The Therapeutic Encounter
Miles to Go and Promises to Keep.
Lewis Kachinsky waits, jaded therapist, furred up with client incongruence and neurosis. Weighted by transference – his own and that of others. Tired of the tedious march to even the stingiest breakthrough. An increasing urge to scream answers, even knowing the only worthwhile realisations are the ones clients make themselves. By the time Lenia turns up, he’s considering a change of career, still caring enough to worry about being counterproductive, but at sixty, it seems too late. He grasps the Bakelite doorknob leading to the waiting room, transported to a younger hand, eager to see, learn, serve. A hand that feels a tingle of excitement along with the uncertainty of each new encounter. That hand has been well and truly dealt.
Lenia arrives on an Indian summer’s evening, amber light and long shadows, expressing a need to come out of the closet. An assumption she means gay proves wrong. He steels himself. An old-fashioned word comes to mind. Ravishing. Weariness again, having to register all that moves through him. Instant physical attraction, a mild shame about it. She looks at least thirty years younger than him. Dread about age, probable lack of attractiveness, although others say he’s in great shape. Humiliation at vanity. A fervent hope she doesn’t want to talk about sex. Silent curses for noting appearance as opposed to demeanour. Her almond eyes flick around the room. He judges the space. A typical high-end therapist’s nest, solid period furniture, relevant books, an eclectic mix of painting and sculpture, two Chesterfields that face each other. Dull and safe. A cliché, but this is just another projection; it’s what he imagines she thinks.
Lenia looks like all the races of the world have been taken and blended to produce the most appealing outcome. Light coffee skin, full mouth, arched cheekbones, long, black hair that shines when meeting the open slats in the blind. Oozing sensuality.
‘Promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.’ Think of Julia, of thirty years, the life we’ve created, the family we’ve brought into being.
This is no use. Julia is fucking Jordan Gilquist, a psychiatrist of his acquaintance. Lewis Kachinsky swings between a primeval ego that would happily kill them both and the compassionate knowledge that her cheeks are rosier for it. The proverbial spring is back in her step. He says nothing.
Think of your position. Get your brains out of your dick. Inappropriate. Bloody old fool.
‘The Closet’ turns out to be something else altogether.
“I think I’m an alien.” She says. Smooth, calm, hypnotic.
He’s impressed, most clients who travel the alien line take at least five sessions to say it out loud. There are times he has the urge to reply, “Don’t we all?”
“You feel like you’re an alien?” Is the stock response; a little Rogerian repetition to get the ball rolling.
“No,” she says, “I don’t feel like an alien, I am one. I really think so.”
She has no problem with eye contact, the opposite, in fact. Her expression leaks no hint of serious mental illness, a countenance he’s learned to spot over the years. Sanely sincere, confident even. It intrigues. For the first time in years, a little buzz of curiosity, a metaphorical sitting up and taking notice.
~
It isn’t long before life centres around Lenia’s twice weekly sessions. Days counted until the next encounter, thoughts organised around them. ‘I’ll do such and such before my session with Lenia.’ ‘I’ll meet Josh Thursday night, not Wednesday, don’t want to be hungover for my session with Lenia.’ ‘I’ll book Lenia in last, then we can run on a little if need be.’ He tries not to think about her, but evenings find him ruminating over things she’s said:
“Can I ask you something, Lewis?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the difference between you and a prostitute? Such pretty words for you, counsellor, therapist. Such ugly words for them, hooker, slag. Regard for you and derision for them. Mucous – I’ll give you that. More physical contact. But you trade in emotion – isn’t that more intimate? The only difference I can see is the value you place on these things, the circumstances and environment in which you work. Prostitutes provide a vital social service, just like you.”
This is typical, she likes to challenge his world view and often succeeds.
“Secondary schools, what’s that all about? Seven hundred walking hormones who are probably at the most primeval they’ll ever be, all together in one place with only a handful of hopefully appropriate adults to keep an eye on them. How crazy is that, Lewis? Really?”
If Julia senses disturbance, it goes without comment. She’s long understood that his vocation can unsettle. Her admiration for his work is part of the glue that holds them together. At least it was. It’s probably not that at all, just too busy thinking about sucking Jordan Gilquist’s cock. He doesn’t mention Lenia to his client supervisor, Martha. Normal service shows no sign of being resumed. ‘Promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep’ is ditched in favour of Robert Frost’s previous line, ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep.’ Lenia is the sensual armchair into which he sinks twice weekly. The reason for her attendance has slipped beyond his reach. The claim to be alien is not a problem, she seeks no resolution. No weeping and wailing, suicidal thoughts, anger. In between the challenges, Lenia only wishes to recount her experience of being amongst humans. She fails to give any hint of where she comes from, her occupation, her associations. It creates an impression she appears out of nowhere and then returns to it. Single minded, but for what purpose? The observations are piercing, entertaining. It’s like she’s speaking his thoughts. At times the discourse is sweeping and encompasses the whole human race, seen as akin to small children, hopeful, having potential, but frequently frustrating in their primordial drives. She understands humans, but sees them from a place that’s altogether other. Lewis gets this. He remembers watching his eldest, James, in the nursery playground, delighting in creative innocence, but feeling disturbed about the behavioural traits already manifesting in some of James’s peers. He remembers thinking that Damian, an overconfident tank of a four-year old, was probably going to be a right little bastard.
Lewis is tempted to ask about her own planet, but even in this state of rapture, it’s going too far. A glimmer from his former self. Listening, even indulging, is close to the edge, but entering the delusion is over it. The weather has turned cold, but she still appears in light summer dresses, but never the same one twice. He especially likes the white one splattered with oversized red roses. An erotic Rorschach of wedding nights and Valentines days. Always cleavage, not too much, shiny legs taut in heels. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. The room feels warm when she’s in it, the lights, softer, the air, fragrant. Appeal courses through veins, but it’s not all; he feels, simpatico. Lenia is water on rock. Every second in her presence erodes the barnacled therapist without.
~
Caution is cast aside; vestiges of restraint and responsibility sweated out in a sudden fever. Concerns for transference and rationality are a memory. The sessions are mutually wholehearted. Lenia continues to question his world view. He doesn’t deflect, steer attention back to the client, he engages and answers, revelling in the liberation of words without restriction, spewing a lifetime’s frustration over the antics of the human race. Lenia’s delight is clear and feeds his enthusiasm. The desire to please her, dive further into the pool of her psyche consumes. He embraces the alien self that has always been cocooned within. Human life seen through a tunnel, detached, always in the distance. The only time he truly feels alive is when he’s with Lenia. He gets to work late, the bin goes unemptied, dinners with friends are either forgotten or filled with emotional absence. Julia’s overdue concern goes unnoticed, which culminates in a visit from Martha, his supervisor. He invents a mish-mash of fears about ageing and existential angst, rendered from clients past. He even throws in Jordan Gilquist for maximum impact, knowing Martha may well concoct a theory that Julia’s concern is borne of unconscious guilt. He’s pretty sure she buys it.
~
Lewis Kachinsky studies himself in the mirror. Younger, fitter, mind sharper, less grey in his close-cropped hair. A flicker in his eyes, spreading until the whites become blue as a swimming pool. A double take. The optical illusion is expected to recede, but doesn’t. He makes coffee, looks in the mirror – still there. He takes a shower, looks in the mirror – still there, keen and beaming. Familiar. Excitement and terror paralyse, but the mind clears. All doubt is removed, the path, unimpeded. The day’s clients are cancelled, except for Lenia. He takes the Metro wearing sunglasses, which draws attention, but not the fearful kind. Fields of coloured light waver around people’s heads, dancing and shifting as thought, feeling and actions change. If he’d known of this capacity when he was still in full therapist swing, how much easier would his job have been? Moments see him smiling, sniggering. He thought he was Lenia’s therapist, but of course, she was his. How accomplished she was in the classic art of deprogramming. Textbook. Her appearance designed to please and engage, setting the scene for stage one. Discredit the figure of authority, in this case, his sacred, therapeutic vows. Stage two, present contradictions – the repeated, skilful challenges to his world view. Stage three, reality over ideology, release of the untrammelled self. Stage four, shifting loyalties. Stage five, identification with the deprogrammer, as opposed to the oppressor. The timing was perfect, wandering wife, children left the nest, jaded with the job. Little to bind him.
He knows what she will say, “Well, Lewis, if I’d have turned up and said, guess what? You’re an alien who’s been planted among humans to study them, but now it’s time to come back to the fold. How do you think that would have gone?”
He’d been made to forget, agreed to forget, or it could never have worked. But now he remembers who he really is. Life pulses again, the sense of mission he encounters, full of joy and meaning. He thinks of Lenia in her human form, to which he’s become more than accustomed. Thinks of curves bouncing in that white dress with red roses all over it. Maybe they could stay in this form just a little bit longer. Be a shame to waste it.