Dr. Cole's Casefiles - Vanessa

Session 01

I met Vanessa Fontaine on a Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock when she appeared for her first appointment. I found her extremely interesting the moment she walked through the door. She looked pretty and sexy. Neither term necessarily includes the other, but she was both. From her eyebrows I could tell that she was a natural blonde. She wore her hair down to her shoulders and parted it on the right side. Her smile lit up her tawny eyes and her full lips invited kisses. A severe critic might opine that her disproportionately long front incisors spoiled her otherwise perfect teeth. To me, this slight defect only increased her attraction; it showed she was real, not manufactured on some doctor or dentist's operating table.

Her smooth tanned skin indicated that she liked outdoor activities. The trimmed nails at the end of her fingers and toes sparkled like diamonds from the clear polish on them, unlike the silly green, blue, black, and God only knows what color some women currently wear or that damnably garish red they used in former years so exclusively. In summary, her prettiness stemmed from her healthy and wholesome "All American Girl Next Door" appearance. My heart melted.

Her sexiness came from her body and the way she moved. At the start of her initial session, I took her height and weight. She stood 64 inches tall and weighed 135 pounds, so, by the books, she was near to the limit of the optimum weight, and nowadays might even be considered fat. But back in the early 80's she seemed curvy and feminine.

She moved with a sensuous and fluid grace. Her unlined and thin halter style dress revealed the perfect roundness of her large breasts as they swayed and bounced along her way toward me. In my life I've had lovers of both sexes and whenever I've chosen a woman, she's been large-breasted. The rest of her was impressive as well. Like her bosom, her bottom looked full, round, and firm. Her legs contributed more than half of her height. Her hands and feet were well-shaped, even dainty. My mouth watered.

For that first session she looked more as if she were going out on a date than seeing her psychiatrist. Her legs were encased in high-quality flesh-toned hose and her feet in high-heeled sandals. When she lay down on the couch the hem of her dress rode up and I could see that instead of pantyhose she wore stockings and a garter belt. She didn't bother pulling the hem down. Either she was so nervous she didn't realize it or she didn't mind showing me a small bit of her sexy lingerie. My lust stirred and I struggled for an instant to get my mind back on my job.

I have a pat speech that I use at the beginning of my first session with any "abnormal sexual activity" patient. The goal is to relax her, build up the trust between us, and develop her confidence in me. Most people fear the judgment of others. I alleviate that fear by undermining the very concept of a STRICT definition of NORMAL.

I told her, "What's 'normal' anyway? Truth be told, 'normal' is often an amalgamation of ideas imposed on us by a variety of sources, mainly religion, family, and societal expectations. But nobody measures up to ALL those criteria and therefore NONE of us have much right to JUDGE others so long as they're not hurting anybody. So, Vanessa, what would you like to talk about?"

I offer all my patients the opportunity to lie on a small and slightly inclined couch. Most do and when they do I encourage them to remove their shoes while I dim the light so that they can relax better. The more they relax, the easier they find it to talk freely.

Her smile faded. There she lay, all pretty and sexy, but troubled. I sat at a right angle at the head of the couch so I wasn't facing her unless I turned. And she couldn't see me unless she sat up and turned. When she didn't respond to my prompt, I stretched my neck to get a look at her face. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it before saying a word. She did this several times. Obviously, either she didn't know where to start or couldn't bring herself to say what was on her mind.

I decided to help the process along. "I see from your patient information that you're twenty three years old, single, have a B.A. in English Literature, are certified to teach in Mississippi, live in Port City on the coast, and you list Wilson's Electronics as your employer. You're paying for your treatment with a credit card in the name of Aaron Wilson, I assume with his permission?" I said this last with a light tone so that she could tell that I was joking.

She responded in the grand old Southern fashion. "Yes ma'am."

I tried to put warmth into my voice. "You may call me 'doctor', 'Dr. Cole', 'Suzette', or just plain old 'Sue.' 'Ma'am' is appreciated but, in your case, unnecessary. I'm only a few years older than you."

"Okay, Sue."

"Good. Now, you indicated on your patient info form that you're seeking treatment for 'abnormal sexual activity.' Well, I've just said that I probably won't consider anything you've done as 'abnormal' and I absolutely won't judge you no matter what. I am your doctor and I have sworn to help you and to keep everything you tell me confidential. I am on your side. It will be you and me against the world if it comes to that. You have my word."

She choked and began sobbing. I hadn't expected such a strong reaction so soon. It usually takes several sessions to get that kind of a response. I got up, grabbed a box of tissues, walked over and sat on a chair next to the couch facing her.

I tried to sooth her. "That's it. Just let it all go. You're safe here, nowhere safer."

She snatched a tissue and grabbed my free hand. Had she been sitting up, she surely would have thrown an arm around my neck and hugged me tight, like a drowning person trying to be pulled to safety. That much contact with such a sexy woman might have aroused me, compromising my professional integrity. I was glad she remained lying down.

Her sobbing stopped but her voice cracked when she spoke. "I'm so sorry. I just don't know what to do. I've made a mess of my life and I don't have anyone I can talk to, that is, that I can trust to give me good advice and not tell others."

I smiled to reassure her. "Now you do. Lie there for a minute and let me take a few guesses. If I'm right, maybe you'll feel better about starting. Okay?"

The way she nodded her head and looked at me, eyes puffy and red from crying, face wet with tears, and more tears appearing to be on the way, reminded me of a little girl in distress. It smote my heart. I never felt so protective of another patient, not even Genevieve Broussard. Now there's a woman who made a mess of her life.

Thinking about Gen for a moment, I said, "I can promise you, Vanessa, you can't possibly have made more of a mess of your life than some of my patients."

I remained seated in front of her. I picked up my pen and pad. They weren't really necessary because I make an audio recording of all my sessions, but the pad and paper convey authority and competence and patients need these in order to have confidence in their therapist.

"You're single and working. Twenty-three years old, already graduated from college, and working means you probably don't live with your parents. You dress well and obviously visit a high quality salon to have your skin, hair and nails treated at least every other week. You're here with a man's credit card. And you're wearing earrings, a necklace, and a fairly large ring. All the pieces match, are formed with a golden clove hitch in the center, and are set with a good-sized diamond within the knot. Clearly custom made and expensive. And a clove hitch is one of the primary sailing knots. I don't know what kind of car you drive, but I'll bet it's expensive.

"Obviously you have a relationship, maybe even live, with a man named Aaron Wilson. From the company's name, I assume he's also your employer and pays well enough for you to support yourself in a lavish fashion. He owns a yacht, on which the two of you spend a great deal of time unless your tan comes from the salon. He may have been born a rich kid, but there really aren't many of those around. More likely he's a lot older than you and has worked years to achieve his success. And despite this seeming good fortune, you're HERE, distressed enough to weep and sob heavily.

"Based on these assumptions, I can see two possibilities, one or both of which may be true. First, despite his apparent generosity, you now think Mr. Wilson an inferior companion. I would have to guess the reasons. Abuse? Forcing you into sexual practices that you find distasteful? You've decided he's too old? Too fat? Too crude? Second, or perhaps more accurately, a direct corollary to the first, you've embarked on an affair. Perhaps you're in love with this new sexual partner? Or, possibly, you have some kind of urge, maybe you've had the urge for a long time, which this new partner satisfies. Either way, you feel in imminent danger of losing Mr. Wilson's financial support, perhaps? I don't intend to paint you in mercenary colors, but we all have to eat and I suspect that having lived large you would find it difficult to merely survive alone and on a teacher's salary. In any case, either your fear or your guilt or both has created, or more likely raised, anxiety within you to an intolerable level. Am I in the ballpark?"

Vanessa's eyes weren't exceptionally large, but they opened wider and wider as I spoke. When I stopped, she answered. "Dead on about the man and money. But wrong about most of the rest of the stuff. I don't find Aaron inferior. He's twice my age, but for an older guy he's pretty fit. And he's kind and generous and spends time with me. I'd probably marry him if he asked me. But he's already been married once and it turned out really bad, so I expect he's done with that."

She paused and hung her head. "But you were kinda right about me having an affair, I think."

That perplexed me and I frowned. "How would you define having an affair?"

She shrugged. "If I had sex with another man, that'd be having an affair."

I sat back. "I think I see. You've had sex with another woman, not a man, so you think it might not 'count' as having an affair. Is that right?"

She nodded. I continued. "Well, let's say you performed oral sex on another man. Would you call that an affair?"

She cringed and her voice trembled. "I don't know."

I tried to sound cold and clinical. I had to cut through this delusional and pedantic bullshit if I was going to help her, and I wanted to help her very much. "So, to be clear, you think that in order to call having any form of sex with another person an affair, that other person has to be a man and then only if he sticks his penis inside your vagina. What about your anus? Would that count?"

Vanessa sat up. "Are you making fun of me?"

I remained calm. "By no means. I'm simply trying to understand how YOU define terms. And while we're on the subject, how do you think Mr. Wilson would define the phrase 'having an affair'?"

She cast her eyes down again and wouldn't meet my gaze. I continued. "Then don't let's quibble about definitions. It is commonly accepted that the phrase 'having an affair' means performing any sexual act with anybody else other than your spouse or committed partner. Probably kissing and groping doesn't actually meet this definition, but the other party would still feel betrayed and believe that you had broken trust and that's really what it's all about, isn't it? Do you feel as if you've broken Aaron Wilson's trust? Of course, if you don't, then you don't really have a problem and you can go home from here and tell him all about it."

The way she shrunk back from me told me the answer I already knew, so I continued. "Honesty and trust. It's hard to separate the two. But if you're honest with yourself, you can admit that you've broken Aaron's trust and now you fear the consequences of him discovering that. Yes?"

She whimpered and reached for another tissue. She lay back down and the tears began again. "So let's examine why you had an affair. You say that you would marry Aaron if he asked you. Nevertheless, you felt it necessary to have sex with another woman. Yes?"

She gave me a weak, "Yes."

"You know, when telling a story, most people like to proceed in chronological order. Why don't you start at the beginning? Close your eyes, relax, and tell me about your childhood."

She sighed and started. "We weren't poor. We had a house and a car that didn't break down often. My dad was never out of work. But mom always bitched and complained about money. Nothing was ever good enough."

"Did your mother work?"

"Yes. She worked the day shift at the big bread factory in Port City. Dad was an assistant manager at Beauchamp Hardware. We lived in a subdivision about two miles from the hardware store and dad walked to work. Mom took the car. I only remember it breaking down twice and oh my God was there hell to pay. You'd have thought dad had done something to it on purpose just to cause her inconvenience."

"Would you describe her behavior toward your father as abusive?"

"Shit. She abused everybody. The neighbors wouldn't even look at her when she was in the yard. She only talked to her family and not all of them. I don't remember a kind word coming out of her mouth, only complaints and accusations."

I said, "'Accusations'. That's an interesting word to use. Did she accuse somebody of something?"

Vanessa snorted. "Only all the time. Even my poor dad. Or maybe especially him."

"Would you please elaborate on that?"

She hesitated. I could tell from her body language that I'd hit a very sore spot. She remained silent and tense. I looked at the clock and decided we'd done enough for one session. "I tell you what. We're nearly at the end of the hour, so let's stop there. I'd like to see you at least once a week for a while. Will that be convenient?"

She nodded. I asked, "Will the same day and time be convenient?"

She glanced at me and then lowered her eyes and turned them to the left, a sure sign that she was about to lie. Without looking at me, she said, "I usually spend Tuesday afternoons playing tennis. Do you have any openings on Wednesdays?"

A child would have known she was lying, but I decided not to press. We all lie occasionally, and psychiatric patients more than most. We agreed on Wednesdays at two. She put on her shoes and walked toward the door. I couldn't help but admire her derriere. It moved delightfully from side to side and her stockings swished as her thighs rubbed together. I licked my lips.

She put her hand on the door knob but didn't open it. She half-turned and looked back at me.

"Thank you, Sue. I feel good about coming in to see you. You're right. I believe I can talk to you. I trust you. Maybe more than anybody else in the world. See you next week."

She left before I could respond, which was a good thing. Just as when she nodded her tear-stained face at me like a little girl, her words and the expression on her face smote my heart and I felt like crying myself.

Session 02

When I let my one o'clock out the door the following Wednesday I found Vanessa sitting patiently in the waiting room. She was dressed in khaki shorts, a light blue cotton blouse, and high-heeled cork-bottomed sandals. She carried a straw purse and matching wide-brimmed hat.

I smiled and said, "Please come in."

"Thanks, Sue."

"You look a lot more casual today. Been out having fun?"

Vanessa lowered her gaze and looked left. I waited for another lie. "No, not really. I feel more comfortable now, you know, less formal. Is it okay?"

"Of course. I'm here to do whatever is best for you, whatever it takes. Besides, you look exceptionally pretty in those clothes, THE All-American Girl."

She blushed and took my hand, briefly, and then let it drop while she walked into the office. She sat on the couch, took off her shoes, and lay down while I dimmed the lights. I turned on the tape recorder, picked up my pad, and took my accustomed place at the head of the couch. I breathed deep and said, "Last week we stopped at the point of your mother accusing your father of something. The incident clearly upset you so we quit. If you feel up to it, I'd like to start there."

Vanessa answered, "Okay. Well, you know, I really loved my dad. He showed me a lot of attention. You know how all some men do when they're not at work is sit and watch TV? Especially sports. I've been to several ball games, baseball, football, and basketball. It's fun to sit in a crowd and cheer and eat hot dogs and drink beer, you know, exciting. You get caught up in the moment with all the energy of the people around you. But watching it on TV? For three hours? And I'd bet most of the men doing that never put on pads or cleats and walked out onto the field. Just a bunch of silly wannabes.

"Well my dad wasn't like that. He would often have a game on. Sometimes I'd watch it with him, especially baseball. Even then he paid attention to me. He told me all about the rules and what kind of plays might be made and then explained the action we were watching. But if I got bored and asked him to read me a book or something, he always got up and turned the TV off and took whatever book I gave him. I loved 'Green Eggs and Ham.' He read it to me even though I had heard it so many times I recited the words along with him. And we built Lincoln Log buildings and put together jigsaw puzzles and played Go Fish. And he always put me to bed with a hug and a kiss and called me his 'Darlin' Girl'. He would probably have put that on my birth certificate if my mother would've let him."

Her voice cracked and she began to sniff. I put the box of tissues within her reach. She blew her nose and continued. "Momma never did anything like that. She stayed busy cleaning up the kitchen after dinner or doing something else."

She remained silent for several moments. To get her started again, I asked, "It sounds as if you have many fond memories of your father, is that right." After she nodded, I asked, "Do you have any similarly fond memories of your mother?"

Vanessa's voice tightened. "Hell no. It was always, 'You oughta know better. Stop that. Shut up. Can't you see I'm busy? Christ, I wished I'd never had kids.' And shit like that. My earliest memories involving her are about trying to hide from her. I was always afraid."

"Did your mother ever strike you?"

Vanessa shrugged. "Maybe a few times, you know, a slap or two here and there. Nothing major. She never hit me with a belt or a switch. Her damn sour mouth was enough to keep me in line."

"That's a pretty grim picture. Why do you think she behaved that way toward you?"

"Not just toward me. Toward Daddy, too, and some in her family. I saw her own mother, my grandma, acting the same way. I guess Momma was just mean and unhappy and hateful. No other way to explain it."

I lowered my voice. "Do you think she was ever abused by your grandmother, the way she abused you?"

Vanessa got angry. "What the fuck difference does it make if she was? You think that's an excuse? Look at the way she treated me and I'm not like that. I try my best to treat people well and do things that please them."

I noted the phrase "pleasing other people" for future reference. "I'm sure you do. And no, I'm not trying to excuse your mother's behavior, just understand it."

"Well, don't waste your time. I hate her, I have nothing to do with her, and I won't miss her when she's dead. Hell, she may already be dead for all I know and good riddance to her. She killed Daddy."

I had to tread very lightly here. "Would you care to explain that, please? What do you mean she killed your father?"

Silence.

"Vanessa, did it have anything to do with your use of the word 'accusation' last week?"