Succubi

“More fear.”

“What?”

“More fear of failure. You’re afraid of failing with Melanie, and you’re afraid of failing with him. You’re afraid at the end of your life all you’ll have to show for your existence is selfishness.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m merely being objective. You love Martin, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said with no hesitation. “I’d do anything for him.”

“Anything except marry him. Still more fear.”

Jesus Christ! she thought.

Dr. Harold smiled, as if he’d read the thought. “You’re afraid that Martin thinks you’re holding your first marriage against him.”

“He’s suggested that himself. Is it true?”

“It seems to be quite true.”

This was depressing. Coming here didn’t make her feet better, it made her feel worse. “What am I going to do?”

“The first thing you must do is be patient. You’re a very complex person. Understanding your problems will be a complex affair.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Doc.

“The images and ideas expressed in dreams function in two fundamental modes,” Dr. Harold went on. “One, the manifest mode, which relates to the content as it occurs to the dreamer, and, two, the latent mode, the dream’s hidden or symbolic qualities. The dream is about you giving birth to Melanie. There’s a strange emblem in the dream, there’re dark, hooded figures and cryptic words like incantations. The dream sounds almost satanic. Dreams of devils often signify a rebellion to Christianity. Are you a Christian?”

“No,” Ann said.

Dr. Harold smiled. “Are you a satanist?”

“Of course not. I’m not anything, really.”

“You’re saying you were raised with no religious beliefs at all?”

“None.”

“Don’t you find that strange, especially with the traditional sentiments of your parents?”

“It is strange,” she agreed. “I was born and raised in Lockwood, a small town up in the northern edge of the county, up in the hills. Only about five hundred people in the entire town. There was a big church, everyone attended every Sunday. Except my parents. It was almost like they deliberately shielded me from religion. They kept me blind to it. I really don’t know much about religion.”

“What about your daughter?”

“The same. I try not to influence her that way. I wouldn’t know how to even raise the subject.”

Dr. Harold contemplated this. He remained silent for some time, looking up with his eyes closed. “The dream is definitely about an array of subconscious guilt. How can you feel guilty about a religious void when you’ve had virtually no religious upbringing?”

“I don’t,” Ann stated.

“And you don’t feel that a religious belief might help Melanie become better rounded in life?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t see how it could. She’s never been a problem that way.”

“Is she a virgin?”

The question stunned her. “Yes,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be, I suppose.”

“Do you find that unusual?”

“Why should I?”

“The average first sexual experience for white females in this country occurs at the age of seventeen. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.” Ann, see if you can guess the next question.

“How old were you when you had your first sexual experience?”

“Seventeen,” Ann replied, though None of your fucking business would’ve been a better reply. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Isn’t it possible that you possess some subconscious concern regarding your daughter’s virginity?”

Ann’s frown cut lines in her face. She didn’t like all this Freudian stuff. Innuendoes were hard to defend against, especially sexual innuendoes. “I can’t see why.”

“Of course you can’t,” Dr. Harold said, still smiling. What did he mean by that? Then he asked, a bit too abruptly for Ann’s liking, “Have you ever had a lesbian experience?”

“Of course not.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.” I’m getting pissed, she thought. Really pissed, Doc.

“You’re sure?”

Ann blushed. “Yes, I’m sure,” she nearly snapped.

“The dream is rife with overt sexual overtones, that’s the only reason I ask such questions. What is the word you keep hearing in the dream?”

“Dooer,” she said, pronouncing doo-er. “What’s it mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s your dream, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and what might it, or any of the dream, have to do with lesbianism?” Now the lawyer in her was making an interrogatory that she knew he couldn’t answer.

But he did answer it, by making her answer it. “The voice that spoke the word— dooer— was it male or female?”

“Female. I already told you.”

“And the figures around the birth table, the figures touching you, caressing you, were—”

“All right, yes, they were female.” That’s what I get for trying to play games with a shrink, she thought.

His next observations disturbed her most of all. “It’s interesting that you take such aversion to questions pertaining to lesbianism, or potential lesbianism. It’s interesting, too, that you are now exhibiting a guilt complex about that.”

“I’m not a lesbian,” she said.

“I’m quite sure that you’re not, but you’re afraid that I might think you are.”

“How do you know?”

“I know a lot of things, Ann. I know a lot of things just by looking at you, by assessing the way you structure your replies, by your facial inflections, your body language, and so forth.”

“I think you’re grabbing for shit, Doc.”

“Perhaps, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a psychiatrist has been accused as such. What I mean is that no mode of rapport between a doctor and a patient is more important than openness.”

“You think I’m not being completely open with you?”

“No, Ann, I don’t.”

How about if I gave that big mustache of yours a good hard yank? Would that be sufficient proof of openness?

“You’re outwardly rebellious and defensive, which is a sure sign of a deep sensitivity. You haven’t been fully open to me about the dream, have you?”

Of course she hadn’t. But what was she supposed to say?

“Are there any men in the dream, Ann?”

“I think so. At least, there seem to be men in the background, chopping things, chopping wood, I think. They seem to be throwing wood on a fire.”

“Wood. On a fire. But you say the men are in the background?”