by Tom Bierdz
“Besides,” she added, “we had to be sure lightning didn’t strike twice.”
“And you think I’m a safe choice?”
“I’m familiar with your article on The Ethics of Transference in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry and that you delivered your paper at the annual American Psychiatric Association.”
As a group, psychiatrists advocate potential patients seek out information on the therapist before selecting who to see to zoom in on their specialties and find one most compatible. The internet has simplified the process, but rarely did a patient go to such due diligence. The paper was well-received. I discussed how to be professionally seductive without seducing the patient. I sighed. I needed to rebuild my reputation. What harm could there be? Even if the situation was far from ideal my advice was better than a layperson’s. She was willing to pay for my services. “Okay, I’ll give this a try but only as long as I believe it benefits your sister. And, I offer no guarantees.”
“There are never any guarantees in life.”
I schooled her in what things to look for, and what questions to ask and sent her to see Bobby to set up the next appointment.
I jotted down a few notes and went out to the waiting room to get my next patient. My waiting room was small with six straight-back chairs with burgundy leather cushions, and a table with a lamp that held copies of Sports Illustrated, Time, and People magazine. Instead of movie posters, I hung a local artist’s oil painting of Mount Rainier, an aerial photo of the San Juan Islands, and a head shot of Sigmund Freud who most of my patients recognized. I did have a female adolescent patient who asked if he was my father or grandfather. She wasn’t that far off since Freud was the father of psychiatry. A wall with an open window separated the waiting room from the business office which housed the case files, office equipment, and where Megan still sat there across from Bobby.
“Where’s Bonnie?” I asked, thinking she may have been in the bathroom.
“She didn’t show.”
“Did she call?”
“Uh-uh.”
Megan rose from her chair, winked and smiled at me, then vacated the office.
Back in my office I went to the window and watched her walk away. I watched Megan get into her car, her dress ride up her legs, flashing a perfect pair of thighs. She was sensational. Was I letting my attraction get in the way of my professionalism? Could I really help her sister from a distance? Self-awareness was critical. At the moment I could make a case for both sides. I knew I’d have to eventually sort it out but now was not the time.
2
Bobbie drove me to the adolescent group home, one of the places where I was currently doing my community service. It was only a mile away. I could walk there if I had to but it was in the opposite direction, making the walk home two miles. Since I’ve been forced to walk more often I find it gets easier all the time. Assuming, that is, I’m sober. But I’m still enough of a snob to feel uncomfortable walking any distance in a suit and tie, carrying an attaché case.
“How are you getting home?” Bobbie asked behind the wheel of his Mustang.
“Taxi.”
“That’s gets expensive.”
“True...maybe the bus. I think one runs right by there.” Did I say bus? I hadn’t been on a bus since high school. I had relegated a lower status to bus riders, unconsciously, unaware until I was forced to consider it as a valid means of transportation.
“When you going to get your car out of storage?”
I had to surrender my license after the DUI. My screaming red, 2013 Porsche 911 Carrera was stored on the other side of town so I wouldn’t be tempted to drive it. It symbolized a high water mark in my evolution, my arrival as a psychiatrist. “Not for several more months yet.”
“Shame to have that baby sitting idly, rusting away. You could sell it to me. I could make payments.”
We’d been over this ground before. I gave Bobby a look that changed the subject.
“I can hang around. We can do happy hour.”
“No way. I’m still recovering from the weekend.”
“Megan’s kind of hot, huh? I’d give her a ten. How about you?”
Any red-blooded American male would give her a ten. “Yeah, she qualifies.”
“I’m glad you’re going to see her again.”
“You should be so compassionate about all my patients.”
He laughed. “What’s her problem?”
“Bobby, you know I can’t talk about my patients.” Sometimes I wished I could unload. Keeping all my patient’s problems inside could be a heavy weight to bear, especially if they tapped into areas I hadn’t fully resolved. Confidentiality was paramount. When I had been in therapy, or under supervision, I had an outlet. Now, practicing independently I didn’t. I relied on my own maturity as a therapist.
He dropped me off at the group home.
I was given a year of community service, eight hours a week, the equivalent of one full day. I think the court also jumped at the chance to acquire free psychiatric services. At my $200 hourly fee I was providing community services worth $1600 a week. That came to $83,200 a year, an expensive lesson, but it was only money. I shudder to think how much worse it might have been had I hit someone. I didn’t want to think I was capable of causing so much destruction.
The group home was in another of those old Victorians that had been abandoned, refurbished, and retrofitted. It was licensed for eight teenage boys by the State of Washington under the supervision of the Department of Social and Health Services. It was in a commercial area, surrounded by stores and professional offices. Not in an ideal neighborhood, by any means, but far better than an institution which is where many of the boys will end up, and in some cases, far better than where they came from. Also, the community was more supportive of homes that didn’t sully their neighborhood.
I entered the home, causing a bell to ring alerting my arrival. The tall-ceilinged room was round and modestly furnished. Two boys sat on a leather couch watching TV. Another, who appeared younger than the minimum thirteen age, sat in a corner texting. I walked into Administrator Carlos Gutierrez’s office. Painted maize, it was functional and basic with a Spartan metal desk and file cabinets, lacking a woman’s touch. Wearing a dingy, white shirt with a frayed, unbuttoned collar and a beige, knit tie hanging loose, he sat behind his desk doing paperwork, showing the bald spot on his oily, curly black hair.
He looked up, his dark eyes hinting with amusement. Athletic in his prime, Carlos had gotten soft behind the desk, his gut bursting against the confines of his shirt. He still sported a doughy, but friendly face. “You’re a week late, Doc.”
“Last week was a living hell,” I said, lifting his blue blazer off the chair seat and hanging it on the back of the chair before sitting.
“You know Carlos has got your back but you got to keep me in the loop, Doc. You don’t call. Nothing.” He put down his pen, the chubby fingers of his left hand displaying a silver ring with a large onyx stone
“Did you mark me in for last week?”
“Last time I told you I wouldn’t do it again. What if your bulldog probation officer calls and I lie. He finds out. My ass is also on the line. We’re a multi-national corporation now. You know what that means? That means my boss who lives out East somewhere, don’t know who the fuck I am. I’m a number. Not a person. And, judging by the budget cuts this facility ranks low on the totem pole. And, that makes me a low number. I give them any excuse and they cut me out quicker than a Hernandez fastball. And if they think I’m dishonest...”
“I understood Adam was AWOL”
“So? Every kid in here could use a shrink. Maybe if our county fathers put more money here we wouldn’t have those high incarceration bills. Do you want to know how much this nation puts out for prisons each year?”
“No, Carlos,
I don’t. Save your soap box talk for someone who does. Mark me down and I’ll come in another time this week.”
“You come in another time and then I’ll mark you down. And,” he said, pointing his finger, “have your player friend get me two tickets to a Mariners game.”
Mariner pitcher Bruce Dieter was a teammate of mine when we played for the University of Washington Huskies. We’ve kept in touch and every so often he gives me tickets to a game.
“Carlos, you always put the squeeze on me.”
“That’s because I love you, Doc.” He dug into his desk drawer, pulled out a file and handed it to me. “Here’s the kid I’d like you to see today. His shell hasn’t hardened all the way. You might be able to break through.”
I took it, nodded, and brought it with me upstairs to the multi-purpose room used for interviewing. A quick review told me he came from a broken and abusive home. School truancy, his inability to get along with his volatile mother, and the fact that he torched an abandoned car brought him to the group home. I hiked to his room, knocked on his door, first lightly then loudly. Locked doors are not allowed. So I opened the door when he wouldn’t answer. Greg Liendecker laid on his bed staring at the ceiling, earphones plugged between strands of his shaggy blond hair, listening to music. I was grateful I couldn’t hear the music because I didn’t think it was Billy Joel or Tony Bennet. I was practically on top of him before he jumped, seeing me. Scooting to a sitting position, he ripped off the earphones, turned off the radio. Greg was a nice looking sixteen year old with acne and peach fuzz on his face. Thin, and slightly undersized for his age, he had piercing cobalt blue eyes, and teeth in need of dental work.
“I’m Dr. Grant Garrick,” I said, offering my hand.
He gave me a damp, limp, handshake. Confusion on his face. Fear in his eyes.
“I’m a shrink,” I said, pulling up a chair, “here to help. The court, your parents, Mr. Gutierrez, no one has ordered me here. I’m here voluntarily to give you someone to talk to. I know this is stressful for you. It helps to talk. Unless what you tell me is a matter of life and death, I won’t share what you tell me without your permission.”
He looked me over, assessing my trustworthiness.
“Want to tell me why you’re here?”
He stared me down, slowly shook his head.
I waited. Nothing for a couple of minutes. Finally I said, “I’m not any more innocent than you are. I’m here doing court-ordered community service. You tell me how you got in trouble and I’ll tell you how I did.”
He seemed to like that. Smiled widely. “You first.”
“I was drunk, drove intoxicated, and lost my license.”
He shifted his body so he was facing me. “I fucked up.”
I leaned in, “And?”
He shrugged his shoulders, stared at his hands, squeezing them together. This wasn’t exactly a quid pro quo. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t fucked up. He snuck a peek at me from the tops of his eyes, probably to gauge my reaction, then looked down again.
I took in the room. There was a second twin bed, sloppily made up, the green chenille spread lopsided, apparently belonging to an absent roommate. A radio and earphones sat on a window shelf above a desk cluttered with school books. Posters of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga in scanty clothing adorned the wall. “Who’s your roommate?”
“Justin.”
“He’s at school?”
He nodded.
“And you’re not, because?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
I didn’t notice any textbooks on Greg’s side of the room, only a couple of photography magazines. Nothing hung on the wall. “You like Justin?”
“He’s all right.”
“You into photography?” When he nodded I caught a spark of interest in his eyes. “Where’s your camera?”
A tear puddled in his eye. “Gone.” When I shrugged my shoulders, he added, “My mother broke it.”
“Accidentally?”
He shook his head. “On purpose. She grounded me for something stupid. When I went out, she broke it.”
“Ouch!” Hit him where it hurt. Dysfunctional families had a knack for striking at each other’s vulnerabilities. “The camera meant a lot?”
He nodded, bit his lip to stop the tears. “That’s what I’m in to.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head, kept his eyes down, and avoided mine. He nervously tugged on his right ear.
“I’m sorry about your camera. Is that when you set the car on fire?”
“Yeah. It was an abandoned junker. No big deal.”
“Fire-starting is serious. It can be very destructive.”
The initial interview was to begin the bonding process, to get him to like and trust me so he would share his feelings with me. Eventually, he opened up a little, hinted about his anger, his mother’s inconsistency, and his school truancy. He preferred discussing photography, throwing bits and pieces to me about light and angle, and aperture and composition and focus, most of which went over my head.
He agreed to see me again.
As I was leaving, he asked, “How do you get around without wheels?”
“I’ve had to depend on others.” I hoped he would get the message.
I returned the file to Carlos, told him I’d be back in a couple of days to see Gregory again.
With my hangover gone and feeling like my old self, I decided to walk the two mile trek to my home.
I’d gotten more than halfway home when a silver, Lexus RX F Sport drew near and an attractive woman, her auburn hair tucked under a Mariners baseball cap, pulled through the opening in the back, yelled through a rolled down window, “Want a ride, handsome!”
Walking with my head down, I startled before breaking into laughter. It was Hanna, my ex. For a tenth of a second I almost didn’t recognize her, before leaping at the chance and jumping into the car. It still had that nice new car smell but I preferred Hanna’s butterscotch scent. Hanna still had the ability to start my heart quicker than a defibrillator. Our relationship was like the nursery rhyme: when things were good, they were very, very good; when things were bad, they were horrid. “So you’re picking up guys now that you’re available?”
“Only the smart, good-looking ones.”
“You always did have good taste.” She smiled, batting her eyes, deep, brown pools I used to drown in, but now dark bags sagged beneath them. Her complexion looked jaundiced; her face drawn. Historically slender, she had lost so much weight her clothes drooped on her bony shoulders. She looked like a person in the end stages of a terminal illness, but it was all emotional, a result of the tragedy. I was concerned because I knew the physical could follow as sure as night follows day.
“Oops! You just passed my place.” I pointed out the house.
She backed the car up. “That came up fast.”
“I was almost home, but I couldn’t turn down the offer. It’s been a while. You doing okay?”
She pushed back the tears, turned off the ignition, and forced a smile. “No, not really. I have my good days. They’re far and few between. I don’t understand it, Grant. Kevin had so much going for him. Where were the signs? Even now as I look back I don’t see them. I mean, things didn’t always go his way. They don’t for anybody. But I thought he was stronger.” She began to silently sob.
I slid over, held her. I didn’t pick up on the depth of Kevin’s depression either. To me he seemed like a normal teenager with his ups and downs. But I was a specialist, a therapist with an MD degree trained to deal with abnormalities. Hanna thought I should have recognized the symptoms, prevented it. She blamed me for his death. It was her condemnation that led to our divorce. And despite all my angry, loud denials, I also blamed myself. How could I have not seen it co
ming? “Do you want to come inside?”
She shook her head. “Actually I was headed to your house. I needed your strength. For you to tell me I’m all right.”
Neither of us were all right. We were fighting to restore a semblance of balance, a stability to our lives after losing the core of what anchored us. It was like learning to walk with prosthetics after your legs had been amputated. But Hanna needed encouragement. “You’re more than all right. Kevin’s suicide was just one of those tragic events that come around without warning. No one is at fault. Whenever I think I got my finger on the pulse of human behavior, something always happens to humble me. You sure you don’t want to come inside. I have that wine you like.”
There was doubt in her eyes. She smiled, “No, you’ve given me what I came for. Give me a couple glasses of wine and the next thing you know, I’ll be jumping into bed with you.”
“I’ll not object.”
She took my hand in hers, kissed it. “That would only complicate my life more. But thanks for the offer.”
“Hanna, anytime you need a shoulder to lean on.”
“Thanks.” She started the car.
I got out, watched her drive away, half the woman she used to be, wondering why all the good things in my life were slipping away.
3
With my Saturday calendar cleared due to two cancellations, I spent the bulk of the day catching up on my community service, roaming the halls of the Golden Years Convalescent Home, visiting some of my regulars, dropping in on the patients that the staff wanted me to see, and conducting a medication evaluation for my doctor friend, Rahul, who was on vacation. The eval involved checking records, dosages, and how the meds were affecting the patients. We were mostly concerned with negative reactions. Doctor do no harm. Although I had an MD degree, and a general familiarity of most drugs, my particular knowledge was in psychiatric medication: the anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, and anti-psychotic drugs which were over prescribed as I had suspected. I heavily relied on Nurse Jackie–no, not that Nurse Jackie–to help me with the others.
