Mirror Image (2 page)
Kevin had been referred to me six months earlier, following confinement in the West Penn County Psych Ward. He’d been found wandering the aisles of a
7-11
store, bruised and bleeding at three in the morning. Barefoot, wearing only torn pajamas.
He led the police back to his place, an apartment just off-campus, where the trashed room backed up his story: he’d been awakened around midnight by an intruder in a ski mask rifling his bureau drawers. They struggled, then Kevin managed to get free and out through the window. He told the cops he could only remember running like hell, into the night…
And then his memory went blank, until he found himself in the convenience store hours later, being rousted by two uniformed patrolmen.
After his discharge from the ward—where a computer check revealed he was no stranger to local mental health facilities—Kevin was questioned again by the police and a sympathetic Assistant DA, but he could offer no new information about the crime. All he could remember about the man was that he was big, and reeked of sweat.
“Probably a hype, needin’ cash,” the investigating officer said. “Fuckers don’t use ATM’s.”
The police got a break two days later, when another local resident called 911. Same scenario: sweaty guy in a ski mask helping himself to cash and jewelry in the bedroom. Only this time the apartment’s occupant—a retired steel-worker named Hanrahan—grabbed a baseball bat from under his bed and knocked the guy senseless. He was still groggy when the cops arrived.
With his mask off, the burglar was just another junkie, a scared black kid from the Hill District. His name was James Stickey, aka “Big Stick.” Nineteen, with two prior convictions. They gave him eight years upstate.
Meanwhile, Kevin just wanted to forget about the whole thing and get back to class. It was springtime, and a week from finals. But his blackout the night of the crime, along with reports of nightmares and frequent disorientation, had worried the Assistant DA enough to call the Department’s Chief Community Liaison Officer.
Who was worried enough to call me.
People like Kevin are my specialty. Victims of violent crime. Those who’ve survived the assault, the kidnapping, the crime itself—but who still lived with the trauma, the fear. The daily, gut-wrenching dread.
Or, perhaps even harder, lived with the guilt of having survived at all when a loved one didn’t.
My job is to help them remember what they need to remember, so that they can forget. Or at least achieve a
kind
of forgetting that lets them move on with what’s left of their lives.
Though the Pittsburgh Police have a number of shrinks on the payroll, they sometimes make use of outside consultants. Which is how I got into this in the first place.
***
It was about five years ago, during the public panic and media firestorm caused by Troy David Dowd, the monster they dubbed “the Handyman.” A serial killer who tortured his victims with screwdrivers, pliers, and other tools, he’d murdered and dismembered twelve people before his eventual capture.
Dowd would snatch people outside of roadside diners or highway rest stops in isolated rural areas throughout the state. Only two of his intended victims managed to escape. One of these, a single mother of three, was sent to me.
Her name was Sylvia. Bound with duct tape, she’d been kept for two days in a stifling, stench-filled canvas tent, buried under a pile of twisted, decaying body parts from his earlier victims. Somehow, during one of Dowd’s frequent absences, she was able to cut through a section of tape using the sharp edge of a metallic watch band still strapped to the wrist of a severed forearm.
For weeks after her escape, she’d wake up screaming, clawing the air at the imagined bloody, blackened stumps encasing her. Recurrent flashbacks of her ordeal with Dowd continued long after his arrest and conviction.
In fact, it wasn’t until almost a year later—by which time Dowd was on Death Row, where he still sits pending his latest appeal—that Sylvia was willing to even leave the house. She’d walk around the block once with her oldest daughter and go back inside.
I considered this a victory.
My work with her caught the attention of the city fathers as well as the press, and soon the cops were using me on a regular basis whenever they feared for a crime victim’s mental health. Or when the DA worried that the victim’s emotional stability might be in question when it came time to testify.
Why me? Because of my background in Post-Traumatic Stress, working with Gulf and Iraqi War vets. Because I’d treated numerous victims of trauma and abuse at two state hospitals.
And probably because of something else, something personal, that inextricably bonds me to my patients, and always will. Something
very
personal.
Kevin was stirring.
I smiled at him again, absently pushing my hand back through my hair. Then I instinctively—an instinct reborn a thousand times—felt near the top of my head for the old scar, the familiar ridged surgical scar, where the bullet had gone in…
Kevin couldn’t look at me. Shifting uncomfortably, he finally bolted from his chair. He stood, trembling. Staring out at the black October rain.
I turned to the small table beside my chair for a pen. The monogrammed one from my alma mater. It was gone.
I sighed. I knew where it was. With his body half-turned away from me at the window, I couldn’t tell which pocket it was in. But I knew Kevin had it. He’d taken it.
As he’d taken other items from my office over the past months. A stapler. A letter-opener. A silver card case.
In the byzantine mesh of our relationship, Kevin was aware that I knew he’d taken these items, and that I probably wouldn’t mention it. And felt both shame at his deeds and elation that he was getting away with it. Then shame at feeling the elation.
What Kevin had been doing, these last few months of treatment, was becoming me.
Hesitantly at first, and then quite blatantly, he’d begun dressing like me. Gone were the Pitt sweatshirt and jeans. He now wore therapeutically-neutral dress shirts and Dockers. Not to mention dark-framed glasses. His beard, without my telltale sprigs of gray, was coming in nicely.
Then today, when I opened the connecting door to the waiting room for our regularly scheduled appointment, I found Kevin hanging up a dripping jacket next to mine on the standing coat rack.
“Can you believe this weather?” he’d said. “Cold as hell, too. I shoulda worn a sweater or somethin’.”
I must have been staring at the coat rack, for his glance nervously followed mine. His jacket was light brown, very similar to my own new Eddie Bauer. I’d only worn it a couple times to the office. But enough for Kevin to have registered it and found a similar one.
As I sat here now, watching him stand with his back to me at the window, I thought about those two jackets hanging on the rack in the next room, and wondered if I knew what the hell I was doing.
In our first few sessions, he’d appeared to have some classic “borderline” symptoms—poor self-image, a history of drug use and failed, half-hearted suicide attempts. He was suspicious of my attempts to help him, especially when I prodded him to relive the experience of finding an intruder in his room. These memories only reinforced his sense of violation, of vulnerability.
Then, below these feelings of dread and panic, the predictable litany of self-criticism emerged: he should have locked his windows. Fought back harder against the guy. Hell, maybe he
deserved
what happened to him…
I’d seen it a hundred times. The victim blaming himself as a way to make sense of what’s happened, to gain at least the fantasy of control over events that threatened to overwhelm him.
These feelings faded over time, and with them the nightmares, the panic attacks. We began to concentrate less on Kevin’s symptoms and more on him.
It was then, as our bond deepened, that Kevin started to mirror me in dress and appearance. I didn’t do anything to stop it. Given the shattering loss of his mother at a young age—and now with confirmation of my hunch that he’d been sexually abused as well—it was no surprise he’d be yearning for an identity. Even one that was borrowed.
“If I’m like you,” some part of him was saying to me, “I’ll be okay. So I’ll
become
you.”
And I’d been letting him do it. Part clinical judgment, part gut feeling. He’d come into my practice so lost, so fragmented, he needed a platform on which to stand. I was willing to
be
that platform. For how long, I didn’t know. I’d hoped that same gut feeling would tell me when it was long enough.
A position I got all kinds of grief for. Recently, I’d presented Kevin’s case at one of our peer review conferences at Ten Oaks, a clinic in suburban Penn Hills where I’d been on staff before going into private practice. Predictably, some of my colleagues there were outraged at what I was doing with Kevin. Or allowing to happen.
“It’s just an extreme variation of Kohut’s twinship longing,” I’d argued.
Brooks Riley, the new shrink down from Harvard Med, disagreed. “No, it’s a pathological accommodation. The poor bastard’s willing to disappear, to allow himself to be literally
usurped
, and replaced by you.”
He shook his head. “Christ, Rinaldi, I knew you were nuts. I didn’t know you were arrogant as well.”
Riley was a prick, but maybe he was right. I knew I was taking a big risk—sure as hell not the first I’d taken in my work. But I was convinced it was paying off. Kevin’s bond with me was stronger now. He’d just trusted me enough to reveal the details of his incest with his sister.
A painful, anguished revelation. In the strange, hallowed vocabulary of my world, a breakthrough…
***
I cleared my throat, which made Kevin tilt his head slightly. When at last he spoke, still gazing out the window, his words seemed faint as ghosts.
“One day, it all came out. I mean, about me and Karen…I got sick at school and was sent to the nurse’s office. Then, all of a sudden—I don’t know why—I start talkin’ about my sister foolin’ around with me…” He turned at last. “I ratted her out, Doc.”
“You were just a kid, Kevin,” I said gently. “In turmoil. No way you could deal with what was going on inside you. Hell, it was brave of you to—”
“Brave?” He gave me a fierce look, as though I were an idiot. “I screwed everything up, man. It was
me
!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the shit hit the fan. The County sent social workers to our house—my sister just…she just
freaked
. And my poor Dad…Banford’s a small town, with small, angry minds. They blamed
him
. He worked at the one goddam bank in town. People deserted him, said he was a bad father—”
“Wasn’t he? He sure didn’t protect you—”
“His wife had
died
the year before!” Kevin’s eyes filled with tears. “And, yeah, he drank…Who the hell wouldn’t? Two kids to raise alone, and then
this
shit—”
“Kevin, you can’t blame yourself.”
“I coulda kept my mouth shut. I coulda dealt with it.”
“At eight years old? Come on…”
He looked away from me again. “Big deal. It had already been going on practically every night for months, maybe a year. Why didn’t I just—”
I hesitated. Waited for whatever it was he needed to say to work its way out.
“Karen and me…what she did…what
we
did…” He let out a breath. “It’s not like I didn’t
like
it, ya know?…”
He turned to me at last, a deep angry blush burning his cheeks. This was his secret shame, his sin, and he wanted me to see it.
“I
hated
it…and I
loved
it…Okay?”
I nodded.
Another long pause, as though time had frozen. Then, hand trembling, he reached to touch the back of his chair.
“Later on, after I was placed in County Services, and Karen was sent to counseling…Right in the middle of all this, my Dad takes off…”
“Takes off?”
“Leaves town. Gone. The social worker has to tell me about it herself, one day out in the playground. Dad’s skipped town, nobody knows where. No note, nothin’.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin.”
“So…me and Karen are placed in separate foster homes, and life goes on in Mayberry.” A shrug. “Wasn’t too bad. My foster father only beat me when he needed a fix, or his old lady wouldn’t fuck him, or he lost money on a ball game…” His pale eyes found mine. “Coulda been worse.”
“Jesus, I don’t see how.”
I tried to collect my thoughts. In our first sessions, Kevin had told me only that his mother had died, and that he’d spent his adolescence in foster care. He’d always been vague about the details concerning his father. I figured they’d come in time. Well, they were coming now…
“Did your own father ever contact you after that?” I asked. “Have you talked at all with him since then?”
His silence gave me the answer.
He looked down, his breathing shallow. There was only the sound of the rain clattering against the windows, the ticking of the thermostat as the heat kicked on.
“Where’s Karen now?” I asked.
“She left town soon after Dad did. Ran away from her foster home. I never saw
her
again, either. I just found out a couple years ago from some third cousin or somethin’ that Karen was out west. Married, with a kid. Anyway, that’s the rumor. I had a P.O. box address for her in Tucson. Wrote a few times. She never wrote back.” His eyes narrowed. “Hell, that’s fine with me.”
“Is it?”
“I guess it has to be, right?”
Another long silence. Then, abruptly, he came around and sat down again. He pushed his glasses up on his thin nose. Glasses he didn’t need, I reminded myself.
I phrased my next words carefully. “I appreciate the fact that you told me about all this. I know it was hard.”
He sat back. “Well, as long as
you’re
happy…”
As I’d expected, after such a painful revelation, Kevin’s defenses were up. With feigned casualness, he slowly crossed his legs, hands clasped at the knees.
Though there were still ten minutes left on the clock, I knew today’s session was over.
***
Outside, the storm had subsided, the rain now a misty curtain drawn against the blackness.
Kevin stood up, stretched. “So, Doc, what’s the diagnosis? Bi-polar? Psychotic?”
“Beats me. I haven’t read that chapter yet.”
“Very funny. It’s just that I wonder what all this shit has to do with why I came here in the first place.”
I took a long pause before answering.
“The way I see it, there are some things you’ve needed to talk about for a long time. Regardless of what brought you here, some part of you wants to talk about them now.”
He considered this. “But I feel a lot better,” he said. “I mean, about that night. No more nightmares and stuff. No more guys in ski masks.”
“That’s good news,” I said, walking him to the door. “If anybody deserves a good night’s sleep, you do.”
“Tell me about it.”
I opened the door to the waiting room. It was empty. Kevin was my last patient of the day. As he started for the coat rack, I stopped him.
“Kevin, I meant what I said in there. It took guts to reveal such an old, painful secret…”
He gave me an odd look, a mixture of intensity and ruefulness that I’d never quite seen on his face before.
“Hell, man, I got
lots
of secrets…”
And with that, he turned away. I shut the door behind him.