Author's note: For those of you who are interested in those wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am stories, this probably isn't for you. This is for us high-brow literary types who actually appreciate a STORY- y'know, dialogue, narrative, intellectual challenges and stuff like that? No sex in this chapter, but plenty of discussion.
So, while no sex is depicted in this chapter, I should say that it does touch strongly on the topic of incest, which is not something that I, in any way, condone or approve of. This is ONLY a work of fiction and should be appreciated on that merit alone.
I hope you enjoy! And, rest assured, more WILL come (eventually).
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So there's this question that people often ask themselves: who counsels the counselor? Lawyers have their own lawyers. Surgeons, when need arises, certainly don't work on themselves. And, in keeping with that logic, psychologists get their own mental health treatment from other shrinks. At reduced rates, of course. Sometimes, I'll openly admit, for free- professional courtesy and all that, you see. Or maybe you don't. Think of it this way: if there is any sub-set of professionals in this world who absolutely NEED psychiatric assistance, it's a shrink with a long list of clients. I mean, after all, this is a guy whose job it is to be subjected to the most troubled individuals that society can muster on a daily basis. Cops deal with criminals. Shrinks deal with crazy people. When your clientele consists mostly of people with more neuroses than you can possibly imagine, you simply need someone to talk to, if only just to decompress. Naturally, the names of our clients aren't shared with our brothers-at-arms in the psychiatric industry, so rest assured that your privacy is still safe even when your head-doctor trots off to talk to his own shrink about your loo-loo of a life crisis. And, to be fair, we don't always talk about you folks- sometimes we earnestly DO have our own troubles to contend with that have absolutely nothing to do with our field of work.
And, yes, I most certainly DID have my own crisis to deal with. Boy, did I. I had discovered my son and daughter having sex in my son's bedroom. Not foreplay, not innocent petting or experimentation. No. My kids were going at it like... I believe Shakespeare described it best as "making the beast with two backs." I was at a loss for what to do. Of course I split them up and somehow managed to convince them NOT to screw each other anymore, but I had painted myself into a corner in doing so. I had made it clear to both my son and daughter that I felt their mother should know about this new development and that I wanted to be the one to break it to her. I had foolishly convinced them (and, at the time, I even had myself half-convinced) that I would be able to keep her rational once I finally DID tell her.
Silly me.
I should have known better. I mean, this is my WIFE we're talking about here, not some silly tart who wouldn't be terribly missed if she didn't like the situation (and I had a feeling that Kathy, my wife, most definitely would NOT like the situation at all). I had built a life with this woman. I'd never lied to her or hid anything from her. Our marriage was one based on honesty, honor, faith, trust and courage. And, yet, there I was, shrinking away from the task I had set before myself, like some doggedly coward with his tail between his legs and at a total loss for direction.
A week went by, Kathy had been home for three days, and I still hadn't told her. The kids apparently held up their end of the bargain and refrained from pursuing each other sexually, but they'd also quietly approached me to see if I'd spoken with their mother yet. Each time that I told them no, they seemed sulky and disappointed. At first I thought their disappointment stemmed from the inconvenience of not being able to resume their affair, but I later realized that they were disappointed with ME and my cowardice. Sue even said as much.
"I don't look forward to it any more than you do, Dad, but you said that you'd tell her and you haven't said a word since she got back home. How long are you going to run away from this? How long are you going to force me and Dave to hide?"
Sadly, I hadn't an answer to any of her questions. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and assure her that I would eventually get around to it, "when the time is right." But that wasn't enough, not for them and not for me. Susan had been perfectly right in her veiled accusation: I was acting like a coward, and that wasn't like me at all. In the past I had always stood up and faced whatever challenge came my way, partly so that I could set an example for my kids and partly so that I could simply hold on to my own sense of dignity. And there I was, letting that crumble right in front of my eyes. I don't doubt that Kathy had begun to suspect that SOMETHING was off-kilter with me, but she'd avoided prodding or intruding on my privacy. She took it in stride and simply showed the same kind of patience and forbearance that I've come to expect from her over the years: she would wait until I was ready to talk to her. I could take advantage of that kind of patience for only so long until she would pin me down and ask me pointedly what was eating me up. And then, of course, I would HAVE to tell her.
Yes, indeed, I was in a hell of a pickle. So, I did the one thing I could think of at the time: I called my therapist, Dan Martin, to see if HE could give me an idea or two.
"Danny, I've got a problem," I said to the mouthpiece of my cell phone. I sat in my car, on the side of the road, a few miles away from my house. Kathy would have dinner ready in the next hour and I wanted to try and get my bearings before we started the family meal this evening. I had begun to feel the eyes of all my family members watching me closely and that night I just didn't want to feel like I was under a microscope anymore.
Dan replied with a small laugh. "Well," he said, "I'm guessing that you wouldn't call otherwise. How long has it been, Paul? A year, maybe more, since you last needed my services?"
I thought back a bit and agreed with him. "Yeah. About a year sounds right. It's a case, Danny. A whopper. And it's got me all turned around. I don't know what to tell my client or how to help him. I need a second brain on this one."
Dan was calm and relaxed, totally professional. "Tell me what you can," he said, his request a subtle indication that he would respect the patient-doctor privacy doctrine. He wouldn't ask for or even want names, which made it safer for me to divulge every detail of my problem without any worry of implication or loss of respect from my colleague.
"Well," I answered, "It's a really sensitive issue, one that I've never personally dealt with before. Incest."
There was a brief silence as Dan digested that and finally he said, "Mother-son?"
"No," I said flatly.
"Father-daughter?"
"I wish!" Then, immediately, I regretted those words and tried to cover it up. "With a parent-child situation, I've at least got the matter of control and trust issues to look at. History, unconscious sexual traumas, neuroses and other such things. No. With this, it's a lot less clear-cut."
