda stayed under whatever rock was hiding him. Now something needs to be done. Something needs to be done, and I need to do it. End of story.

Ok here’s the office. Hang tight, I’ll be right back…

That was a piece of cake. Handy little thing, a key card, we sure could have used it the other night…

I’m going to add these new items to the ones Tracy brought in. What is with this guy? Where did he get these things? This little pillow, an ashtray, a bunch of weird toys? The guy is a freak.

He should recognize them right away, though. I think I’ll have to gather them up again – at least the ones from the canvas bag – and put them back in the chest just in case Tracy wants them again. It would be weird for Susan to go in there and not find them.

Keep it consistent with Susan, that’s the key. The fewer little discrepancies she notices the better, so it’s worth a little trouble to put things back the way I found them.

We’re getting close now. Let’s drive around the block once just to check the activity. It seems pretty deserted though. The cold really keeps people indoors.

I’m gonna park right here in front, between these two other cars. Parallel parking, anyone?

OK, now I need to focus. You have to go now. You really don’t want to see this. I can’t be worrying about you, I gotta keep my mind on what I’m doing.

Sorry. See you next time.

story by phyllis mathis, all rights reserved

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Chapter 10 Cold Counsel, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

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Chapter 10

An uneventful week followed Susan’s unpleasant but successful conversation with Jack. Life was flowing smoothly, despite another wave of bitter cold.

Monday night’s group had gone well. Susan was relieved to hear that Tracy was in control of her anxiety again, and happy with the way the women had welcomed Trudy as one of their own. Tuesday night the scales at Weight Watchers had registered another two-pound loss, and Liz had graciously paid the check at Freddie’s. Optimism, a stranger for more than a year, was making a comeback in Susan’s psyche.

Wednesday after lunch, Susan was pleasantly absorbed tying up loose ends at the office, when she glanced at the clock to discover she was a full fifteen minutes late for staff meeting. She crept into the conference room with a guilty look, mouthed “sorry” in Jack’s direction, and took a seat in the back.

The conference room was more aptly named a classroom, but on Wednesdays Jack insisted on calling it the conference room. Two, sometimes three times a week, actual classes were held in this narrow space: addiction classes, anger management classes, and parenting classes were the current offerings. White board covered the entire front wall, a clear plexiglass podium stood center stage, and cheaply upholstered classroom chairs sat five across in seven rows, just like a classroom. Both carpet and chairs were industrial blue. Windows on the right side looked out on the parking lot.

Jack was speaking from the podium. Susan leaned over and asked Dr. Millburn, the staff psychiatrist, “What did I miss?”

“Nothing much – the usual announcements and such. We have a guest speaker today. Jack’s introducing him now – at length, of course,” he sniped.

Susan shifted her chair to get a better look as the guest stood up to speak. As soon as she saw him, he noticed her, recognition in his eyes. Susan wrinkled her brow and tilted her head, thinking he had her confused with someone else.

“Sorry. I missed his name,” she whispered to Dr. Millburn, “who is this guy?”

“Kevin Sorenson, from over in St. Paul.”

“What’s he supposed to be talking about?”

“Compassion fatigue and vicarious trauma.”

“Really? Wow. Something useful for a change.”

“Yeah, so if you don’t mind…” he leaned away from her, straining to see.

“Okay. Sorry. I’ll shut up now.” Susan settled in to listen, stretching her neck to get a better look.

Immediately she knew this guy was different from the usual speakers Jack brought in. He wore his hair long, tied back in a leather thong, without a drop of holding gel. Definitely not a pastor. He was dressed in a tweedy brown blazer with suede patches on the elbows. Under the blazer he wore a black tee shirt, brown corduroy slacks, and Merrell slip-ons with rubber soles. Looks like an interesting character, she thought. I wonder who convinced Jack to invite him.

As he spoke, Susan’s esteem for him rose. He knew what he was talking about, and he spoke with a calm and thoughtful demeanor, a man comfortable with himself. Comfortable with himself, she thought, as a strange sensation moved through her body.

He began with a discussion of professional burnout, the symptoms and warning signs. Susan went through his checklist in her mind, concluding that she was creeping too close to the burnout line. She’d have to think about making some changes.

A trace of recognition, from a faraway spot in the back of Susan’s mind, began to make its way forward, slowly at first. She focused her attention on the man. What was his name? Kevin. Kevin something. I know that name. I’ve met him before somewhere, I think. She shifted in her chair, trying to remember.

Watching him, she noticed he looked directly at her from time to time, as if recognizing a friend. The way he moved, the tone of his voice, his kind manner, the ponytail…it was coming closer, moving faster.     She tilted her head and squinted her eyes.

The bottom fell out of Susan’s stomach just as memory slammed into her consciousness. Every moment of the time she’d spent with Kevin materialized in her mind, clear as a TV screen. Kevin Sorenson, friend of Ken and Jenna’s. Friday night, a week or so ago. Kevin, tilting his head to show her the way to the bathroom. Kevin, knocking at the bathroom door. Kevin in the kitchen. AIDS and Raynaud’s disease. Kevin, with his searching brown eyes and warm smile.

A thrill ran through her, as her breath became shallow and her heart increased its pace. She blushed as she remembered him fully now. How could she possibly have forgotten? Kevin, the guy at the party. That really nice guy at that really unfortunate party.

Susan struggled to remember how the evening had ended. She simply could not. No memory of leaving the house, of going home, or the rest of the weekend for that matter.

She remembered throwing up in the Bristols’ basement. Did she have the flu that weekend? She recalled her disorientation as she walked Lake Harriet with Liz, wondering where the weekend had gone. Did Kevin have something to do with that?

A flush of embarrassment moved through her as she put herself in Kevin’s place that night. What must he think of me – throwing up, then sizing him up in the kitchen, and then…nothing. Again she wondered, what happened that night? And how can I possibly redeem myself?

Just then he glanced at her again. She recognized him, and he noticed. A slight smile moved into his eyes in response.

He likes me, she thought.

Another thrill moved through her, inciting another hot blush.

I think I like him too.

The physiology of vicarious trauma. The role of empathy in the counseling process. The phenomenon of shared emotion and vicarious remembering. Mirroring, limbic resonance, and toxic emotional buildup. She recognized the words, and at times she was able to focus on their meaning for more than a few seconds, but the remainder of Kevin’s talk was lost on Susan. Too bad, it sounded interesting, she thought.

She made her way to the front as soon as the meeting was over, reaching to shake Kevin’s hand as he looked up from gathering his things.

“Susan,” he said, as he took her right hand, covering their handshake with his left. “So nice to see you again.” He smiled at her with those warm brown eyes, and she nearly lost her nerve.

“Hello, Kevin. Welcome to the clinic,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you for a bit there.”

“I wondered about that,” he said. Another smile.

“My eyesight must be getting bad,” she offered. “Great topic. Well done.”

“Thanks. Unfortunately I speak from painful experience,” he replied.

“I could tell. I’d like to hear about that sometime.”

“I’d like that as well. Anytime,” he replied, as his eyebrows went up, dark brown and bushy.

“How about lunch on Saturday?” she suggested, feeling shy.

“You’re on. I know this great little soup place in St. Paul. I’d love to take you there,” he responded.

“My treat. I insist. It’s the least I can do to make up for the other night,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, cocking his head and lifting one of those unruly brows.

“I ran out on you. I got sick as a dog that night. I thought it was the martini, but it turned out I was coming down with the flu.” Where did that come from? Did I run out on him? Really? The flu? Is that what happened?

“I wondered. You left so suddenly,” he said as he looked at her from his tilted head position, squinting his eyes and then reigning in his gaze. “I’m just glad it wasn’t something I said.”

“Of course not, it was all me,” Susan assured him.

“Happy to hear it. Saturday then? Is it a date?” he asked.

“Sure, let me give you my card.” She reached into her purse and produced a business card, on which she scribbled her cell number. “My cell is the best way to reach me.”

“I’ll call you Saturday morning and give you directions. Is one o’clock OK for lunch?” he asked.

“Perfect,” she replied, “I’ll look forward to it. Gotta run. I have a three o’clock.”

“Of course,” he said. “See you Saturday. Bye, Susan.” Another smile.

Yikes.

story by phyllis mathis. all rights reserved

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Chapter 9, Part 2 of Cold Counsel, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Cold Counsel, Chapter 9, part 2

At Freddie’s later, Susan settled into a mood of contentment, almost awe. The scales at Weight Watchers had declared a draw – both she and Liz had lost two pounds, so tonight they were splitting the check. Liz was still on a high from her new adventure with Dave, and had spent the evening gushing, musing, and planning for the future. Susan had been quiet, but happy.

“What is up with you tonight? You look kinda blissed-out. Is there something you’re not telling me?” pressed Liz.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I’m trying to figure out how much I can tell you without breaking the law.”

“So it’s about a client?”

“Yeah.”

“Well it must be something good, you’ve been smiling all night.”

“I guess I have, haven’t I?”

“What, did one of them hit on you?”

“Nothing like that. Jeez, Liz, that would be creepy. No, it’s nothing like that.” Susan paused, trying to be careful. “Remember that couple I told you about last week?”

“The husband who needs his ass kicked?”

“The very one.”

“What happened?”

“He got his ass kicked. He got busted. Caught. Found out.”

“No!”

“Yep. I can’t tell you how, but he got it good. Perfect. I couldn’t have designed a better intervention if I had set it up myself.”

“Well what do you know? Justice lives.”

“I know, right? Can you believe it?”
“I can’t, actually.”

“And the wife did a complete one-eighty with her mood. Kicked him out and hired a lawyer. All of a sudden she’s like the Warrior Princess.”

“You’re kidding! Just like that?”

“Just like that, she threw the bum out.”

“Damn!”

“Indeed. So many times the opposite happens. Guys like that get away with stuff all their lives, and the people around them just suffer, trying to be nice. Or even if the wife gets free of the relationship, she loses her kids, or else she’s forced to work herself to death trying to feed her family. How many stories have I heard like that? But this woman, she kicks him out, just like that, no regrets. I wish I had done that with Mal.”

“You should have.”

“I just didn’t have the guts.”

“Don’t I know it!”

“God, Lizzie, you were so right. I should have trusted you. I should have trusted myself. I knew something was wrong, I felt it in my stomach for months. All those blasted counseling sessions, and he was lying the whole time.”

“Did you ever imagine he would turn out to be such a jerk?” asked Liz.

“No. That was the thing that made me so crazy. He was such a nice guy. So charming. Even when he was screwing around, he still managed to be polite. Still managed to convince me he was a good guy, even though he was lying to my face – and to our therapist.  But that’s over now. I’m free of him. Still, I’m so proud of this woman, and so stunned that something like this has happened for her. It gives me a little hope, you know?”

“Yeah, almost like there really is a God.”

“Almost,” laughed Susan, ruefully, “almost like that.”

Susan’s smile continued as she climbed into her car for the ride home. As soon as she shifted into drive, the phone rang. Jack.

“Hello, Jack. What’s up?” she said, rolling her eyes, reminding herself to remain calm. This can’t be good.

“Susan. Sorry to call so late. Do you have a minute?” asked Jack. Mister Smooth.

“What’s on your mind, Jack?” As if she didn’t know.

“I just got off the phone with my good friend, Steve Adamson. You know who he is, right?”

“Of course. He’s the senior pastor of Cornerstone Community Church.”

“That’s right. As you know, he sends dozens of clients our way, and their church even subsidizes some of their counseling fees.”

“I’m aware of this, Jack.” What’s your point?

“He tells me Trudy Wilson has filed for divorce.”

“Jack, you know I can’t have this conversation with you.”

“Please, just tell me you did everything in your power to talk her out of it.”

“I’ll tell you no such thing, Jack. I can’t discuss this case with you.” And you know it.

“Steve is upset that he sent a leadership couple to our clinic and after a month with you they’re getting a divorce.”

“Jack, I don’t control my clients’ decisions. We’ve talked about this before.”

“It’s not good for our reputation.”

“I understand that, Jack.” I understand you’re a lily-livered weasel, sucking up to the religious establishment, defining family values in terms of billable hours.

“We need to uphold family values at our clinic.”

Ca-ching!

“That’s not my job, Jack. My job is to provide skilled patient care.”

“I’m just concerned that you might not be objective in this case.”

“What are you saying, Jack?” Come on, say it Jack. Say it straight this time.

“You know what I’m saying,”

“No, Jack, I don’t. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m concerned you aren’t objective in this case because it might remind you of your own failed marriage.”

Failed marriage. Breathe, Susan. This is Jack behaving like the spineless reptile you know he is.

“I’m a professional, Jack. Besides, we’ve had this conversation over and over again. My job is not to make the pastors happy, my job is to do good therapy. It’s your job to keep the referrals coming. I can’t help it if people are people. That’s what they are, Jack – people. You can’t make them behave according to your standards.”

“I’m aware of that Susan, but we have an obligation to do what we can to heal relationships, not split them up. Is that what you’re doing here, Susan, helping people split up?”

“Jack, you’re my boss, but you’re not my clinical supervisor. I’m not released to discuss this case with you. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but I’m bound by law here.” Thank God. “Think about who you’re talking to here, Jack. You know me. You know my work and you know my commitment to healthy relationships.”

“Do I Susan?”

“Tell you what, Jack. Don’t send me any more marriages, OK? That way you don’t have to worry about my objectivity. Send them to Aaron, or to Ken.”

“Ken is so liberal his ears are blue.”

“Then give them to Adrienne.”

“Adrienne isn’t even licensed yet.”

“Yes, but she’s so teachable.” Not to mention clueless, naïve, and smug.

“Hmmm, Adrienne… I guess I could supervise her…Maybe you’re right, Susan. I’ll tell Steve I won’t be sending any more married couples your way. How’s that?”

“Good idea, Jack.”

“Thanks, Susan. I knew I could count on you.”

“Glad I could help, Jack.”

It’s stunning, really, thought Susan. A truly dizzying intellect, our Jack.

Susan had learned years ago not to argue with Jack on the merits of anything. The man simply had no logic, no scruples, and no self-awareness. It was much more effective to offer him a way to save face and make him think it was his idea. If push ever came to shove, Susan could simply hold her ground and refuse to budge, tell Jack how it was going to be, and he would back down. Jack didn’t have the balls to fire her because he was secretly afraid of women. But he got surly when he felt bullied, so Susan decided long ago it was simply more efficient to manipulate him. This she did without a speck of guilt.

But it did make her mad, mad enough to spout her litany to the frigid air on the way home. These imaginary confrontations flushed through her system like a bulimic purge, growling at the steering wheel, followed by the bathroom mirror at home, before she settled down with a cup of steaming chamomile to pat herself on the back. She’d held her tongue and kept herself calm, refusing to be reduced to a steaming mass of enraged crying. No, she had finished there too many times in Jack’s presence, whereupon he would morph into condescending counselor mode and finish her off with platitudes.

His inability to comprehend the effect he had on others was the flint stone that ignited her rage. Susan took comfort in the fact that she was not alone in her reaction. Every female member of his staff had had a similar encounter with Jack at one time or another. Susan alone had found a way to turn it to her advantage.

She chuckled to herself as she admired how she had managed to satisfy Jack, hold her ethical ground, and let herself off the marital therapy hook at the same time. “Ah, Jack,” she said aloud as she climbed under the covers later, “you’re just too easy.”

story by phyllis mathis, all rights reserved

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Cold Counsel Chapter 9, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 9

“I didn’t know what to do after I talked to the police, so I called my brother. He’s a lawyer,” explained Trudy.

Susan was still a bit stunned, fifteen minutes into her session with Trudy Wilson. No Bob today. Instead Trudy had arrived on her own, hair freshly coiffed, shiny and off the face. She wore an attractive pair of jeans, tucked into a pair of cuddly Uggs, and a black cashmere turtleneck. No makeup, but a fresh look on her face, nonetheless. Not happy, but focused, determined, resolved. She had an agenda. Something had definitely changed.

“The car is in my name. Can you believe it – both cars are in my name. Bob bought both of those cars with trust money from my inheritance. The business couldn’t qualify for the loan, he told me, so I let him talk me into putting the company cars in my name, based on the trust fund my father left for my brother and me. Since my name was on the registration of two vandalized cars, the police called me first instead of trying to rouse Bob at the hotel. I knew immediately what was going on. Something inside just kind of clicked into place – I can’t describe it any better than that – I just set my jaw and locked into some other mode. I told the police I would have the cars towed, and then I left a message at the desk for Bob to call me when he checked out. Wednesday morning I took the kids to school as usual, and then went home to gather his things. I told him I was filing for divorce right away. No discussion, no drama.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” asked Susan. “Lots of marriages survive infidelity and come out stronger than ever.”

“Our marriage has survived two affairs already. We never told you. Bob didn’t want you to know. He thought you’d be prejudiced against him from the start. The first affair was early on, before we had kids. I just forgave him and took him back right away, thinking it was mostly my fault. After the second one we went to counseling with the pastor, and of course I was encouraged to forgive him again. That’s when he joined Promise Keepers and a special men’s group at church. The pastor was so impressed he put Bob on the church council. What a crock…

“Bob knows what to do to look good. I’ve often thought he should be in politics. He’s really good at getting people to trust him and then going behind their backs and doing whatever he wants. I don’t think Bob is capable of being faithful to anything but himself. I think he stayed married to me for the money, and maybe for the kids.”

“How disappointing,” Susan offered.

“The weird thing is I don’t feel depressed.”

“I can see that,” Susan remarked.

“I’m just mad.”

“Mad is good sometimes,” said Susan. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t deal with the thought of marriage counseling anymore. I’m angry and I’m sick of his, his, whatever it is. His lies. His empty promises. I just want him gone.”

“I can understand that,” said Susan. I can so relate, she thought, remembering the sting of Malcolm’s infidelity, the futile months spent in counseling, the self-doubt and suppressed anger she had carried for years. She wanted to stand up and cheer for Trudy, to pat her on the back and say good riddance to the bastard, but she struggled to maintain a supportive neutral presence.

“I’ve felt guilty a few times though,” admitted Trudy.

“Guilty?”

“Yeah. I feel guilty for being so angry. For having his car towed. For calling the pastor and blowing Bob’s cover. I feel so mean, but I can’t seem to help it. Sometimes I can’t sleep, I’m so mad. I keep telling him off in my head, over and over and over, tying him to a chair and screaming into his face. I imagine throwing things at him and pounding him into the ground. I think of bashing his head in, and worse things…”

“Rage fantasies. When people are enraged, they often imagine these things,” offered Susan.

“That can’t be right, can it?”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re so violent.”

“These fantasies scare you.”

“Yes they do. I can’t believe I can imagine these things. I can’t believe I’m capable of doing that.”

“You think because you’re fantasizing violence, you might end up doing it?”

“Won’t I?”

“I doubt it very much.”

“How can you say that?”

“Have you ever committed violence against anyone before?”

“Never. I don’t even spank my kids.”

“What do you usually do when you’re angry?”

Something shifted in the room. The air seemed thinner now.

“Um…I don’t really get angry very often. I can’t remember…”

“Do you ever feel angry with yourself?”

“At myself? Oh yes, a lot.”

“What do you do then?”

Trudy tensed up, set her jaw, and stared at a spot on the wall behind Susan’s head.

Careful Susan, or name, rank, and serial number is all you’ll get from this prisoner, she thought.

“Do you ever say things to yourself when you’re angry with yourself?” she asked lightly.

“Sometimes. Most of the time it’s just in my head. Unless the kids aren’t around, and then I just…” Trudy dropped her eyes to the floor and began to cry.

“Berate yourself? Chew yourself out?”

“Yes…”

“Call yourself names?”

“Yes…”

“Use words against yourself you’d never use in public?”

“Yes…” She was crying hard now.

Susan paused and leaned forward, gathering tenderness into her voice.

“What else do you do when you’re mad at yourself?” she asked, suspecting what was to come.

Trudy bent over and hugged herself as she began to sob and rock, staring at the carpet, lost in her remembering. Susan waited, holding Trudy with her presence, letting warm silence do its work. She sat perfectly still, her eyes focused on the top of Trudy’s head, unblinking.

Trudy snuffled, blew her nose and straightened up, having decided, evidently, to confess her secret. Then, fixing her eyes blankly at the floor, Trudy pushed up a sleeve of her sweater, past the elbow, and turned the tender side of her forearm toward Susan.

Razor scars, ten or fifteen of them, each about two inches long and laid close together in a neat row of diagonals, had been carved in the fleshy part of her forearm, just below the elbow. The cuts were neither deep nor wide, but they were many, and chillingly precise. These were not suicide attempts, rather carefully executed attempts to manage self-hatred.

“Let me see.” Susan moved closer and held Trudy’s forearm in her hands. She scrutinized the silvery-white scars, and ran her fingers over the lines to get a feel for their severity. They were hardly detectible, a subtle embossing of the flesh. Susan looked up and immediately locked eyes with Trudy. She’d been waiting to detect any hint of rebuke, fear, or repulsion in Susan’s reaction.

“None of these are fresh,” Susan said.

“Uh… no… they’re not,” she said, caught a bit off guard. “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve cut.”

“Which means, in spite of everything that’s happened this week, you’re not taking it out on yourself.”

“I haven’t even thought of cutting,” she replied in near-whisper.

“You’ve been very busy feeling angry at someone besides yourself for once.”

“But it’s not right to be angry with others,” Trudy declared.

“Really? Why not?” countered Susan.

“Because anger is a sin.”

“Anger is an emotion, and emotions tend to be amoral, in and of themselves,” offered Susan.

“Yeah, but I want to hurt him. That’s gotta be wrong, right?”

“Let’s talk about anger for a second,” Susan said, as she cued up the anger speech, a talk she’s delivered hundreds of times, mostly for the benefit of depressed women.

“Anger is a signal that something important to you has been violated. Can you think of something important that’s been violated here?” asked Susan.

“Well, he’s violated his vows to me, the sanctity of our marriage, his example to the kids…Is that what you’re talking about?” Trudy sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“Those seem like pretty important things.”

“They are, aren’t they?”

“Makes sense you might feel angry about them being violated, don’t you think?” Susan paused to let her comment sink in before resuming her lesson.

“Anger is energy for action. When we’re violated in some way, anger energizes us so we can protect and fight for what’s important. I think you have some honor here, some values you feel you need to stand for. You took action, and you didn’t attack him. It seems to me your anger is doing its job. It’s better than taking it out on yourself.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Seriously? You don’t think my little fantasies can hurt?”

“I doubt it very much. They may be very good for you. These, on the other hand,” Susan said, indicating the scars, “these are tragic.”

“So I can be mad at him?”

“Of course.”

“As long as I don’t actually kill him.” Trudy showed a sly smile.

“As long as you don’t actually kill him,” answered Susan with a wink.  Truth and anger trump depression every time, she thought.

“What about these?” Trudy asked, gesturing with her arm, ”what are you going to do about these?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, are you going to put me in the hospital, or put me on medication, or call social services or something?”

“No. I’m not worried about them, to tell you the truth.”

“Really?”

“No. I think these cuts helped you hold all the anger you might have felt toward Bob against yourself. I think you cut to punish yourself for knowing deep down that Bob was having an affair, and to absorb the violation of your marriage, without having to face it consciously,” Susan offered.

Trudy sat back in her chair, relieved, as validation seeped into her pores. Oxygen returned to the room. Trudy breathed a long sigh, and cried again. Peace, this time, the serenity of being understood, slid down her cheek and into her lap. These tears held no shame.

Susan held her with her gaze, allowing the goodness of this moment to settle in. Eventually Trudy shifted gears.

“I feel so strange, giving into anger. It scares me. But when it comes to action, I’ve never been like this before. I just decide something, and I do it.”

“Like a part of you knew what to do the whole time,” Susan suggested.

“Yeah. Like that. I feel strong and determined, and you wouldn’t believe how much I’m getting done around the house. But I’m worried I’ll just cave in and change my mind about the divorce, or I’ll be so sad for the kids that I’ll get depressed again. I don’t know if I can make it,” Trudy confessed.

“You won’t be alone. Your brother is with you, and I’m here to support you. It won’t be easy, but you’ll make it just fine. You’ll be surprised how strong you can be,” Susan assured her.

She spent the rest of the session coaching Trudy about the emotional challenges of the next few months: supporting and communicating with the children, dealing with self-doubt and loneliness, gathering supportive friends, resisting Bob’s attempts to manipulate her. They signed a new counseling agreement, terminating marital therapy and beginning individual counseling. Susan recommended she join the Monday night women’s group, believing that was a good place for Trudy to begin writing the next chapter of her life. When they finished, Susan stood to walk her to the waiting room. Trudy grabbed her for a hug.

“Thank you for accepting me, and not leaning on me to take him back,” whispered Trudy as she hugged Susan, hard. “And for not freaking out about the other thing,” she added.

“You’re welcome,” she said, simply, stepping back and looking Trudy in the eye.

story by Phyllis Mathis, all rights reserved

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Chapter 8 of Cold Counsel, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 8

Sorry about the weekend. I pretty well shut you out didn’t I? Yeah, well, it was a little rough. That guy, that Kevin, really wigged me. Nobody blows Susan’s cover like that, and I had to do something.

I spent the weekend trying to find out about him and his Granola-Hippies-to-the-Rescue gig. Drove by his house and his little clinic, went online and tried to make sense of his resume. Best I can tell he’s some kind of therapist that tries to heal past trauma by focusing on the body. I’ve never heard of half the stuff he’s into and I’m pretty sure Susan hasn’t either. I can’t believe they’re giving away advanced degrees in that voodoo bullshit. I think Susan kind of liked him, but he’s definitely off limits. Too bad, we could use a boyfriend.

Tonight’s adventure won’t be quite as exciting as last time. Strictly surveillance. We need to camp outside Tracy’s place and see if we can get a look at who’s messing her over. I’m sure it’s that psycho Jeff, but I’m not sure what to do about him, or how to even find him. I have a bad feeling he’s gonna keep it up until she cracks, or ‘til he finds a way to kill her this time. Can’t let that happen, and it’s not because I’m some kind of Mother Theresa. There are thousands of Tracy’s in this world; can’t save all of them, don’t really care to, but Susan would never recover if something happened to this one on her watch. She has a thing about protecting her people. A big thing.

We need to get some gear from the basement, so let’s head downstairs. I’m thinking a pair of binoculars and some warm boots in case we need to get out of the car. I’m not sure the binoculars will do us much good in the dark. Dad always liked the idea of having some with night vision, but even he had limits on how much he would spend on hobbies. Sure could use them tonight though, if psycho-boy is on the prowl.

Here are my old hunting boots. They should still fit. I remember having to wear a pair of thick wool socks over my regular gym socks when I wore them. Dad made me get them a size bigger so there was plenty of room for warm air to get trapped around my feet. He really knew what he was doing. Decades of ice fishing should teach a guy something about keeping warm, although now they have special heaters and stuff. Wimpy old men and their ice fishing houses…

Oh, hey, how do you like this hat? Fur lined earflaps. Tres chic, eh? Susan wouldn’t be caught dead in this hat, but man is it warm. Probably don’t need it tonight. This black knit jobbie will do just fine. I doubt we’ll be getting out of the car, and the Cammy has a pretty good heater. I’ll just lace up these boots and we can go.

Tracy’s house isn’t too far from here. After she got hired at Children’s, her parents helped her find a little bungalow over on 17th. The neighborhood is a little rough for my taste, we’d probably never live there, but Tracy was real proud.

Strap yourself in, we’ll get some heat in here after a few minutes.

No doubt Jeff is still into some kind of drugs, but I can’t imagine he’s still using meth – fries your brain fast, and makes you stupid. If he’s flying under the radar that means he has some kind of plan, so he still has brain, evidently.

I can’t figure what brought him back to town. He’s got to know there’s a warrant out for his arrest. Attempted murder is a pretty heavy charge to gamble with.

I have a bad feeling about this guy.

We’ll take the Crosstown over to Cedar and up that way…

Told you we’d be warm in a hurry.

I’m always amazed by how much traffic there is in the middle of the night. Where are all these people going? Gives you a feel for the underbelly of a city, to have so many people driving around in the dark on a school night, especially in this neighborhood.

Still, I like being up when everyone’s asleep, don’t you? ‘Course you do, or you wouldn’t be here. It makes me feel good, like I’ve been out there and I can say for sure everything is normal. You know – one o’clock and all’s well – that kind of thing.

It’s nice to have company, even though you’re not saying anything.

Okay, here’s 35th. Whoa, cops. And look, he’s slowing down to take the turn onto 17th. She must have called and asked for a drive by as soon as she got home. Good girl.

I don’t want to follow him in, so we’ll just drive by and go around again. Then we’ll park and see if psycho-boy shows up. In fact, I think I’ll drive through the alley and see if her car is in the garage. Hopefully she’s spending the night with her parents or a friend. These one-way streets are a pain in the butt…

OK, wow, this alley is pretty icy. I’m gonna hop out and peek in the window. Just sit tight…

No car. That’s good. If our boy does show up he’ll have no one to terrorize. Let’s just swing around and park for awhile, shall we?

I’ve never done a stakeout before, but how hard can it be?

Keep a lookout for the cops.  There’s a huge evergreen to the left of the porch, so we should park on this side of it, a couple of houses down. And look, she has the light on, so if anybody approaches we’ll be able to see.

I feel so stealthy …

You’re warm enough, right? I’m gonna turn off the engine for awhile so we’re not conspicuous.

Okay, now I need to think. I gotta figure out what to do about this guy. It’s a tricky little problem, for several reasons.

Personally I’d love to just whack him. Put a bullet in his little pea brain and do the world a favor. I could do that from thirty yards with a deer rifle, no problem. I’m quite a good shot, the other night not withstanding. That was just target practice, and from close range, so it doesn’t count, really. This guy I could stalk and shoot just like a mule deer, and with no remorse. Leave him in the snow for the neighbors to find. But I don’t know what that might do to Susan.

I’ve never done something that intense before, and I don’t know what kind of bleed-through we might get. Sometimes Susan gets little whiffs of me, and I don’t always know what causes that. I’m afraid a potent shot of adrenaline or some strong emotion on my part might leave a shadow of memory in her mind. And then there’s the issue of morality. Susan would never go for killing someone, no matter what he’s done. I’d feel like I’d betrayed her if I really whacked him. On purpose that is, wink wink.

Then there’s the issue of getting caught. We can’t have that. A couple of spent shells, especially after the ones I left in the parking lot last week, and the police will have some data points to consider. No good. Besides I don’t want Minneapolis’s finest wasting their resources solving this dickhead’s murder.

No, it’s just not as simple as whacking him, nor as satisfying. I want him to know why. I want him to fully understand that he’s suffering for what he did to Tracy. I want him to feel what it was like to be her.

Do you know she was in a coma for a week? That she almost lost her left eye because of what he did to her? She used to be a figure skater when she was a kid. Won a few local competitions, and was on her way up when she started hanging with that loser. He shattered her ankle with a baseball bat, and she’ll never be the skater she once was. Not to mention the PTSD. The nightmares, the depression, the constant fear, and the money! Tracy’s dad emptied his 401K getting her back on her feet. Somebody needs to pay for all that, and not just anybody.

No, he’s here in Susan’s town and he’s harassing one of Susan’s people. He gets no mercy.

But we don’t have to be stupid. I’m pretty sure we can have it all: physical payback for psycho boy, jail time for his crimes, peace of mind for Tracy, plus amnesia for Susan. And me? I get the satisfaction of a job well done.

I just gotta figure out how…

I could be here awhile. Maybe you should just go. I’ll let you know if anything exciting happens.

story by phyllis mathis, all rights reserved

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Chapter 7 Cold Counsel, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

___________________________________________________________________________________________Chapter Chapter 7

“And so I told her, just like you guys said.”

It was Monday night women’s group. Susan was facilitating as usual, and a woman named Sheila was sharing. Sheila was a twenty-four year old single mother, trying to set boundaries with her son’s grandmother. The group members leaned forward in their padded folding chairs, listening, thinking Sheila just might have had a breakthrough.

“I said, ‘Sarah, thank you for your concern. I know you’re just trying to help your grandson.’ Then I said, ‘I know you’re worried about the neighborhood, and I know you’re just looking out for his welfare.’ Then I said, however. I don’t think I’ve ever said how-ever to anyone before. I said, ‘however, I’m his momma, and the court says I have custody, and your son only has visitation rights. Any changes have to go through the court. Now, if you all want to go back to court, go ahead, but I don’t see that happening, because I don’t see your son getting a job any time soon. If he gets a job that pays real money, if he can stay clean, if he finds a place and can keep it clean and safe for his son, then we’ll talk about changes. Until then things stay the way they are.”

When the group erupted with whoops and applause, Sheila was taken aback. She didn’t realize what she had accomplished.

“And then she just didn’t say anything, she just kind of sputtered. And then I just hung up.” Sheila clapped her hand over her mouth, looked around at her joyous group-mates, and then began to giggle, as the truth set in.

“I think I did it. I think I finally shut her up. I almost said, ‘good day to you!’ like in the movies.”

This was too much for the group. They jumped up and did the happy dance, a move initiated years ago by a woman named Tracy, the last remaining original member of Susan’s Monday night therapy group. From the beginning Tracy had insisted on smashing the good girl code and breaking into celebration whenever she or anyone else did something brave. The happy dance was a Monday night tradition.

The women were high-fiving, fist bumping, and shaking their backsides in honor of Sheila’s triumph. Always the facilitator, Susan stepped back and observed the celebration, taking in each woman’s reaction. She noticed Tracy, standing aside, barely going through the motions, clapping softly and smiling weakly. Something was clearly wrong in Tracy’s world tonight. In fact, Susan thought, Tracy’s mood had been subdued for quite some time.

Sharon, the newest group member, sensitive by nature and hard-wired to Susan’s slightest move, noticed how Susan tuned in to Tracy. Sharon looked at Tracy and then back to Susan. She nodded slightly, then set her jaw, and Susan knew Sharon would make a move.

The women finished their dance and took their seats. When they had come again to order, Sharon piped up.

“Tracy, what’s up? What happened to you just now?” Sharon asked, leaning forward and giving Tracy one of those how-are-you-really stares that are impossible to dodge.

“What do you mean, I’m right here,” Tracy demurred. “You all were doing fine. You go, Sheila. Good job, girl.”

“No, Tracy, you’re not yourself. What is it?” Sharon pressed. Good for you, Sharon, Susan thought.

Some of the others chimed in with what they’d noticed. “Yeah, you’re usually the one leading the charge. What’s wrong, Tracy?”

Tracy sighed, and immediately battled to keep back her tears. For several seconds she struggled to compose herself as the atmosphere in the group drastically shifted. “I think Jeff is back” she said with a sigh, and then doubled over, holding her abdomen. “I know he’s back. I just don’t want to admit it.”

Susan’s insides tightened. Jeff. It couldn’t be. “Tracy, tell us what’s going on. How do you know he’s back in town?”

Tracy was rocking, holding herself in. She stared at the floor for a beat or two, then turned and picked up a canvas tote bag she’d brought with her. She put it on her lap and reached inside, coming up with a toy, a goofy-looking troll doll. This one was naked, with orange hair and green eyes.

“This was the first sign. I found it on my front porch one day when I got home from work. I don’t know how long it had been there, since I never go in through the front door. I don’t even know what made me notice it.”

“A couple days later I found this,” she said, diving into her tote bag and pulling out a toy car – a miniature red Volkswagen Bug. “Then this,” a small first-aid kit, “and then this,” indicating a pink piggy bank, complete with pennies. “That was the first week. The second week nothing, so I convinced myself it was just some kid’s prank, but then the next week, I found this plastic coffee mug, and this old Beanie Baby. The following week nothing again, but…” she hesitated, then shivered. “Then one night I was up wandering around in the middle of the night ‘cause I couldn’t sleep. I was in the kitchen getting a drink of water – none of the lights were even on. I happened to look out the window, and I saw a man standing at the end of the driveway, just standing there, staring at the house. I freaked out, started shaking so hard I had to sit down. When I stood up to take another look, he was gone.”

Tracy kept running her fingers through her auburn hair, front to back across the top of her head. Her bangs kept falling forward in front of her eyes.

“It’s like my body knows it was him, but I keep trying to talk myself out of it. I think, he had a parka on, how could you tell it was Jeff? Then I wonder if I saw anything at all, because when I looked again he was gone.” She shifted in her folding chair.

“ So last week I found the business card of the police officer who took my statement when I pressed charges way back when, and he came out and I showed him the stuff. He said there was nothing that could be construed as a violation of the restraining order. The objects are so random, and they’re not threatening. Plus Jeff has been missing for five years, ever since the incident, so there’s no current address. No way to even question anyone. There’s nothing they can do unless he shows himself.”

This was unthinkable. Tracy had come through so much. Five years ago Tracy, at age seventeen, had run away from home to marry Jeff, a drop-out druggie turned serious methamphetamine user. The deeper he’d gotten into drugs, the more abusive he’d become. One night he came after Tracy with a baseball bat, broke two bones in her face, and then smashed her ankle, skipping town before the cops could find him. She spent weeks in the hospital getting her face reconstructed and her ankle functional again. After that she’d spent several weeks in drug rehab, thanks to her parents, and was subsequently referred to Susan for counseling.

Women like Tracy were the reason Susan had started this group. Tracy was a founding member, and had been present every week since the beginning. The group had supported her through her grief, through the divorce, and then encouraged her as she earned her GED, and made her way through nursing school. Tracy was a fixture, a trooper, a real-live success story, a leader and role model for the other women. And now she was an emotional wreck.

“I’m having trouble sleeping, I’m nervous all the time. It’s hard to concentrate at work, and I practically panic every day when I pull up in the driveway.  I can’t tell my parents, they’ve done so much, and the police can’t do anything…I just don’t know what to do. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my job if I can’t get a handle on myself. I just don’t know how to be OK,” she wailed, as she gave herself permission to cry.

Several women moved toward her, enveloping her and rocking with her, crying with her in support. Some of the women seemed to freeze in their chairs, that deer-in-the-headlights stare, petrified by the possibilities, unable to get beyond their own trauma. If this could happen again to Tracy, what hope was there for any of them?

The next half hour of the group was spent problem-solving and supporting Tracy, insisting she not spend her nights alone, offering to be on call for her, advising her to ask the police to patrol her street at night for a while, having the conversation with her parents. As soon as Tracy had a viable plan for her safety in place, Susan facilitated a round of reflection from each of the members, encouraging them to face their own fears, and tap into their stores of courage and hope for their own situations. At nine o’clock sharp, the women stood, held hands in a circle, and recited their closing prayer, borrowed from the traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous.  These women weren’t addicts, most of them, but Susan had always loved the addicts’ prayer:

God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
Courage to change the things I can
And wisdom to know the difference. Amen.

Hugs all around, and the women began filing out. Tracy picked up her tote bag and winced. “There’s no way I’m taking these home with me,” she said.

“Let’s put them in the hope chest,” Susan suggested, and led Tracy down the hall into her office.

The hope chest had belonged to Susan’s mother but never used by her. It was a cedar-lined chest, passed down to Susan by her grandparents after they died. They had bought it for their daughter, but she evidently disdained it, leaving it in her parents’ basement when she’d left home to marry Susan’s dad. Susan inherited the chest when she was fifteen, immediately charmed by the romantic notion of a hope chest, filling it with treasures for her future marriage. Susan had used the chest to store her wedding dress and other precious mementos from her time with Malcolm. After the divorce it became a symbol of her naiveté, mocking her each day from the foot of her bed. One dark Saturday, fueled by an angry dose of self-respect, Susan pitched her tainted treasures into the dumpster, and hauled the chest to her office, where it became the temporary receptacle for certain items that Susan referred to as radioactive waste – objects a client deemed too toxic to keep around, but potentially too valuable to throw away. Susan considered the hope chest’s transformation to be a satisfying bit of redemption in an otherwise nasty chapter of her life. She kept the key with her at all times.

“If you need these for the police, or if you receive any more little gifts like these, just bring them over and I’ll put them in,” she said as she unlocked the lid and placed the tote bag gingerly on top of a stack of old letters. Tracy gave Susan a grateful hug, and left the office, visibly relieved.

“If only we could get rid of Jeff so easily,” Susan mumbled, as she retrieved her key card from the desk drawer, kissing it before she slid it into her purse, and locked her office for the night.

story by Phyllis Mathis, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Cold Counsel, Chapter 6, by Phyllis Mathis

Phyllis Mathis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel. Check out her website: Resonance: your life, in tune.

Read earlier chapters of Cold Counsel here.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 6

Susan woke gently from a luxurious sleep. The house was whisper-quiet, her bedroom luminous. Sunlight was seeping through the sheers, reflecting soft yellow walls and the warm oak floor, lighting the air with a golden glow.

She remembered painting those walls for this very purpose, hoping to generate a warm glow from the southern slant of the sun in the wintertime. She sat up in her bed and savored the sweetness of the moment. It seemed a moment suspended in time: perfect, picturesque, timeless as a Dutch master’s painting. Indian Yellow, she thought, remembering the movie about the Dutch painter, the film that had inspired this particular redecorating project.  It was a gorgeous movie, every scene an artist’s masterpiece. Susan’s room looked just like that.

Sunlight in the bedroom window. Hmmm. Sunlight… Seriously? Minneapolis hadn’t seen the sun in fifteen days, she remembered.

Sunlight!

Through the bedroom window?

Something’s wrong with this picture, Susan thought as she struggled to imagine what was amiss. Late January sun through a southern window with low-hanging eaves means….

Afternoon. It couldn’t be.

Susan threw off her downy duvet and grabbed the alarm clock. Blue digits, large enough to read without glasses, stared back at her: 2:54. She felt dizzy, disoriented, the room threatening to spin. 2:54? AM? No, that would be night. 2:54 with sunlight means…afternoon.

Almost 3pm.

Saturday afternoon. Wow. She’d never slept in like this before. Who sleeps until 3pm?

Just then the phone rang. Susan checked the caller ID, relieved to see it was Liz.

“Hello?” she said, more tentatively than she intended.

“Oh my God, girl, do you see the sun? What are you doing right now? Wanna bundle up and walk around the lake? It’s like seventeen degrees out there, and no wind. I didn’t go to the gym yesterday, ‘cause I was with Dave all day, so I need some exercise. Now that I have a boyfriend, I’m fired up about really losing weight. We should hurry, though, we only have another hour or so before the sun starts going down. Pick me up in 15 minutes, OK? By the way, where were you yesterday? I left you like two messages. I hope you’re not mad, I wasn’t blowing you off or anything.”

Susan’s head was definitely spinning. Yesterday? Where was she yesterday? Wasn’t she at work yesterday? Messages? What …?

“Uh, sure. OK. No I’m not really doing anything, I guess.”  Susan scrambled for normalcy. She didn’t want Liz to notice how totally discombobulated she was. “Yeah, let’s see… I’ll change my clothes and be over as soon as I can. Are you thinking Lake Harriet? You think we can get around it before the sun goes down?”

“I’m sure we can. Just hurry, OK?” came the reply.

“You got it,” said Susan, absently, grateful that Liz had already hung up the phone. She was shaking, dizzy, trying hard to resist the creeping dread. Something about this was frightening – and familiar. But she had no time to ponder. Liz was waiting. She scurried and bundled and climbed in the car, half in a dream.

They parked at the band shell, stretched a little – as much as a person can do in ski pants and Sorrel’s, and started walking at a brisk pace. Liz was animated, excited, delighted with her personal turn of events.

“OK, so I didn’t get laid. I got something even better – a guy that seems totally into me. We went to dinner and ended up talking about the Ice Festival, and how neither of us has been there since we were kids, mostly because it’s miserable to go alone, and it’s been so cold. But then yesterday when this frickin’ deep freeze broke and the temperature climbed into positive numbers, he called and said you wanna go? …”

Liz was so into her story Susan deemed it safe to free her mind to solve her little time warp problem. According to Liz’s story, it must be Sunday, not Saturday. It can’t be, but it must be. Sunday, she marveled. How could it be Sunday, I don’t even remember Saturday. How can you lose a Saturday? Where was I? Why can’t I remember an entire day? I can’t believe this is happening again.

Missing days, whole weekends without memory, items in her room she didn’t remember putting there, these were common events in her childhood, but she thought those days were long gone. Susan hadn’t lost time like this since her sophomore year in high school. She’d chalked it up to childhood immaturity, or simple inattention. Never gave it a second thought, never wondered if it would happen again, disturbing as it was at the time.

She looked over at Liz, who was gesturing wildly with her hands, laughing and smiling, and tossing her head.

God, she loved Liz. She was so happy for her.

Liz was the best sort of friend for Susan – loyal to a fault, willing to show up no matter what the reason, and she didn’t spend a lot of time tuning in, probing, or asking uncomfortable questions. And honest. Liz was often painfully honest, never pulling her punches, or censoring her thoughts. Although she was downright rude sometimes, brutally insensitive at others, Susan considered these barbs a small price to pay for the security of Liz’s transparency. She’d rather know a painful truth from a true friend, than to find she’d been handled, treated with kid gloves, humored.

Susan knew if she needed something from Liz, she’d have to get her attention and tell her straight, and she had done just that, several times. Liz, I need you to come over. Liz, my dad is dying. Liz, will you join Weight Watchers with me? Liz, oh my God, Malcolm is having an affair. Liz, I think I’m gonna kill my boss. The rest of the time, and whenever she wanted, Susan could easily hide, right in plain sight. This suited her just fine, especially today.

They kept walking. Liz kept talking. All the way around Lake Harriet in the snow.

A few nods, a few “that’s so great’s” a few obvious questions were all that Liz required today. Never did she slow down, never did she make eye contact, never did she suspect that all was not well in Susan-land. Perfect.

Forty-five minutes later they were back at the car. Liz had suspected nothing, and, better than that, Susan again felt grounded and solid, and in control. Walking will do that to you, she thought. And besides, the sun was shining, and the temperature was above zero. Double digits above zero. A flippin’ heat wave.

As she pulled the SUV into the garage, Susan ran through the list of options she had. She just didn’t know what she was going to do about this, or if she should worry, or even who she could talk with about it.

She went through her list of colleagues, clergy-types, and friends, weighing their qualifications against her courage to disclose, her threat of exposure.

No one, she concluded, as she pulled off her boots in the mudroom. No one will really understand. I’ll figure this out myself. Same as always.

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