Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Read online

  Kathleen was used to riding buses, but this was the first time she rode with a friend. As the rickety bus swayed and passengers got on and off, she and Gary would speak quietly, heads almost touching, sharing stories about their lives. Gary’s stories always made her laugh; not because they were always especially funny, but he had a winning way of telling them that conjured up wholesome aspects of hearth and home.

  “Christmas in our family is a major doing,” he told her one morning in October, as the bus jounced along. “In a couple of months you’ll find out for yourself. First, all the women will start making tamales. That will go on for at least three days. Then, on Christmas Eve, we all go to Midnight Mass. Are you Catholic?”

  “Baptized Catholic, but it’s been years since I’ve gone to church.”

  “But you’ll still come with us to Midnight Mass?”

  She nodded.

  “Then, everyone sleeps over, but no one really sleeps. It’s a real family gathering. There’ll be bodies all over the place. Are you okay with sharing your room with some of my cousins? Girls, of course. You’ll be packed in like sardines but—”

  “It sounds like fun,” she interrupted him, and meant it.

  Christmas had come and gone, but the memory of this loving, somewhat rambunctious family warmed her on this chilly January day.

  Kathleen thought about how safe she felt with Gary on those early morning bus rides. It was a new experience for her to have a friend, to share some part, any part, of herself.

  Gary was always curious, always interested in Kathleen’s stories. Gradually, over the months, she told him about becoming a foster child when she was almost nine and living with her foster mother, Mrs. Adams.

  “My father died in an automobile accident and my mother died a few months later in childbirth. There were seven of us and we were all placed in foster care. I was closest to my brother Devon, but he got moved around a lot. We were all scattered. It’s easy to get lost when you’re in the system.”

  She found it hard to speak and whispered, “Gary, I never had new clothes—always just hand-me-downs from the church ladies. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Roth, became my friend and she started sewing my clothes. When I graduated high school, she took me shopping at a department store in Boston and bought me everything I needed, including the suitcases. She said I should start my new life at UCLA with new clothing.”

  Gary held her hand in a gentle, soothing way. “You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met. I’m so glad we’ve become friends. Thank you for trusting me with your stories.”

  What she didn’t tell Gary was the truth, that was buried beneath layers of make-believe, distortions, and fantasies.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kathleen sat in her freshman English class, absentmindedly doodling on a blank sheet of notebook paper.

  She sighed as her eyes drifted to the girl with long blonde hair sitting two rows in front of her. She tried to pay attention to the lecture, but her eyes kept roving back to the girl wearing a baggy UCLA sweatshirt, acid-washed Guess jeans, and Doc Martens shoes. Kathleen watched as she leaned closer to the gum-smacking Valley Girl sitting next to her. The Valley Girl took out a mirror from her purse, put on a fresh layer of frosty pink lipstick, and smiled lovingly at her reflection. She tossed her head, apparently satisfied at the way her side ponytail bounced, and returned the mirror to her purse. She whispered something to the girl with long blond hair and they laughed as if they were sharing the best secret in the world.

  Kathleen’s gaze moved to her standard wardrobe of inexpensive jeans, Tshirts, and sneakers, bought from an outlet store, and felt a sudden rush of jealousy. She thought about the single braid that lay halfway down her back. She sighed. Like a horse’s braided tail, she thought.

  When the lecture was over, Kathleen looked distastefully at her doodling of small hearts and cupid’s arrows. She ripped the page out, crumpled it, and stuffed it in her backpack.

  Kathleen walked across the campus, trying to avoid looking at the group of girls hanging out at the quad. They dressed in what appeared to be the uniform of the day, leg warmers, flannel shirts, and well-worn hiking boots. They talked and laughed, coffee cups in hand. Two girls, smiling, stood with their arms coiled around each other’s waists, trading long looks that spoke of their attraction. Kathleen felt an immediate rush of desire, followed by an equally strong repulsion, and began to recite the periodic table silently to herself. She got halfway through before she passed the quad and her feelings began to dissipate.

  She thought, Is it possible? Could I be like them? Just as quickly, another thought appeared. Of course not. She really enjoyed Gary’s company, so how could she be…? She didn’t like to think of the word, much less say it. She remembered the conversation she had with Gary several months before. She didn’t think she could share her most recent feelings with anyone, not even on the long bus rides in the morning when the monotonous locomotion of the bus created a lulling, trusting feeling.

  The struggle continued every day and followed her into the nights. She tried to suppress the nighttime images, but there were new sensations running throughout her body, and she began to touch herself in places she had never touched before. Desire and guilt were now fighting for dominance. She was certain hell was right around the corner, waiting for her.

  Kathleen turned on the lamp and picked up one of the textbooks for her English class, The Elements of Style. She tried to read, but the words wouldn’t stay still and kept dancing across the page. She put the book down and picked up the UCLA student newspaper, The Daily Bruin. She flipped through the pages and focused on a small advertisement placed by a therapist, Gayle Sutherland, announcing the opening of her psychotherapy office located near UCLA.

  Gayle Sutherland, LCSW, Ph.D., glanced around her new office, pleased at the way it was furnished. The light brown leather analytic couch rested against one wall. Two leather chairs faced each other, ready for the patient who might find lying down too awkward. Boxes of tissues were placed strategically around the room. Gayle had provided the neutral atmosphere for the patient to freely express their thoughts and feelings.

  Walls, painted in Navaho white, held her certificates and licenses, a testimony to her years of education and experience. Impressive, she thought as she chuckled sarcastically and shook her head. A double major in Social Work and Educational Psychology, with more than fifteen years of experience as a social worker.

  Her most recent certificate, beautifully rendered in Euphemia UCAS and Lucida Calligraphy fonts, and signed by three well-known psychoanalysts, confirmed her course completion at a prestigious analytic institute in Los Angeles. Years and years of education and training, a near empty appointment book, and a uterus that couldn’t bear children—at age forty-one, was that all she had to show for her life?

  Gayle sat at her desk wondering if her new profession as a psychoanalyst was only an attempt at escaping from the sadness that plagued her. She and Robert thought they had time: time to develop their careers, time to buy the home of their dreams, and time to start a family. Had she not paid attention to the years that disappeared from her grasp? Had she failed to notice a body that was slowly changing, hair that began to show signs of premature graying, and extra pounds that seemed to magically appear? The years of trying to get pregnant were followed by years of doctor’s appointments and tests. The news they had dreaded was a force that drove to the center of their hearts and souls; Gayle could never have a child of her own.

  The phone rang, jolting Gayle into the present. Dreading another crank response to her advertisement, she decided to let it roll over to voice mail. Without thinking she answered on the last ring.

  “Dr. Sutherland, my name is Kathleen Moore. I’m a premed student and saw your ad in The Daily Bruin. I’d like to make an appointment, if you have time. Umm, your announcement said no fee for initial consultation. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I think it’s important for us to meet before you begin therapy. I want to mak
e certain that you’ll be comfortable working with me. Would tomorrow at noon work for you?”

  “Yes, Dr. Sutherland. Thank you, I’ll be there at noon.”

  Gayle put down the phone and began to rock back and forth in her office chair. There was something intriguing about the way Kathleen spoke, as if every word had been carefully planned and rehearsed. Gayle felt a tug at her heartstrings; usually, this was a warning that she was about to get too involved with a patient. She knew her own feelings, her countertransference, would have to be discussed with her supervisors and analyzed by her therapist, Dr. Bernstein. After all, the institute’s mantra was, “Don’t be afraid of any feelings you have toward the patient. It’s all grist for the mill.”

  Gayle tried to put any troubling thoughts aside and mumbled out loud, “Oh, for God’s sake, Gayle. Stop your worrying. What could possibly go wrong?”

  The call light blinked; Kathleen was early.

  Gayle waited until Kathleen’s appointment time, noon, walked to the waiting room and, for a moment, was caught off balance. A pale, thin girl, with dark shadows under her eyes, was staring off into space. Gayle had fallen into her own stereotype of a UCLA premed student and had expected someone more robust and outgoing.

  Gayle introduced herself and showed Kathleen to her office. Kathleen sat on the edge of the chair. Perhaps ready to flee, Gayle thought.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” said Kathleen. “I’ve been under some stress lately…”

  As Kathleen began to speak, Gayle became distracted by her emaciated appearance. My God, she mused, it looks like this child hasn’t eaten in a week. She had seen the same hollow look with some of the children in foster care. She knew this was a young woman who had grown up in the system. She sensed it. She smelled it.

  “What kind of stress, Kathleen?” Gayle prompted her gently.

  “Umm, classes during the day, working nights, and commuting.” Kathleen looked down, mumbled, and turned red. “Some other things, too.”

  Gayle sensed the “other things” was the issue and knew if she probed, she wouldn’t see Kathleen again. “I’m glad you’re thinking about talking to someone. School can be very stressful—I should know, I’ve been in school most of my life.” She smiled at her waifish patient and continued. “I was thinking twice a week might work well for you. I do have some time during the lunch hour. Could you manage that with your schedule?”

  Kathleen nodded. “The thing is, I don’t know if I can afford to see you. Your announcement said something about a ‘sliding scale.’ I’m on a scholarship and I work three nights a week cleaning offices. I don’t have much extra money.”

  Gayle thought for a short minute. Oh, what the hell. “Would two dollars a session work with your budget?”

  Kathleen reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you, Dr. Sutherland.”

  Gayle picked up her 1990 leather appointment book and wrote in the Monday and Thursday columns, in ink, Kathleen Moore, Noon.

  Four days a week, Gayle left her office promptly at 3:30 pm and drove to nearby Brentwood for her analytic appointment with Joseph Bernstein, MD, PhD. It was a short distance, less than ten miles away, but she allowed one-half hour for the heavy traffic along the busy Wilshire Blvd. corridor. She reached the area in Brentwood that was fondly known as analytic circle. Within a mile radius, there was a cluster of the most influential psychoanalysts in the country. Many of them, now in their eighties, had fled Europe to escape the onslaught of World War II. Dr. Bernstein had left with only the clothes on his back and a single suitcase holding his most precious possessions, copies of Freud’s published books.

  Gayle lay down unceremoniously on Dr. Bernstein’s couch resting her head lightly on a pillow and folding her hands, as she usually did, over her uterus. Sometimes, during her sessions, she would unconsciously begin to rub her belly with her hand, softly, as if trying to sooth the emptiness that never went away.

  Gayle started to talk about something unimportant, sat up suddenly, and turned to face Dr. Bernstein. “Joseph, I need your help. I think I’m about to get into trouble. I saw this new patient and I’m feeling this incredible pull on my heartstrings. More than I should.”

  Dr. Bernstein put down the pad of paper on which he took notes of the session, and listened as Gayle described the time she spent with Kathleen.

  The analyst, who spoke infrequently, said in a near-whisper with a touch of a lisp, “Occasionally, we find a patient who needs something more than either therapy or analysis can offer. Who can say what really helps? Is it our theories, or is it the kindness and understanding we can offer? You are telling me this child is hungry. I believe her hunger exists on two levels. One is concrete and deals with actual sustenance. Without adequate food we cannot go to the next level of finding security in our lives.” Dr. Bernstein paused to let his words sink in. “The other is food for the soul, the nurturing she may not have received as a young child. I believe you tapped into her depravation and you feel that as a pull on your heartstrings. My advice to you,” he paused as he picked up his pad of paper, “is feed her.”

  Gayle sat bolt upright on the couch and said dubiously, “Do you mean physically feed her?”

  Joseph Bernstein, MD, Ph.D., had said all he was going to say. Now, it was up to Gayle to make her own interpretations and decisions.

  On the drive home, Gayle thought about what Dr. Bernstein had said—and what he had not said. She had scheduled Kathleen for lunch hour appointments. Was that just a coincidence or was it a Divine Intervention? Robert always fixed her lunches, and if truth were told, they were feasts, which was why she couldn’t lose those damn twenty pounds. She wondered what it would be like to share her lunches with Kathleen. After all, how can you either provide or receive therapy on an empty stomach?

  Gayle saw the call light go on and reached for the wicker basket so lovingly packed by Robert. Turkey breast sandwiches on rye bread (Kathleen liked mayonnaise on hers), with homemade potato salad and fresh fruit on the side; milk for Kathleen and water for Gayle. They had been sharing lunches and talking for three months. Kathleen said very little. Gayle was beginning to know her not from her words, but from the way the color of her green eyes seemed to change with her feelings, growing darker or lighter according to her mood, or the way a single tear would roll down her cheek. A slight smile meant she was happy, and her hands trembled when she was overtired or anxious.

  Kathleen sat in her chair and said, “I can’t eat today.” Her lips were quivering.

  Gayle put down their lunch and sat silently.

  Kathleen glanced at the couch. “I’m taking a psych class. Today, we talked about Freud. The instructor showed us a photo of Freud’s office.” She gestured toward the couch. “I know about the couch.”

  “Dr. Sutherland, something really bad happened in my anatomy class. I want to tell you.” Two tears were weaving their way down her cheeks. “Could I lie on the couch and close my eyes?”

  Gayle nodded and watched as Kathleen took off her shoes and lay on the couch. Gayle was barely breathing.

  “Dr. Sutherland, do you think I have a soul?”

  Gayle was stunned. She glanced at the clock. She hated the space when she had to wait for the patient’s associations. How long should she—how long could she—wait? “What happened in class?”

  “I heard some students talking about me. We were dissecting cats and I heard them say, ‘She knows more than the instructor, but she’s weird, like a robot.’ Then Natasha Something said, ‘I don’t think she has a soul, maybe she’s a vampire.’ Then they laughed.”

  Kathleen began to whimper. “It hurts too much. It’s the same, always the same. I thought when I grew up and moved here, it would be different. Do you think they’re right? Do I have a soul?”

  Gayle had never heard her cry before and she felt Kathleen’s pain reach in and twist around her heart, as if it were her own.

  “Of course, you have a soul. That’s why it hurts so much.”

  Ka
thleen sobbed, and Gayle had to strain to hear the words that came between gasps. “Gayle, there’s something really wrong with me. I’m attracted to women, not men.”

  Gayle’s mind was racing. Where to begin, to interpret, to soothe a bereft child. She spoke carefully, quietly. “I’m so glad you called me Gayle. I’ve always thought Dr. Sutherland sounds so stuffy.”

  Kathleen’s sobs were beginning to dwindle. “You’re not mad at me?”

  “Oh no, not at all. I’m so glad you called me Gayle and I’m glad that you trusted me and could tell me about liking girls.”

  “It’s not normal for a girl to like girls.”

  “What is normal?”

  “Umm, liking guys and wanting to date them and wanting to, you know, have sex.”

  “With guys?”

  Kathleen nodded.

  “Do you think about having sex with girls?”

  Kathleen kept her eyes shut and turned her head away as she nodded.

  “All the time?”

  Kathleen began to cry again, softer tears running down her face. “At night or when I see a pretty girl in class.”

  “Kathleen, would you like to know the true definition of normal?”

  She continued to cry, “Yes, please.”

  “Being normal is about being able to love and relate to another person; it’s not about gender. It’s about wanting someone to put their arms around you and tell you they love you, and for you to be able to do the same. It’s about wanting to have a life together, to share good times and bad times. Is that something you want?”

  “Dr. Suth… Gayle, more than anything. But I thought it could only be with a guy.”

  “Some people think it, believe it, but I want you to really hear what I’m saying. They’re wrong.”