Prologue
Velma sat under harsh fluorescent lighting in an uncomfortable orange plastic chair in a hallway outside of a door which said simply 'Counseling.' One of the many benefits of being back in college was that Student Health offered therapy to students at no cost outside of a $10 fee for a missed session. In the high stress world of collegiate education, there was a waiting list. But she had put in her time on the list and here she was. After being out of therapy for nearly three years for financial reasons, she was finally going to be able to get back to it. The door opened and a male voice said, "Velma Dinkley?"
She whispered, "Made it," under her breath as she stood and walked in.
The office was cramped and the cheap plastic furniture inside the office was, at least, padded cheap plastic furniture. An extra cushion had even been added to the visitor's chair. The seat plus the cushion required her to have to jump a little to get into it and her feet dangled just above the floor as she sat. That would get uncomfortable over time and she would have to shift regularly to keep the edge of the seat from putting her legs to sleep. The therapist took the other chair which was not much better. His desk was pushed against the wall and he was turned away from it toward her. This left no barriers between therapist and patient and was similar to most other such offices Velma had visited in the past.
"Ms. Dinkley, I'm Tim McAdams. As per the statements on the website, I am not a licensed therapist but am a doctoral candidate in psychology and conducting these sessions is a part of my practicals. All of my notes will be reviewed and signed off on by a licensed therapist. Her name is Beth Randall and here is both my and her contact information."
He handed her a card and continued, "If you have any problems with me or want to speak with her, please feel free to call."
Velma looked at the card, "So, what do I call you?"
He smiled, "My official title is 'Tim'. And you may address me as such."
A joker. Just what she wanted in a therapist. But she shelved her sarcastic thoughts, "Okay Tim, I'm Velma. Just how old are you?"
"I am 25."
Maybe she wouldn't shelve all of her sarcastic thoughts. Velma had celebrated her 30th birthday three weeks before and was grateful to have escaped her twenties and be of an age that brought with it a modicum of respect. But now she was having to get used to authority figures who were younger than she was. That was a difficult transition. Especially with a therapist.
"That's pretty young, Tim."
"I know. May I make matters worse?"
"Oh please. Feel free."
"I had a poster of you on my wall as a teen-ager."
"Oh my god." She pulled out the card he had just handed her and reached for her phone.
He said nothing.
She looked up, "I'm about to call this Beth Randall person."
"I figured."
She slowly laid her phone down in her lap, "Because I have just heard two things that I don't like which are out of my control and I want to take control of the situation."
He smiled again, "Don't do too much of my job for me."
"Because of my control issues."
He slapped his hands down on his knees, "There! You went and spoiled the ending for me."
She looked at him. That one was a little funny. Just a little. "Which one?"
This caught him off guard, "Which one?"
"Which poster did you have on your wall?"
"Oh. It was from the show in Russia. You were in a figure skating outfit."
"Well, at least it wasn't the bathing suit one. The bathing suit one…" Her voice trailed off and she shook her head.
He took it, "The bathing suit one didn't do anything for me. In that one, you were just sitting on the beach and reading a book. With the figure skating outfit, the look on your face told the story of how uncomfortable you were wearing the dress."
"You mean the dress where they took a normal figure skating outfit and cut two inches off the hem? Yeah. Uncomfortable is a good word."
"In the poster in the bathing suit, you seemed pretty relaxed."
"We weren't shooting. I never wear two-piece bathing suits. Ever. I also do not like the beach. If I have to go to the beach, I wear long shorts and a t-shirt and stay out of the water. The network brought in a doctor to give us all check-ups. He told me that I was stressed out and had a Vitamin D deficiency. His recommendation was that I take a day off and go to the beach to get some sun. He specifically recommended that I let the sun hit as much of my skin as possible. They got the picture with a hidden camera. I sued the doctor but it went nowhere. He didn't even lose his license. And because of my contract, I couldn't stop them from selling the posters." Her voice was steady, but she couldn't stop her fists from clenching.
His voice matched her calm tone without the tight fists, "I bet you know that control issues are frequently rooted in trust issues."
"I am aware."
"And you seem to have good reasons to have trust issues."
"Ya' think?"
"Especially in regards to your sexuality."
She did not respond to this.
"And now you find out that your potential new therapist had a picture of you wearing a skimpy outfit up on his wall when he was a teen-ager."
This she did respond to, "Not an optimum situation."
"For the record, it wasn't like I had an altar with candles underneath it. I was an adolescent discovering my own sexuality and had all sorts of similar posters on the wall. Right next to yours was Lisa Carbanola. But, of course, she was dressed as you in the movie."
"You mean the one where she was wearing the low-cut, skin-tight blouse and bending over with the camera pointing right at her cleavage?"
"That's the one."
"You may be uniquely qualified to be my therapist."
"How so?"
"Is how so therapist-speak for the session is now starting?"
"No. The session started the moment you walked through the door."
That was a pretty good answer. The kid might just be okay. She kept talking, "The answer to how so is that the poster you had on your wall and the performance that went along with it nearly ruined my life and may yet if I don't get some things under control. You see, Tim, I hate Lisa Carbanola."