Free Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect by M. J. Rose Page A

Cleopatra, brought to him in a carpet, unrolled at his feet. The queen coming to the conqueror. He wants me to playact this potentate willing to give herself up to the Roman. He thinks that if I can get into that role, I will feel real things for him. Sort of what happens to actors in a play. How they fall in love with one another and feel things within the personalities they inhabit.”
    “And how do you feel about it?”
    “I wanted to ask you that. How should I feel?”
    “There are no
should
s.”
    She got up and walked over to the window. While I certainly didn’t mind that she needed to move, so few patients do it. There are reasons that patients should remain seated and focused for the whole session, but by no means should they feel as if they are strapped down to the couch.
    Cleo roamed. Like a dancer she covered the length of the room in long strides and her eyes took in everything. She glanced at the knickknacks on my desk, looked out one window, then the next. She walked past my bookshelves and ran a finger over the smooth marble egg that rested on my mantelpiece.
    I had carved that egg, and as her forefinger ran down its surface, I felt as if she was touching my arm. The physical sensation surprised me. And I knew I’d need to tell Nina about it the next time I saw her.
    Sculpture had once been my passion. Now it was only ahobby. My preoccupation with carving started when my father remarried. I was fourteen and Krista, the woman he married, was a sculptor. She wasn’t maternal, and I never looked to her to fulfill that role—Nina had been offering me motherly sustenance since I was eight.
    But Krista did bring her art into my life. When she moved into our apartment, the cool stone pieces that she strategically placed about attracted me.
    And still, today, on vacations, or sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep, I’ll pull out my tools and work on a reluctant stone.
    Cleo sat back down again. “I don’t know if I should act out his fantasy.”
    “Why?”
    “Does it make sense? Do you think his idea will work? If I do with him what I do with clients, will that make this problem any better? I don’t know if I want to turn into an actress and play a role with him. He thinks that will help me jump the divide, that once I am in character and start to make love with him, I’ll just segue into being myself and enjoy it.”
    “And what do you think?”
    She shook her head. “I have no idea. All I know is that I feel pretty desperate. The irony of me having a sexual problem with the one man I actually want to sleep with is not lost on me, Dr. Snow. I’m upset. But he’s even more upset. He’s already taking it personally. He thinks he’s not sexy enough. That he can’t turn me on.”
    “Do you think it would help if you brought him here with you?”
    She shrugged.
    “Why don’t you suggest it?”
    “I did. He saw someone once. Not too long ago. He said it was a waste of time.” She shrugged and her eyes filled with tears she didn’t make any effort to wipe away.
    Crying made her look younger and more vulnerable. Neither of us said anything. She wept and I watched.
    It is a very special privilege to be privy to these moments in people’s lives, when their defenses drop and the essence of who they are and what they feel is unmasked. Like watching a butterfly break free from its cocoon. When someone goes into any kind of therapy, if the process works, for a time they are as delicate as that butterfly. You must not reach out and touch their wings or you will destroy the pattern, and the iridescence—the illumination—will come off on your fingers. You can only sit back and wait and hope that you are a goodenough guide to do justice to the gift.
    “What are you feeling?” I asked her, speaking softly.
    “I wish it could be different.” The pain in her voice was so raw I felt it. The way I felt my daughter’s pain. The same empathetic connection had developed between Cleo and me. And why