by Tom Bierdz
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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3
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10
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52
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Also by Tom Bierdz
Fatal Analysis
Copyright © 2017 by Tom Bierdz. All rights reserved.
First Edition: March 2017
ISBN13: 978-0-9983647-2-8
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
1
Monday morning. My head hurt. Once more I shut off the alarm for fear the reverberating ring would shatter my skull. I remember reading somewhere about ancient cultures using sound vibrations to build and destroy structures. So, maybe, it could really happen. I was still dragged out from the weekend. I didn’t recover like I used to when I was thirty. I wanted to turn over and go back to sleep but I was already late for work.
I was a psychiatrist and had a small, private practice that once was lucrative until patients started leaving me. Normally, I was at work by eight, but today my first patient was due at eleven. The alarm clock showed nine-thirty-eight. Time to drag myself out of bed, which I did grudgingly. I shaved and showered, telling myself I needed to stop my destructive behavior. Since my divorce from Hanna I felt I needed to prove my worth. I knew better. I was just avoiding and masking deeper issues. That’s what I told my patients. I should follow my own advice. My reckless drinking had left me without wheels. I swallowed a small handful of aspirin, dressed in my suit and tie, and delayed breakfast till later, and left for work.
I walked to my office, a half mile away in a commercial neighborhood at the edge of downtown Seattle. It was late spring with a brisk chill in the air that I welcomed as invigorating, helping me to revitalize. The sun had begun to break through the clouds. Cars passed but no one else was on the street of old-refurbished Victorian homes that had been turned into cozy, professional offices. White-collar workers had already begun their day.
My practice was on the second floor of a Victorian, handsomely painted in mauve and mahogany, which I rented from attorney Mike McBride. I used to work for Mike as a pseudo private eye before I returned to med school and completed my psychiatry degree. On the block were three other attorney offices, a financial planning firm, a real estate title company, a rare coin shop recently opened to buy gold, and the Noble Company whose purpose remained a mystery. Carrie McBride, Mike’s attorney daughter who worked in her father’s firm and was there more often than he, jokingly said the Noble Company was a front for something nefarious, possibly drugs. But none of us had ever taken the time to find out what they did. Possibly because it was more fun to play conspiracy games, speculating. Yesterday, Bobby, my brother-in-law, suggested they were in the sex trafficking business because he saw a shapely, young girl with well-turned legs in a short leather skirt, enter the building and never come out. Bobby was my ex-wife’s younger brother, but I still called him my brother-in-law because ex brother-in-law didn’t sound right. The words just didn’t flow.
Bobby was twenty and was subbing as my receptionist while my anchor and regular receptionist, Grace, was on vacation in Europe, celebrating her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Although she was a saver, the trip was mostly on her husband’s dime because I didn’t pay her what she was worth. If she didn’t have the need to mother me, she’d be long gone by now. I demanded very little from Bobby. Simply, that he welcome my patients, handle my phone calls, and perform some minimal secretarial duties like opening the mail, typing an occasional letter, and rescheduling patients when necessary. In turn, he played games and watched movies on the computer. Yesterday I allowed Bobby to bring in his Wii since I had anticipated a slow patient week. Bobby was studying to be a chef at the local community college. The only thing I knew about Bobby’s cooking was that he burned the hamburgers at a cookout at our house last year when I was still married to Hanna. I’ve decided not to judge his culinary skills on that one occurrence since he had had quite a few beers and, I suspected, had been high before he came to the party. I’ve long ago concluded that Bobby will be a success no matter what he does because he was so likeable. I think he got all his family’s likeable genes, but that’s another subject entirely.
Carrie McBride leaned over the railing on the porch smoking a cigarette. Her face lit up when she saw me. Petite and pretty with olive skin and dark hair that fell to the middle of her back, she was dressed casually in a jacket and jeans, apparently not expected in court. “Off to a late start, I see,” she said. She tossed the remains of her cigarette on the grass, placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why you work so hard at getting laid. All you need to do is pick up the phone.”
“You’re assuming I’m late cause I’m hung over from partying,” I said, from the base of the stairs.
“Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not.” Carrie was divorced, a few years younger than I. She had kept her maiden name. She never let me forget that we had a brief fling some fifteen years ago, before we were both married, after a Christmas party when I was working for her father. She got a kick out of teasing me. Would she jump in the sack with me as she suggests? Probably, but it would take a lot more than a phone call. But I was into conquests, not relationships and she was much too close to home. It was preferable we stuck to sexual banter which I was not up to this morning. “Talk to you later.”
“No come back? You are in a bad way.” Carrie said, watching me enter the building.
As I opened the door and peered into my waiting room a stunningly, attractive woman with long, flowing blonde hair was bent in a crouch swinging her arm as if she was bowling. Her skirt had crept half-way up her nicely toned thighs that drew my eyes before I quickly lifted them to gaze at her smiling face and then at Bobby’s. His was an angelic baby face that was a magnet for summoning the female gender as if he was every woman’s kid brother.
“Strike!” she shouted, raising her arms over her head and leaping. “I win!”
“Hi Grant,” Bobby said, “You have a new patient. Meet Megan Wilshire.”
I nodded and smiled, thinking maybe Bobby was too likeable for the receptionist job and that I shouldn’t have allowed him to bring in his Wii. I could envision him fencing with my suicidal patients, or playing some deadly game with knives
or guns.
“I told her you’d be free an hour ago.”
I glanced at my watch. It was just past ten-fifteen. “Did I know, Bobby? Did you call me?”
“I assumed you’d be in by eight o’clock, your usual time.”
I rolled my eyes. Bobby made a lot of assumptions, including one that I wouldn’t discipline him for any wrongdoing. He had me pegged in that regard.
“We got carried away bowling,” Megan interjected, captivating me with her sapphire blue eyes. “If you’d come in earlier I’d never have gotten a turkey.”
Chalk one up for Bobby. “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and then you can come in Megan.”
“Oh, jeez,” Bobby said, slapping his forehead with his hand. “We drank it all. I meant to put on another pot.”
Silently counting to ten to contain myself, I forced a smile and invited Megan into my office, and softly mumbled. “Bobby, knock when the coffee’s ready.”
I required a couple of caffeine-laced coffees to start my engine. With a hangover and no coffee I would have to focus extra-hard to give Megan her money’s worth. I took a seat on a soft chair in the corner of my office, beside my desk. Only with extremely hostile patients did I sit behind my protective desk. I believed the informality afforded a more intimate therapeutic atmosphere, one less authoritarian.
Instead of sitting, Megan wandered about the office, shuffling over the gray Berber carpet, and checking out my wall-hung movie posters: Ordinary People, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Final Analysis, and Primal Fear. She brushed a few strands of hair from her face, formed her lips into a moue. “Interesting. Films with psychiatric problems. Apropos, but where is Psycho, or Three Faces of Eve, or Sybil?
“Actually, I have them in storage, plus a few more.”
“Why not continue the theme in the waiting room?” She smoothed her ivory silk dress, reclined on the burgundy couch across from me, and crossed her shapely legs. A soft splash of light from the window on her left, fell across her lap and down the floor drawing attention to her legs.
Lifting my eyes, I said, “I don’t want to scare patients away. Here, I can respond to their feelings.”
“Why would they frighten anyone?”
“Well, if someone thought they were going crazy the poster might reinforce the feeling.” She was testing me. The reaction to the posters was obvious.
She stared at me, giving me an intensive look-over as if she were buying an ensemble off a model. “I see why you needed the coffee. Those bags under your eyes make it hard for you to keep your head up.”
My mouth must have dropped because I didn’t expect her punch. I had a hostile patient but also a clever one. “Tough weekend, but we’re not here to talk about me. How about you tell me why you’re here.”
Ignoring me completely, she asked, “How much do you charge a session, Grant?”
Patients in the initial interview usually call me doctor. That Megan chose to call me by my first name could indicate her comfort level. But I didn’t think so. Her familiarity could also be used to downplay my expertise, which I speculated it was. “Two-hundred.”
She reached in her pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off two Ben Franklins and tossed them on the coffee-table between us.
“It’s customary to pay after the session. Didn’t Bobby ask for your insurance cards?”
“Money is no object. And, I don’t want to use my insurance.”
“Still,” I said, picking up the bills and offering them to her, “take this. You can give this to Bobby when we’re through here.”
A Mount Rushmore hardness crossed her face. “By paying you now, you have to give me the allotted time. That’s my insurance you won’t prematurely kick me out.”
My stomach did a flip-flop. What was I in for? Despite what she said, I could still toss her out if needed, give her the money back. Just then Bobby knocked with the coffee. Thank God for small favors.
In addition to the coffee, Bobby gave me a pink slip with a phone number. “Mrs. Merriweather canceled her appointment. Says she doesn’t want another.”
A master of discretion, Bobby could have given a carbon copy of the message to Megan. I gave Bobby the evil eye, laid the message on my desk and made a mental note to call her later to try to get her back as it was the wrong time for her to quit therapy just when we were making significant gains.
“Interesting cup,” Megan said, a smirk on one side of her mouth.
A black skull and crossbones poison label was plastered on her white cup. I rolled my eyes. “Bobby’s sense of humor.”
She smiled. “As long as it’s drinkable.”
I swallowed long and deeply, felt the caffeine course through my system; I imagined it flowing through my veins sounding a wake-up alarm. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Megan? How I can help you.”
“I’m not here for myself. I’m here for my sister.”
“Go on,” I said, curious.
“I’m worried about her. Afraid she might hurt...kill herself.” Her whole body tightened, perceptively shrinking, as if she wanted to disappear and avoid discussing the painful topic.
The threat of suicide sent a jolt of adrenalin through my body, waking every single nerve ending. Not only did I believe such threats could be real and that as a doctor I must do what I could, but I was still raw with emotion. My eyes began to well. I rubbed them. I fought to refocus. This was about her, not me. “Why do you think that?”
“She’s been so depressed. She spends countless hours in bed. She doesn’t want to do anything with me. Sasha and I are like best friends. We do everything together. If we didn’t see each other every day, we’d talk for hours on the phone.” She cradled her coffee cup, stared at it, let it steam her face before continuing. “She used to give me hollow excuses. Now, she says she’s too depressed, just wants to stay in bed. And she has this big bottle of pills. She’s hinted at taking them all.”
“Has she overdosed before?”
“No.”
“What kind of pills are they?”
“I can’t remember the name. I think they begin with S. I know they’re anti-depressants.”
Taking a long breath of air, I pondered the situation. Most doctors wouldn’t prescribe a lethal dose of medication. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have stored and accumulated a lethal dose or took them in combination with other meds. “I think you’re right to be concerned about your sister. She should be seen by a professional. Can you bring her in to see me?”
“She won’t come in. I’ve pleaded with her.”
I put on my most reassuring smile. “It’s not uncommon for people to resist getting help for a variety of reasons...”
“Doc, you don’t understand. Her therapist fucked her! She won’t let it happen again!”
Her words struck my solar plexus like a heavyweight’s punch knocking out all the air, leaving me breathless. I was stunned. As a therapist I could relate as I’d been attracted to many alluring female patients. In a private setting where patients shared intimate details and perceived me as helpful, sensitive and understanding, it frequently took a Herculean effort to resist the patient’s sexual flirtations, some which were blatantly profane. This was especially true for women I’d find attractive outside the confines of the office. Countertransference feelings of the therapist could be as strong and unrelenting as the patient’s transference, particularly if the psychotherapist hasn’t worked through his own issues. But taking advantage of a fragile patient was the most dastardly thing a therapist could do, sometimes permanently destroying her trust in humanity; it was rape pure and simple even if it appeared consensual. “How long ago?”
“Within the last six months.”
“Has she taken any action against the therapist, legal or otherwise?”
“No.”
“No? Why not? He’s a danger to his other patients. And, it would help Sasha therapeutically. Turn that depression into anger.”
“Her husband would blame an
d kill her if he knew. He’s a jealous monster. He beat her when he learned she was seeing him. Nick fielded the doctor’s returning call.”
I suspected she wouldn’t give me the name of the therapist, but I had to try. “Who is the therapist?”
She gave me one of those ‘I’d tell you if I could, look’. “I promised Sasha I wouldn’t tell.”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for my next patient. “I feel for you Megan, and for Sasha. But if she won’t come in, I don’t know what I can do.
“You can help me help her. Make suggestions. A treatment plan.”
“I can offer general guidelines but I don’t know how effective I can be working through you. Sasha can’t tell you everything. What she does say will be lost in translation. And, I’m unable to observe any of the non-verbal clues that are often more telling than what is said. This just seems doomed to failure.” If I took this on and she killed herself I couldn’t handle it. It was too close to home.
“Grant...”
Using my first name again.
“You need the business. You’re losing patients right and left.”
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“Your DUI was a media highlight. I think everyone in the area knows about it.”
This was another of those embarrassing, humbling moments when I wished I could go back in time and redo the day. Had I been an electrician or a plumber you’d have to dig to find the story. As a psychiatrist I was front page news.
“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.”
