Abigail's Case Fiction

Abigail’s case fiction, Part I

Abigail had vanquished repression. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, with whom she wanted. After taking her to dinner, Carlos, a respectable Venezuelan exporter of Indian folk art, had called to invite her to an evening at the theatre. Abigail rejected his offer forthrightly. She said: “Frankly, you are wasting your time pursuing me.”

When her friend Phoebe mentioned that Abigail was welcome at her family’s Christmas dinner, she responded: “Thanks, but no thanks. Your family reminds me of the Big Apple Circus. I would rather be alone.”

Abigail felt immense pride in her openness and honesty. The few friends that she had left found her trying. Some even tried to help her out. To little avail.

How did a woman who had perfected the art of rudeness have any social life at all.? Her new life coach, Seymour, did not have to give the matter much thought. Facing him in the leather armchair was one of the most exquisitely beautiful creatures he had ever encountered. Decked out in a pink Chanel suit, with a blue and gray Hermes foulard, her long red hair resting easily on her shoulders, Abigail had long since learned how to use her natural endowments to her advantage. 

Tall and slender, she had worked for several years as a fashion model, eventually to parlay her knowledge of clothing and cosmetics into a lucrative consulting business. Not only could she create an image that was worthy of an artist’s gaze, but she had an acute awareness of fashion trends. She produced monthly reports about what was in and what would soon be in. Her unfailing sense of style and glamour allowed her to command exorbitant fees, and to lead a lifestyle that took her to the finest parties, the most sumptuous restaurants, and the mot modish vacation spots. 

Seymour was sitting across from a woman who could light up any room. Hers was a desired presence at any function. Her outrageous remarks simply made her more entertaining.

As Abigail began to discuss what had brought her to consult him, Seymour was worrying that he would be so blinded by her appearance that he would lose professional focus and begin dottering like an idiot. To calm himself he began evoking a single word that best comprised this young woman. That word was flamboyant. Concentrating on the word calmed him for the moment,

As might be imagined, Abigail’s ravishing exterior hid some disagreeable experiences. After finishing high school in Iowa she had signed on to do some modeling at the Ford agency. She had never made the ranks of top models, contenting herself with catalog work and occasional promotions. She had traveled the world and indulged whatever pleasures were offered.

To numb herself to that lifestyle, Abigail had developed a taste for cocaine and alcohol. She did not, however, consider herself an addict. No one in her family knew about the sordid side of her past. All they wanted to know was when she was going to get married.

For her part Abigail eschewed all domestic constraints. She did not want children, she declaimed loudly. Children would cramp her style and ruin her image. She was 38 years old. Seymour would have given her ten years less.

When Abigail remarked that she had already done some therapy, Seymour asked her what had drawn her to treatment. She explained calmly that there were many reasons, but she had done so because her modeling career was ending. She felt lost and did not know how to set forth on the next stage of her life journey. In the end Antoinette had guided her toward her current work as a consultant.

Antoinette had approached Abigail’s career difficulties as a career counselor. Well and good. But Seymour was not persuaded that the work, which had lasted for nearly ten years, was limited to discussions of careers in fashion.

More salient to the therapist was the information that Abigail had suffered a pattern of sexual abuse, beginning when she was nine. Then a teenage son of a neighbor, named Delbert, had repeatedly forced her to perform fellatio on him. He had also undressed and fondled her, occasionally producing pleasurable sensations. 

The molestation had lasted for years. When Abigail tried to mention it to her mother, her mother declared that it was impossible, and that she was making things up.

In the end it had destroyed her ability to trust men. She had learned to divide the human species into victimizers and victims. She chose to become one of the victimizers. She had spend much of her life settling scores with random males, exploiting their weaknesses, draining their resources, and then discarding them. Cynically, she lured them into falling in love with her, eventually to dump them.

Interestingly, Antoinette had openly expressed her own emotions. She was frankly horrified at the abuse that Abigail was suffering and was thoroughly empathetic. At times she even confided the abuse she herself had experienced as a child, creating a bond of intimacy that had sustained Abigail in her darkest moments. At times she also explained how difficult it was being a single parent in New York City. At times Abigail wondered who was the therapist and who was the patient.

Seymour was not entirely opposed to this technique, but he was aware of the simple fact that no one needed professional training to confess and emote, so he believed that the ethos of self-expression belied the seriousness of professional work.

Strange to say, Antoinette was trying to raise her patient’s self-esteem. No one, she often asserted, has the right to judge you. You ought to express yourself freely and openly, and people should not think less of you for being honest.

Abigail began to see herself as a vessel filled with toxic substances. If she allowed them to fester, they would destroy her soul. Expressing them was like expelling poison; it would make her feel happy and clean. Of course, she needed to learn how to ignore the chagrin and the anger she elicited in her interlocutors. 

Evidently, Seymour did not approve. He saw Antoinette’s approach encouraging verbal bulimia. Now he would have to teach this woman the value of considering other people’s feelings, of ceasing to make every conversation a test of the interlocutor’s tolerance. In short, Seymour would need to teach her to be an adult, with a mind, as well as a body and soul.

Seymour was puzzling to himself how he could disabuse Abigail of the pseudo-wisdom she had purchased from Antoinette. So he asked the obvious questions: “But, what brings you to consult with me?”

He did not receive the reply he had expected. Abigail confessed that she was confused and anxious. She was having trouble sleeping. She thought that she had been going mad. After some reflection she concluded that she was falling in love. It was not part of the program.

And then she met Bertram in Bloomingdales. He had struck up a conversation in the housewares department while they were both selecting Calphalon skillets. After they had both purchased the same model, Bertram invited her to have lunch with him at Le Train Bleu, the store restaurant. He seemed reasonably amusing, and more than commonly good looking. He was in his early 40s, with chestnut hair, dressed entirely in Armani. 

He seemed rather normal, straightlaced and composed, and she had, strange to say, never quite met a man like him.

As soon as they sat down and unfolded their blue linen napkins, she learned that he was nothing more than a CPA from KPMG Peat Warwick. At least he was a partner.

Hearing this news she responded, “How tedious!” Not only was Bertram not offended. He was amused, even dazzled by Abigail’s high spirits. Of course, he was also impressed by her beauty. Rather than take offense at her arrogant dismissal of his life’s work, he endeavored to make it sound interesting, by launching into a passionate explanation of budgets, tex codes, audits and the like.

Abigail was not entirely oblivious to such things-- she had her own business-- but, as Bertram explained what he did, she found herself fascinated, not so much by the visions of columns of numbers, as with his evident love for his work. After a while Abigail even forgot to shower the man with contempt. She was so intrigued by the conversation that she barely picked through her salad. While she could not wrap her mind around the idea of having sex with an accountant, she was fantasizing actively about wrapping her legs around this one.

Abigail was getting lost in her reverie when Bertram announced that he had to get going. He was delighted to make her acquaintance. Hearing these words Abigail scowled mildly; it was much too formal for her taste. He then proposed, and she accepted that they exchange business cards. Abigail decided that he had done so to be polite.

After she got home, she kicked off her loafers, sprawled out on the living room sofa and put on Brahms. Quickly, for her at least, she fell asleep. Soon she was dreaming that Bertram was on top of her. The dream awoke her and she found herself clutching a large silk pillow. Distressed by this manifestation of a desire she refused to acknowledge, she moved to her bed and fell asleep.

When she awoke the next morning Abigail felt ill. Too ill to go out, as it happened. So she busied herself with a few domestic chores. As she dusted the porcelain her eyes kept glancing at the telephone. By 4 in the afternoon she realized that she was expecting Bertram to call. She felt a twinge of disappointment each time she heard the wrong voice on the line.

Feeling like a smitten schoolgirl, Abigail thought she was losing her mind. She felt paralyzed, or perhaps she still had some pride left. Removing his card from her purse she gazed at it as though it was a portrait of her love. She called her friend Camille, who recommended that she consult with her life coach, Seymour.

Seymour could not see her right away, but, by the time of her appointment, three days hence, things had changed. Bertram had called her home while she was at work. She had gotten the call very soon thereafter, because she was checking her voice mail obsessively. 

By making a Herculean effort Abigail managed to delay calling him back for two hours. When she did she was in a sorry state, nearly incoherent on the phone, giggling uncontrollably, feeling a mixture of happiness that he had called mixed with chagrin about how foolish she appeared. Finally, he invited her to dinner on Thursday. She quickly accepted, even though it forced her to cancel two previous engagements.

When Seymour explained that he was puzzled over Abigail’s distress, Abigail responded that she had believed herself inoculated against such emotional excesses. She exclaimed: “If I fall in love with this man I will no longer know who I am. 

Seymour complimented her on her acuity, and did not add his other thought, that this might not be such a bad thing. 

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