Читать книгу Silent Screams - C.E. Lawrence - Страница 14

Dr. Georgina F. Williams was an African American woman of imposing dignity, with a formal manner and precise way of speaking that bordered on frosty—except for the occasional wayward smile that began at the corners of her eyes and culminated in a wry, upward twisting of the lips, first the right side, then the left.

Lee had learned to anticipate that smile and often did his best to provoke it; his ability to make this stern woman laugh was one of the few things in his favor in the unequal balance of power between them. He remembered when he used to sit where she was, treating patients—when he was the one with the power. Fortunately, though, he was comfortable around strong women, no doubt because of his mother, Fiona Campbell, who, even at seventy-two years of age, was a force of nature.

Dr. Williams crossed her elegant legs at the ankle, pressed her fingertips together, and leaned back in her chair. She wore a rust-colored suit with a full, flowing skirt, and a pendant with an African design around her neck. Her office matched her perfectly: understated, tasteful, refined. Soft track lighting and a potted palm tree in the corner set off the apricot-colored walls, lined with prints of Monet, Klee, and Matisse. Ethiopian sculptures decorated the bookshelf in the far corner of the room, nestled in between the rows of books, mostly psychology texts. There was always a vase of fresh flowers on the table next to her chair. Today it was a bouquet of peach-colored roses.

Dr. Williams regarded Lee with her large, prominent eyes. “So. How are you this week?”

“Not great.” It was always a struggle to admit this, to block his mother’s voice from his head: I’m fine, just fine—everything’s fine.

“Are you still having nightmares?”

“Sometimes.”

Dr. Williams shifted in her chair. “A lot of people continue to have trouble with the events of September eleventh, you know.”

“But not everyone had a nervous breakdown.”

“No. But don’t you think it’s time you started forgiving yourself for it?”

Lee looked at the window behind her, where a fat gray and white pigeon was pecking at something on the windowsill. The bird cocked its head, regarding Lee with its perfectly round, tiny orange eye. Lee made the sound of a pigeon cooing under his breath. The bird on the windowsill took a few stiff steps to the edge of the ledge—then, with a rush of wings, was gone.

The corners of Dr. Williams’s eyes crinkled. Lee watched for the smile to spread down her face, but instead she spoke.

“What did you say to it?”

“What?”

“The pigeon. What did you say to it?”

Lee looked away.

“Don’t think—just answer.”

“But I—”

“Say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“Uh, be careful.”

“You told it to be careful?”

“That’s what popped into my head.”

Dr. Williams uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

“Be careful of what?”

“Everything, I guess.”

“So you feel there’s danger lurking everywhere?”

Lee looked out at the empty window ledge.

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“What kind of danger?”

“Human danger. Bad people—people who want only to kill, to hurt others.”

“Like the terrorists?”

Lee looked down at his shoes. “Yes. Like them, and…”

“And the person who took your sister?”

Lee felt hot, stinging tears spring into his eyes, and he brought his hand up to wipe them away. He hated crying in front of this woman, with her long, elegant legs and understanding eyes.

“Do you always have to bring up my sister?” His voice was harsh, tight.

Dr. Williams leaned back and uncrossed her legs.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Lee looked out at the empty windowsill.

“I’m on a new case.”

He expected Dr. Williams to disapprove; they had discussed the inadvisability of Lee taking on a case just yet. To his surprise, though, her face betrayed no emotional reaction.

“I see,” she said. “So perhaps you were thinking about the new case when you made the comment.”

“Right,” he answered, though he didn’t believe it himself. He looked at her for a response, but her face was composed, unreadable. “You’re not angry?”

“Should I be?”

“Well, we both agreed that it was probably a bit early for me to be…I mean, this just sort of landed in my lap, but I thought you’d be angry.”

“Are you disappointed I’m not?”

Lee was caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean? Why would I be disappointed?”

Dr. Williams smiled. “Sometimes when you’re expecting a certain reaction and you don’t get it, it can be disappointing.”

“Are you saying I wanted you to be angry?”

“It’s not about wanting, exactly. It’s about using other people as a counterbalance to your own actions. We’ve talked about your tendency to not take care of yourself, for example—”

“Yes, I know.” Lee suddenly wanted to leave this tasteful room with its muted lighting and faint scent of eucalyptus. It all felt oppressive, confining, and he wanted to flee out the door.

“And how you have managed to delegate the duty to other people from time to time.”

“Right.” He didn’t even try to hide his irritation. He knew all of this; as a psychologist himself, he could jump through the same intellectual hoops as Dr. Williams. But when it came to his own unconscious mind, he was continually amazed at his own blind spots—and he resented her knowledge of his inner life. “So what are you saying?”

“Only that it’s possible that you count on me to some extent to worry about you, so you don’t have to worry about yourself. So you expected me to be upset when I found out that you had taken on a case, and when I didn’t appear to be, you may have found that disappointing.”

Lee refused to consider what she was saying. He hated his own defensive reaction, but felt helpless to avert it. He was finding it difficult to concentrate.

“And maybe it even made you angry,” Dr. Williams continued.

“Now why would that make me angry?”

“Because you felt I let you down—because I refused to fill the role you assigned me to.”

Lee rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

Dr. Williams smiled. “What do you think?”

Lee squirmed in his chair and looked at the door.

“Have you noticed that often when we encounter a difficult or painful subject, your first impulse is to leave?”

Lee looked back at her. “No shit, Sherlock.”

To his surprise, Dr. Williams laughed. Then she said, “That’s not how your mother would react to such vulgarity, is it?”

“No. When I was a kid, the bar of Ivory soap would be in my mouth so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me. So what?”

“So maybe you were testing me. I don’t have to tell you that often in therapy, as in our relationships, we’re ‘testing the waters,’ trying to evoke a different response from the one we grew up with.”

“Right. You don’t have to tell me. Classic transference, yadda yadda. So what?”

“So nothing. Either it’s useful to you or it isn’t. It’s not important whether I’m right or not—what matters is whether or not it helps you.”

Lee looked down at his hands. Nothing can help me, he thought. A silence widened between them, a chasm built of his unwillingness to wade into the murky depths of his mind, to grapple with the monsters lurking there.

“He carves them up,” he said abruptly, hoping to shock her, to punish her with his words. He hated her calm, her confident poise, and he wanted to shake her out of it.

“Who does?” she asked.

“The killer. He slashes words into their bodies.”

“What kind of words?”

“The Lord’s Prayer, for God’s sake!”

A thought sprouted in his head, a tiny seed that blossomed as he spoke.

“He’s searching too.” He spoke slowly, the idea still forming.

“Who is?”

“The killer. For him, it’s an eternal search for a better outcome. Only it never happens: The moment passes. Then the rage takes over, and the only thing left for him is to kill. But each time he goes in hoping it won’t come to that.”

“How do you know this?”

“I don’t know—I just have a feeling about it.”

“An instinct.”

“Right—an instinct. There’s something about him, his MO, his signature—he’s killing as a last resort.”

“So you feel you understand him.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And his rage? Do you understand that?”

Lee looked out the window. The pigeon was back again, strutting and pecking, his bright orange eye impersonal as Nature herself.

“Oh, yes,” he said, biting out each word. “I understand his rage.”