Stephen White - Blinded

“ Sterling thinks I’m at that mall in Broomfield. He thinks all I do is shop,” she announced as she settled onto the sofa.

I waited for her to go on. With that opening, all she had told me was that she considered me to be her coconspirator. But I already knew that. Apparently, I’d volunteered for the role during the previous morning’s session.

Admittedly, I was having second thoughts about how quickly I’d raised my hand to enlist.

“If he knew I was here talking to you, he’d kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t be happy. Let’s leave it at that.”

Right, I’ll leave it at that. That sounds like a great idea.

The high-pressure ridge responsible for the warm air that had enveloped the Front Range since the morning of Sam’s heart attack remained firmly in place, and this mid-November day had broken from the gate fair and mild. I’d led Gibbs from the waiting room at one minute past eleven o’clock, and a glance out the window suggested that a day that had started gloriously had only gotten better. A month-plus before Christmas, a mile high, and eighty degrees wasn’t out of the question.

Gibbs was dressed as though she had stayed up the night before in order to catch the late weather report and plan her outfit accordingly. She wore capris that were almost too pink and that hugged her slender legs almost too snugly. Almost. Her shoes, as always, looked fresh from the box. Actually, my shoes never looked that good, even straight from the box. Her champagne sweater set-I was guessing silk but allowing for cashmere-displayed a wide swath of her smooth chest but only the barest hint of cleavage. I tried to conjure the image of another one of my female patients who would have dressed the same way Gibbs was dressed for a similar morning session. I couldn’t.

But on Gibbs the look worked.

Diane, I figured, would have argued that Gibbs looked slutty.

Über- popular alpha bitch slutty.

As far as nicknames went, I’d already decided that I preferred “the Dancing Queen.”

My impression of Gibbs during the earlier treatment had always been that she liked to live her life near the line where classic style and fashionable trends collide, but that she rarely wandered across it. Her outfit was a good metaphor for all that.

Accusing her husband of murder, though-that had definitely taken her across the line.

“Did you talk to those people you were going to talk to?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. I spoke with Dr. Estevez, and then she and I met with the director of Safe House on your behalf. The admissions people at Safe House are waiting for your phone call. They are more than happy to provide you with a safe place to stay. As soon as you’re ready, they will send somebody over here to pick you up. They want to be certain that you’re not followed on your way to the residence.”

She crossed her legs, flinched a little bit with her eyes, and said, “I don’t think I want to go there after all. I’ve changed my mind.” With the slightest shrug of her shoulders, she added, “Don’t be mad at me.”

Perhaps there had been a time in my career when I might have found her display of world-class denial the slightest bit endearing, but if there had been, I was definitely past it.

“Yes?” I said.

That’s what I said out loud, anyway. Inside, I was screaming things like “What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? You just said the man would kill you!”

But was I surprised at her change of heart?

Hardly. A colleague who spent much of her time treating abused spouses once told me that battered women had to leave their husbands five times before they stopped being drawn back. In her world, the sixth separation was the magic one.

Usually, anyway. She’d reminded me that she’d once treated a woman who went back eleven times.

Eleven. And anyone who’d been in practice doing psychotherapy for a while had treated abused women who never considered leaving even once.

As far as I knew, Gibbs was one of those. She hadn’t left Sterling even once. This morning’s short trip to Boulder ’s Safe House was going to be their virgin marital separation.

“You’re concerned that I’ll be angry with you?” I kept my voice as mild as the shampoo that I used to bathe my daughter’s silky hair. I was already past my reactive anger and back in the shallows of the sea of compassion for the constellation of psychology and circumstances that caused abused women like Gibbs to make decisions that would seem muddled even for a four-year-old faced with a decision about whether to be friends with a bully.

“You went to a lot of trouble for me. And I don’t like to appear ungrateful. That was nice, what you did.”

Nice?

“You’re concerned about my reaction?”

“Yes.”

“Does that tell you anything?” Experienced therapy patients ask questions like that one on their own, without prompting. I didn’t expect that Gibbs was even close to being able to do it.

“That I don’t like to disappoint people?” She was guessing at the answer. I had sat next to a kid in high school algebra who’d answered every question with that exact same inflection. For an entire year.

“Or… maybe… you feel the same way with me that you feel sometimes with Sterling.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You make your decisions based on fear of disappointing people, or concern about making them angry. If you’re worried about making me angry, I can only guess how concerned you might be about Sterling ’s reaction to finding out what you’ve told me, or about his discovering that you’ve left him.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” she said.

How much consideration had she given it? Less than a second. Apparently we weren’t at a point in the therapy where I was being granted any wisdom transference.

I punted. “So you’ve changed your mind?”

“Not about the murder thing. No, no. About not feeling safe at home. That’s what I changed my mind about.”

Had she just said “the murder thing”? She had.

“You no longer think your husband will be angry that you’re turning him in to the police for murder?” There is a yearlong seminar in clinical psychology graduate school on how to ask obvious questions with a straight face.

I’d aced it.

“ Sterling really loves me. I think he’d want me to stay with him while this works out.”

“Works out? And how is this going to work out?”

“I think he’ll get arrested. That will solve my problems for a while. At least about the murder thing. After that I just don’t know. With a good lawyer these days, anything is possible.”

Gibbs’s musings were at once both rational and incredibly naÏve. Although I knew what I wanted to say next, I paused through a couple of breathing cycles before I said it. I would have preferred for her to respond to the echoes of her own words, but she didn’t.

“When you started today’s session, you said that Sterling was going to kill you. Now you would like me to believe that you’re convinced that you are safe living with him even though you’re about to turn him in to the police for murdering your mutual friend?”

Her face brightened inexplicably. She blurted, “That’s so great! I think that’s almost exactly what Dr. Phil would say.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dr. Phil-you know, on the-oh, you don’t know, do you? The guy on TV?”

She could tell I was befuddled.

She quickly added, “Don’t worry, it’s not that important that you know who…” Her voice trailed away.

I actually had a vague idea who Dr. Phil was. What I was befuddled about was the question of whether it was a good thing or a potentially embarrassing thing that I was beginning to sound like a psychologist who plied his trade on daytime television.