~ Pieces ~

by

Linda Rettstatt

Claire gazed into the well. As her eyes adjusted, she could see blue sky, dotted with billowy clouds, reflecting in the dark water below. The outline of her shadow partially blocked the light. She stretched out her hand to make a wish. Then, as always, it happened, the sensation of falling as fast as the coin she’d just tossed. She found herself near the bottom of the well, sitting in a bucket and clinging to a slimy rope, hanging just inches above the dank, black water. The blue sky was now but a narrow point of light in the distance.

Passersby stopped and peered into the well, blocking the light, unable to see her. One figure particularly troubled her. The face was not clear, but the shape appeared to be that of a woman with long, flowing hair bent over the well for only a brief moment, then gone. Claire heard a distant sound she could not identify, like the sound of a car backfiring. She called out, but her cries were unheard. She tried to reach up, but lost her grip on the rope, fumbling wildly to regain her hold.

Bathed in sweat, panting for air, arms flailing against the sensation of falling, Claire awakened. The voice calling out for help was her own. Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to free herself from the damp sheets tangled around her trembling body. It took her several hours to recover and she didn’t sleep again until daylight began to break.

The nightmare had been recurring for the past year. She’d tried everything--limiting caffeine and sugar consumption, not getting overly tired, psychotherapy, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, sleeping pills, even journaling about the nightmare. The journaling yielded three identical accounts, with no pattern to its occurrence. It would sneak up on her randomly, disrupt her sleep and leave her shaken for the better part of the next day.

Last week she’d made an appointment with yet another therapist, after spending a night of terror and getting only two hours’ sleep after daybreak.

This was her sixth therapist in a year. One therapist directed her to sit and breathe while he said reassuring things to her inner child and hugged her from behind. It left her wanting to take a long, hot shower. Another therapist theorized about repressed anger and made her beat the crap out of a stuffed trash bag with an inflated rubber bat. She had to admit that was fun, but didn’t see the relevance.

The therapist who told her she was everyone in her dream irritated her with the interpretation, and she never returned for follow-up. Why the hell would I ignore my own cries for help and leave myself dangling on the end of a rope at the bottom of a well?

The other two were probably good therapists, but not for her. One of these had suggested a psychiatric evaluation, but Claire refused, insisting she wasn’t crazy. She didn’t do odd things or have suicidal or homicidal thoughts, though she wanted to cheerfully strangle the therapist at that moment. She wasn’t sad or depressed, angry or grieving. She just had this recurring nightmare.

This latest therapist had been recommended by her physician. Maybe this time, Claire thought. Maybe this one will actually have an answer. They can’t all be idiots!

Stepping into the elevator, Claire decided that if the therapist suggested meditation, psychodrama or any kind of creepy body contact, she was leaving and she damned well wasn’t paying for the session. She didn’t even care anymore if the therapist could explain the nightmare. She just wanted someone to make it stop.

The elevator bounced to a halt on the fourth floor and Claire stepped off, checking the directory on the wall for Suite 412. She stopped, then turned to look for a restroom, hating the way she felt--like she was seven years old and going to the dentist for the first time. Her insides quaked and she had to pee. She wished she had someone’s hand to hold for reassurance, someone to say, This isn’t going to hurt a bit. It’ll be over before you know it, and I’ll be waiting right here for you.

As she washed her hands, Claire avoided meeting her eyes in the mirror. She could so easily talk herself into getting right back on that elevator. The restroom door whooshed closed behind her as she headed down the long hall to Suite 412.

The brass plate on the door read: Genevieve Headlee, Ph.D., Psychologist. Claire was struck by the irony in the name Headlee and thought, Headlee the headshrinker, laughing nervously as she stepped inside the office. Humor had always been her salvation and, often, her downfall.

She walked up to the sliding glass window and waited for the receptionist on the other side to hang up the phone. The window slid open.

“Hi, you must be Claire. I’m Brenda. Would you fill out these forms and sign where they’re highlighted, then bring them back to me?” she asked, handing Claire a clipboard and a pen.

Claire walked to a chair in the far corner of the small, empty waiting room, put her purse on the floor and completed the paperwork. Why do they need to know that I had a tonsillectomy when I was ten? She obediently filled in all the blanks, then gave the clipboard and her medical insurance card to the receptionist and returned to her seat. She glanced at her watch--ten minutes before her appointment, enough time to run to the restroom again and to get a drink of water. Nerves had turned her mouth to sand.

As she returned to the waiting room, a young woman exited and rushed past her with head lowered, dabbing her eyes.

Oh, shit, Claire thought, this is probably one of those touchy-feely therapists who doesn’t think she’s done her job if she hasn’t brought you to tears.

Before she could turn and run, the door between the waiting room and the inner sanctum opened. A woman smiled and said, “Claire? You may come in,” directing her into a large, private office.

The woman was Claire’s height, slender, with ash brown hair streaked by strands of gray. Glasses hung from a gold chain around her neck and she was casually dressed in beige slacks and a black silk blouse. Claire noticed that her face was open, friendly. Well, she doesn’t look scary. She looks like the lady who sells perfume at Gordon’s.

Furnished with two over-stuffed chairs and a matching beige sofa backing a large oak desk, the office had the feel of a comfortable living room. A small, round table separated the chairs and held a dish of individually wrapped mints, a box of tissues and two glasses of water. Dimly lit lamps flanked the sofa, creating a soothing atmosphere. The scent of spice wafted from a saucer of potpourri on a side table.

The therapist closed the door and turned, extending her right hand. “I’m Genevieve Headlee. Most of my clients call me Gen. Please, sit anywhere you’d like.” She gathered up a notepad and pen from the desk.

Claire chose the sofa, placing her jacket and purse next to her. She was breathing in short, quick breaths and would soon have to take in a deep breath that would undoubtedly draw a questioning look from the therapist. She shifted as she breathed, trying to disguise the sharp intake, then exhaled slowly.

Gen took a seat opposite Claire in one of the chairs. She put on her glasses and held the papers in front of her that Claire had filled out.

“It’s nice to meet you, Claire. I see you’ve been to other therapists, so you already know the drill. I’ll be asking questions and taking notes for the first session to get to know more about you.”

Gen removed her glasses, made eye contact and asked, “Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”

“Uh, no, none that I can think of. Well, one question. Have you helped people interpret dreams? I mean, if someone’s having a recurring nightmare... have you helped make it stop?”

“Is that what brought you here?”

“Yes and, as you can see, I’ve been to several other therapists and no one’s been able to help. I don’t want to waste your time or mine if you don’t think you can help me.”

Gen nodded. “I see. Here’s what I believe about dreams and nightmares. I think they often represent something in our subconscious mind that’s trying to surface, something we don’t know that we know, if that makes sense. I’ve worked with patients who had recurring dreams and we were able to figure out what was going on underneath the dream. Sometimes it’s a matter of making a simple connection between the symbolism in the dream”--she placed one hand in front of her, palm up--“and a life event or a subconscious fear,” she said, turning her other palm up in front of her.

“So, a nightmare may be my mind trying to tell me something I know, but don’t remember?”

“Yes, that’s possible. I need to get more information about you and about the nightmare before I can make a determination. You do know this could take more than a few sessions.”

“I know. I’m sorry if I seem impatient. This has been going on for over a year and I need for it to stop. I’m a little anxious, but Dr. Clymer recommended you and I...” She felt tears brim her eyes. “I’m exhausted and I’m desperate.”

Gen reached over and put a hand on Claire’s arm. “I know this has to be unnerving, especially if you’ve tried therapy several times without relief. Tell you what--if you feel, after three sessions, that I’m not helping you, then we can discuss other options. How does that sound?”

“Okay.” Claire reached for a tissue from the box on the table. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re a good therapist.”

“Claire, it’s okay.” Gen smiled, then settled back into her chair, pen poised, glasses back in place. “Why don’t you begin by telling me about the nightmare and anything else you’d like me to know about you? I’ll try to keep my note taking to a minimum and if it’s distracting for you, I can use a recorder. Just let me know.”

Claire relaxed and the tension in her shoulders eased. She started right off describing the nightmare, finding Gen’s calm, steady gaze comforting and encouraging.

When Claire finished, Gen asked questions about the nightmare--its frequency, when it first began, and, on a scale of one to ten, how troubling it was. Gen raised one eyebrow when Claire rated it at eleven.

Claire continued with the story of her life, or at least her rehearsed version of it--her parents, sister, where she’d grown up, high school, college, work, marriage, divorce. Gen scribbled a note now and then, looking away only briefly, keeping her focus on Claire.

When Gen stopped her to say their time was up, Claire glanced at her watch with surprise and saw she’d been talking for an hour and a half.

“Do you want to make another appointment?” Gen asked, once again lowering her glasses.

Claire took in a deep breath and let it out. “Do you think you can help me? Can you make the nightmare go away?”