The Catch

“So, what’s the catch?” was the first actual sentence out of Mrs. Benson’s mouth. New clients are always apprehensive, but Mrs. Benson had an ora about her that was giving off something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. If I had known where the next hour would take me I would have gladly left my finger cradling my pen and sent Mrs. Benson on her way. But isn’t that how all stories like this begin? An unanswered question. That leads to more questions. That will eventually lead to an answer. Even if that answer is one we wish we had never known. 

I first became interested in psychology when I realized that sorting through other people’s problems allowed me an avenue to ignore my own. I was 15 years old when my mother and father were killed in a hit-and-run car accident. They never found the person that took my parents from me that night. It was 1974 and traffic cameras weren’t exactly common in small-town rural America. My paternal grandmother became my legal guardian. I had not spent more than ten minutes with her in my entire life. My father left home at 18 and my parents only ever spoke of her in whispers or would exchange wordless glances with one another when I asked about her. 

She arrived at the police station to collect me wearing two different shoes and no jacket in 20-degree weather and not a single person questioned her sanity or my safety. They expressed condolences for our loss and sent us on our way. There was no funeral to honor my parents’ death. No gathering to celebrate their life. Just a cremation that resulted in the little brown box that sits at the top of my closet. 

I never really had the opportunity to grieve my parents. I was too busy dealing with my grandmother’s multiple personalities. While also attempting to make top grades in school. I realized pretty early on that a scholarship to college was going to be my only way out. To entertain myself, I started to name her various personalities and would make a game out of trying to navigate the unstable waters that were my life. 

There were three very distinct personalities that could appear at any moment. Her name was Susan, so the personality that came closest to any baseline emotional stability is what I called her. Susan would refer to my father as her son and me as her granddaughter but emotionally was very neutral. Not very happy or sad. Mostly just existing. Susie Q was her extreme high. She loved me so much. She would cook, pick up the house, and ask me questions about school, but this person very rarely showed up. Suzette, on the other hand, showed up too many times to count and was the exact opposite of Susie Q. She was mean. She referred to my father as the “piece of shit” that abandoned her. She would call me names, refuse to buy food, intentionally create a mess in the house then demand I clean it, and worst of all she would refuse to let me go to school. Going to school was the only escape from my present and the only path to my future. There were plenty of times I thought about going to the police and asking for help to escape the hell I found myself in, but all I kept thinking was, “What if I end up somewhere worse?” So I kept my head down, focused on the little things in my control, and counted down to graduation day.  

I graduated high school with honors and with no one in the audience to cheer me on. I received a full academic scholarship to my first choice college and left my grandmother’s house in the middle of the night with only a backpack. Two years would pass before I heard her name again. 

I was sitting in a coffee shop studying for finals when I heard a group of eccentric hipsters interrupt their conversation on which brand of incense sticks produce the strongest smell to talk about the crazy old lady that burned down her house while she was still in it. 

“I swear! My mom was telling me all about it when she called for her weekly check-in!”, a girl with curly blonde hair insisted. She was so serious that her hair took on a life of its own and her nostrils flared so intensely that the piercings in each almost popped right out!  

“I’m not joking! Her name was Susan Welch and she apparently had candles lit all over the house. One must have fallen over causing a domino effect of fire! They think she was sleeping when it happened because they found her still in her bed. I mean seriously! Who goes to bed in a house full of lit candles?” She nodded as she spoke as if the nods would make her audience subconsciously agree with her. 

Full of confidence, she whips her head toward a girl with jet-black hair - who had been rolling her eyes the entire time - slowly and smugly she said, “This proves, Alisha, that incense sticks are in fact safer than candles!” She was all too pleased with herself. 

All I could focus on was the name. Susan Welch. The blonde was not entirely correct. Her name may have been Susan, but it was Susie Q who lit those candles. My mind was immediately transported through time. 

I always had a sense of anxiety walking up to that house. I never knew who was behind the door. There was this one day when I was exceptionally anxious. I made a B on a test that I should have made an A on and I spent the majority of my day beating myself up over it. Hard days at school made for even tougher nights in that house. I opened the door that afternoon and instantly took in too many different smells for my mind to sort through. 

“Hello? Susan? Are you here?” I closed the door slowly. 

“I’m here, sweet girl!” she responded. 

At that moment I knew who I was talking to. She walked into the living room with such a  lightness she looked as if she was floating. She was wearing a robe I had never seen before. It had red and pink roses all over it and she was carrying a lit candle in each hand. It was then I noticed where the smells were coming from. There were candles lit everywhere! 

“You lit candles.” She smiled at my observation and said, “I did! Aren’t they beautiful? And they just smell divine! Go put on something comfortable. I made dinner and we are going to eat surrounded by these beautiful flames!” We did exactly that.

 It’s crazy how you can hate someone so much, but then at times be thankful for their presence. By the next morning, Susie Q was gone and Susan awoke in her place. I’ll never be sure if she even remembered that night. 

Hearing that she was dead should have affected me in some way. Professionally, I know that, but it never did. The only thing I ever felt was a strange comfort knowing she left this world as Susie Q. 

During college, I realized that psychiatry wasn’t where I wanted to spend my career. Therapy and counseling were the areas that interested me most. Through my residency, I found my passion for working in low-income communities. My current office has bars on the windows and the stench of old coffee. But I love it here. My work is fulfilling and the people are honest and kind. 

When Mrs. Benson walked into my office I couldn’t help but wonder if she was lost. The suit, the shoes, the handbag, all designer. Even her hair was set so perfectly that I wondered if she was wearing a wig. 

“Welcome, Mrs. Benson.” She nodded her head. 

“You can have a seat.” I motioned her to an old floral armchair I bought for $5 at a resale store down the street. For the first time in my professional career, I was aware of how rundown my office must seem. She sat on the edge of the chair with her ankles crossed, holding her handbag firmly in her lap. 

“I read in your file this is your first time attending a therapy session. Is that correct?” She nodded again. 

This was a nice change of pace for me. The clients I had been seeing were a volcano of emotions. I could tell my time with Mrs. Beson was going to unravel at a much slower pace and that gave me a sense of relief. 

“Our time together today will give us an opportunity to get to know one another. I am here to listen and help process through past or current experiences.” I spoke slowly, with a welcoming tone, and not too big of a smile. I have learned that smiling too much at a client can have an unintentional negative effect. 

“So what’s the catch?” The words slid out of her mouth as if I was trying to convince her to invest in some new business venture. 

The question took me by surprise, but I kept my facial expression neutral. 

“There is no catch. You can consider this office a safe space. Nothing you say will leave these four walls.” I maintained my welcoming tone. 

“So nothing I say will ever find its way out of here?” The words continued to slide out of her mouth but at a much quicker pace. 

“Well, within reason,” I responded. 

Her eyebrows raised and she gave a quick smirk as if satisfied with herself for finding the catch. 

“I am legally obligated to contact authorities if a client is in danger of harming themselves or others. Those things are really just in the best interest of the client. Don’t you think?” I said with a friendly smile. 

She nodded in agreement, took a deep breath, and said, “So where do you suggest we begin?” 

“Are you from here?” I asked. 

“Not originally.” She paused, but I remained silent.

“My husband and I live about 30 minutes west, but I was raised about two and half hours north of here.” 

The grip on her handbag relaxed a bit, but she was still sitting straight up on the edge of the armchair. I couldn’t help but make a mental note of how far away from home she traveled for this session. She must be hiding from wandering eyes and gossipy whispers of her community and that made me feel even more obligated to create a safe space for her. 

“So you are married?” I asked. Building questions based on the information clients are willing to share is key. 

“If you can call it that.” Her response was monotone. 

“What would you call it?” 

She rolled her eyes, sat back in the armchair, and crossed her legs. She was becoming more comfortable. 

“I guess a business arrangement forged out of fear and resulting in a lifetime of resentment would be a more accurate description.” 

Now we were getting somewhere. 

“Can you elaborate on why it feels like a business arrangement?” 

“My husband and I were high school sweethearts. I found myself in a bit of trouble…” the word trouble slowly trickled out of her mouth “when I was 18 and we felt like getting married was our best option.” 

We both remained silent for a few minutes as she replayed her experiences in her mind. When she realized it was still silent she slightly shook her head to regain focus. The way she was looking at me I knew it was my turn to talk. 

“If you and your husband were high school sweethearts you would think he was the match you wanted. What made that change?” The sarcastic smile that took over her face told me she knew the answer to that question. 

“Where do I begin? You would think it was the first time I found him on top of his desk with his law firm’s newest intern, but that honestly wasn’t it. At the time, we were struggling to conceive and under a lot of stress because of it. He swore it was the first time and it was only because our intimacy had begun to feel like a job. Like a naive, dependent woman, I believed him.” 

She spit the words out like venom. I was watching her become visibly disgusted with herself. She continued as if the floodgates had opened. I listened quietly as she told me of her husband’s numerous escapades. Business trips that took weeks at a time. The way she could smell the other women on his clothes and taste them on his lips.

The only question I was able to get in for the remainder of our time together was, “Is this the first time you are telling someone about your husband’s infidelity?” 

She literally laughed out loud. Her laugh was high-pitched and sounded as if it came from a woman who had enjoyed one too many martinis at dinner. 

“Of course! I don’t know where you’re from, but where I grew up women never talk of such things. We are meant to sit back, and allow our men to provide. Because they provide they get to relish in whatever pleasures they desire. My husband is not the only man in my circle of friends to live this way.”

She took a deep breath and placed her handbag on the ground as if it had the weight of the world in it. It was evident to me that Mrs. Benson had reached her point of no return. She knew exactly what she needed to do and she didn’t need me, or anyone, to help her process it. 

At that moment my timer went off signifying our 60-minute session was up.

“What is that?” she asked. 

“That is the end of our session,” I said with a soft smile. “ We can set up another session for next week if you would like.” 

“I don’t want to come back and I’m not done!” 

She had such a snap in her tone that instinctually I wanted to just agree and allow her to continue, but professionally, I know how therapy works most effectively, and processing through things a little at a time is best for the client’s emotional stability. 

I spoke slowly and calmly. Projecting as much understanding as possible. “I understand how difficult it can be to shut the faucet off once it’s turned on. If you would like, we can make the appointment for the end of this week so you don’t have to wait until next.” I kept my facial expression neutral with a soft smile as she looked at me with a now stiffened back and frustrated grimace. 

“Then I must tell you before I leave that I plan to kill myself.” She said this so matter of factly and with so much honesty I immediately believed her. I opened my mouth to say something, I can’t even remember now what I was going to say, but before anything came out she said, “You never asked me what happened when I was 18 that got me in trouble.”

I knew going forward that anything I said carried weight. I needed to choose my words carefully and speak with a neutral tone. 

“I generally don’t ask questions about topics the client does not bring up or elaborate on themselves. I believe if you want me to know something you will tell me.” We had not broken eye contact since she made her announcement. 

“My boyfriend, now husband, John, and I were seniors in high school and we went to a party one night. We were both drinking and ended up getting into a fight. I wanted to leave and he refused. I grabbed his keys and insisted I was leaving with or without him. As I walked out of the house I remember listening for the door to open, waiting to hear his footsteps following me, but all I could hear was my own steps cracking in the snow.” 

She exhaled and finally broke eye contact with me. I half expected her to stop speaking altogether, but she looked back into my eyes and continued. 

“As I was driving home the snow became so thick it was as if a whole cloud had fallen from the sky. I ended up in the wrong lane and was headed straight into oncoming traffic.” Her voice began to slow. 

“The other car swerved to miss me and it hit a telephone pole head-on.” Tears started to form in her eyes, but she continued. 

“You probably think I plan on killing myself because of my husband’s infidelity, but the desire to end my life came way before that.” She allowed tears to fall. 

“My father is a successful attorney and I trust him. He insisted the passengers of the other vehicle were perfectly fine and I needed to move forward, but I couldn’t continue living without knowing for sure. John and I decided to find out for ourselves. We did some digging and found out the truth.” 

I opened my mouth to speak, but she continued, “At first we found comfort in one another from the guilt we felt, but eventually the guilt turned that comfort into resentment. Combine that with not being able to conceive and well here I am.” 

She picked up her handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It shouldn’t surprise me that the universe didn’t give me children. A murderer shouldn’t receive blessings.”

As she handed me the paper she said, “I am ready to die.”

I unfolded the article and looked into the eyes of the couple staring back at me. 

Mrs. Benson stood up and said, “You look so much like your mother.”