But it was the empathy she had for the men who came to see her that made me stop and reread what she had written.
Cleo seemed to have shut down the part of herself that made judgments. No matter what a man asked for, she understood that his need came from a wellspring that was vital and strong and could not be simply dammed up. Her ability to grasp the reasons for the humiliations that titillated one man as opposed to the physical prowess another needed to believe he possessed impressed me. But her own distance from what she had done disturbed me.
And I was hoping I could get her to talk about that when she arrived for her 10:00 a.m. appointment.
But for the first time, Cleo was late, and when she arrived at ten-fifteen she apologized for the delay but didn’t give me a reason. Sometimes, with patients, I pursued tardiness if I felt there were unconscious reasons for it, but Cleo was so anxious to be in therapy I didn’t think this was the case.
As soon as she sat down, she hauled out a large bottle of water and took a long gulp. And then a longer breath. In previous sessions she had eased into talking about what was on her mind, but this morning she didn’t waste any time.
“Those murders. Did you read about them?”
I nodded, but I did not tell her that the first victim had been one of my patients. All of that was privileged information, details that the police had not yet revealed to the press. None of the specific ways the woman’s body had been defiled had made it into the news. The police were obviously trying to keep it quiet to prevent copycats and to make sure that if they got any leads, they were legit. Only the broad strokes of the killing had been reported.
“That shouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen if prostitution was legal.”
“Did you know the woman who was killed?” I asked Cleo.
She shook her head. “No.” She shook her head again, and for the first time I noticed the tiny pink-diamond cross that she was wearing on a fragile chain around her neck. It caught the light and gleamed. It looked lovely and expensive.
“The news has made things worse. Caesar is preoccupied with the story. Worried about me. And the last thing he needs is more reason to worry about me. So we had a fight. A bad fight.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It started with the news, then segued into the book again. But it’s really all about me and sex, isn’t it?” She stopped and drank her water as if she had not had anything to drink for days. “He’s confused. And he’s impatient. And I just feel all this pressure to get better faster.”
“Does he know you are seeing me?”
“Yes.”
“Does he think it’s a good idea?”
“Yes, but he also has his own idea of how to cure me.”
“Cure you? His word or yours?”
“His.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“He thinks we should act out a scenario where he is one of my clients. He wants to pay me to have sex with him and play out his fantasy. That maybe this is a way to break down my resistance. To just see him like any other client. Is this making any sense?”
“Does it make sense to you?”
She shrugged. “Not really. But I think I’m willing to try it.”
“What is the fantasy?”
Cleo leaned back against the couch as if she was pushing herself away from me. As if she could disappear into the furniture and avoid the revelation. For the first time I saw a look in her eyes that reminded me of women who are missing from themselves. The lost women. Lost to drugs or alcohol or fear or abuse.
I waited.
She shook it off. “It’s the Caesar and Cleopatra thing.” Now the look on her face was one of embarrassment, but she continued. After reading so much of her book and knowing how little inhibition she had with her clients, her shyness in describing this fantasy that she and her lover had talked about was almost charming. It was also a signal I needed to pay extra attention.
“He wants me to be Cleopatra, brought to him in a carpet, unrolled at his feet. The queen coming to the conqueror. He wants me to playact this potentate willing to give herself up to the Roman. He thinks that if I can get into that role, I will feel real things for him. Sort of what happens to actors in a play. How they fall in love with one another and feel things within the personalities they inhabit.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
“I wanted to ask you that. How should I feel?”
“There are no shoulds.”
She got up and walked over to the window. While I certainly didn’t mind that she needed to move, so few patients do it. There are reasons that patients should remain seated and focused for the whole session, but by no means should they feel as if they are strapped down to the couch.
Cleo roamed. Like a dancer she covered the length of the room in long strides and her eyes took in everything. She glanced at the knickknacks on my desk, looked out one window, then the next. She walked past my bookshelves and ran a finger over the smooth marble egg that rested on my mantelpiece.
I had carved that egg, and as her forefinger ran down its surface, I felt as if she was touching my arm. The physical sensation surprised me. And I knew I’d need to tell Nina about it the next time I saw her.
Sculpture had once been my passion. Now it was only a hobby. My preoccupation with carving started when my father remarried. I was fourteen and Krista, the woman he married, was a sculptor. She wasn’t maternal, and I never looked to her to fulfill that role-Nina had been offering me motherly sustenance since I was eight.
But Krista did bring her art into my life. When she moved into our apartment, the cool stone pieces that she strategically placed about attracted me.
And still, today, on vacations, or sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep, I’ll pull out my tools and work on a reluctant stone.
Cleo sat back down again. “I don’t know if I should act out his fantasy.”
“Why?”
“Does it make sense? Do you think his idea will work? If I do with him what I do with clients, will that make this problem any better? I don’t know if I want to turn into an actress and play a role with him. He thinks that will help me jump the divide, that once I am in character and start to make love with him, I’ll just segue into being myself and enjoy it.”
“And what do you think?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. All I know is that I feel pretty desperate. The irony of me having a sexual problem with the one man I actually want to sleep with is not lost on me, Dr. Snow. I’m upset. But he’s even more upset. He’s already taking it personally. He thinks he’s not sexy enough. That he can’t turn me on.”
“Do you think it would help if you brought him here with you?”
She shrugged.
“Why don’t you suggest it?”
“I did. He saw someone once. Not too long ago. He said it was a waste of time.” She shrugged and her eyes filled with tears she didn’t make any effort to wipe away.
Crying made her look younger and more vulnerable. Neither of us said anything. She wept and I watched.
It is a very special privilege to be privy to these moments in people’s lives, when their defenses drop and the essence of who they are and what they feel is unmasked. Like watching a butterfly break free from its cocoon. When someone goes into any kind of therapy, if the process works, for a time they are as delicate as that butterfly. You must not reach out and touch their wings or you will destroy the pattern, and the iridescence-the illumination-will come off on your fingers. You can only sit back and wait and hope that you are a goodenough guide to do justice to the gift.
“What are you feeling?” I asked her, speaking softly.
“I wish it could be different.” The pain in her voice was so raw I felt it. The way I felt my daughter’s pain. The same empathetic connection had developed between Cleo and me. And why shouldn’t it have? That is the art of therapy, Nina Butterfield had taught me.