Mirror Image
Mirror Image
Copyright © 2010 by Dennis Palumbo
First Edition 2010
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2009924208
ISBN-13 Print: 9781590587508 Hardcover
ISBN-13 Print: 9781590587522 Trade Paperback
ISBN-13 Ebook: 9781615952397
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The people and events described or depicted in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to actual incidents or individuals is unintended and coincidental.
Poisoned Pen Press
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Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Contents
“All pasts are like poems; you can derive a thousand things, but you can’t live in them.”
—John Fowles
The author would like to thank the following people for their generous help and support:
First and foremost, Ken Atchity, whose enthusiasm for this project never wavered;
I’m also grateful to Annette Rogers, my editor at Poisoned Pen Press, whose astute guidance has been both welcome and extremely valuable;
Robert Rosenwald and Barbara Peters, founders of Poisoned Pen Press, which really does, as their slogan says, promote Publishing Excellence in Mystery;
Jessica Tribble, associate publisher and all-around go-to person—thanks for walking me through this;
My friends and colleagues, for their support of my work over the years—with special appreciation to Hoyt Hilsman, Bobby Moresco, Richard Stayton, Rick Setlowe, Bob Masello, Garry Shandling, Jim Denova, Michael Harbadin, Claudia Sloan, Dave Congalton, Charlotte Alexander, Mark Evanier, Bob Corn-Revere, Lolita Sapriel, Mark Baker, Andrew Gulli, Mark Schorr, Bill Shick, Fred Golan and Dick Lochte;
Jeffrey Trop, MD, for his wise counsel and unflagging encouragement;
And, lastly, Dr. Robert Stolorow, for his profound insights into both the causes and treatment of trauma.
Shame is a deep well.
Face tightened in anguish, a young man named Kevin Merrick was sitting in my office, telling me about the first time he’d slept with his sister.
“I musta been eight or nine,” he said. Kevin was in his early twenties, but thinning hair and pained, sunken eyes made him seem older, faded somehow. The three-week-old growth of beard didn’t help.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Rinaldi. I didn’t think…I mean, shit, it was all so long ago…”
“Take your time,” I said.
I let a silence fill the space between us. But inwardly, I was thrilled. After months of intensive work, of building trust and rapport, he was finally opening up, risking connection with another human being.
Not an easy task for him, considering what he’d been through. Life had battered him, left invisible bruises no less real than the old needle tracks on his forearms, the self-inflicted scissor-cuts emblazoned on his wrists.
His eyes flitted to the window overlooking Forbes Avenue five floors below. The steady drumming of the rain masked the usual hum of afternoon traffic snaking out of the Pitt campus.
Beyond, through the grey-black webbing of the storm, you could just make out Heinz Hall and Carnegie Museum, venerable Pittsburgh landmarks, hunched beneath the regal spire of the Cathedral of Learning.
Kevin stirred, hands massaging the arms of his chair. This calmed him. It had taken time, but my office had finally become a sanctuary for him, a refuge. Once, he’d jokingly referred to it as the Womb with a View.
He
did
seem to derive solace from the place: the tan leather sofa, the twin brass table lamps, the marble-topped antique desk. My worn Tumi briefcase leaned against it.
Then there was the stuff my patients
didn’t
see—the photo of Barbara taken on our honeymoon, tucked away on a book shelf; a copy of
Ringsider
magazine, autographed by Sugar Ray Leonard, sharing cabinet space with patient files and a pewter hip flask—a gift from my old man after the Allentown fight, twenty years ago. Consolation prize, I guess. I’d gone down in the seventh.
Kevin’s eyes had been slowly sweeping the room, as though searching a crowd for a familiar face. His gaze rested finally on some psych journals stacked on the floor.
“Karen was four years older than me,” he said at last. “We were in her room…it was late. I knew I was supposed to be in bed, but Dad hadn’t tucked me in…”
“Did he usually do that?”
“Every night, since the year before, when Mom died…I remember people saying what a burden he had now. That he had to be both mother
and
father to me and Karen…” He blinked up at me. “What was I saying?…”
“That your father wasn’t in Karen’s room that night.”
“Yeah. Anyway—” His voice caught. “All of a sudden, we were in her bed…just foolin’ around…Laughing. I remember how
girlie
I thought the sheets smelled…”
“Girlie?”
“You know what I mean.” A crooked smile. “I remember thinking, Yuck, how could she sleep in here?…Those pink, frilly sheets with the girlie smell…Yuck!”
His smile faded.
“Then…” He dropped his head. “Then she
touched
me… and I was so confused. It felt so strange. Not bad, but not good either…I mean, I knew what was happening…I was already pretty good at jerkin’ off, ya know?…”
He tried to laugh, a dry rasp that held no mirth.
“And I loved Karen so much…I mean, I
hated
her, too, ’cause she was my older sister and a bitch and everything, but I also loved her…and ever since Mom died, she was—”
He looked away again, at the window.
“And then she had her pajamas off,” he said slowly, “and I could see—it was dark, but I could sorta see everything, and
feel
everything…and it felt so…”
Suddenly, a sheet of shame reddened his face. His hands shot up, palms pressing against his eyes, like a child trying to push the tears back in. He cried out.
I leaned closer, on the edge of my leather chair. I could almost see a shudder move through his body, like a powerful wave. I also saw how thin and bony his shoulders were under his light blue shirt.
Finally, he turned, eyes searching for mine. His face was bleached of color, lifeless.
“I…I felt her hand on the back of my neck…I was shocked, surprised…The hand was so strong, pressing my face down…forcing my mouth between her legs…forcing me to…making me…
taste
her
…
”
Great sobs wracked his whole body. Without a thought, I reached across and held him, felt his body slump in my embrace. His tears were wet on my cheeks.
We stayed that way for an endless minute, the blood pounding in my ears. My own feelings shot through me. Anger. Pity. Some vague sense of anguish…
Finally, I released him, gently guiding him back against his chair. He seemed to be swallowed by it, legs half-drawn up in a fetal position. He closed his eyes.
I took a breath. Kevin and I would have to explore the meaning of my embracing him at some future date. For now, it was enough for me to know that I’d had the impulse to hold him, to cradle him, and so I did.
Fuck it, somebody should’ve done it a long time ago.
As I watched him settle down, I thought again about the clinical risks I often found myself taking with him. After all my years as a psychologist, it was always new; each patient a new beginning, a chance to teach myself how to do therapy all over again.
I recalled, too, something that Jung had told one of his students. “It’s not what you know that heals,” he said. “It’s who you are.” A sentiment I agree with. It’s also a notion that conveniently flatters the narcissism woven into every therapist’s personality.
Kevin’s body had relaxed, and he was reaching for the Kleenex on the side table. As he dried his eyes, I managed a smile, which he managed to return.
Some deep chasm, some important gulf between us had been crossed, and we both knew it. Despite the potential for significant pain ahead, he’d made another crucial step on his personal journey. And at the end, I believed—I
had
to believe—there would come a healing.
I’d never find out.
Within an hour, Kevin Merrick would be dead.
