Blindsided (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 1) Read online

  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 and 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.”

  “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.

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  About The Author

  Tom Bierdz makes his online home at http://www.tombierdz.com. You can connect with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authortombierdz and you should send him an email at [email protected] if the mood strikes you.

  Dedication

  To my children: Kim, Thom, Craig, & Troy who taught me more about life than I taught them.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my readers, Barbara Colburn and Julia Mitchell, for their help in making the book better than it was.

  Also By Tom Bierdz

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  When Michael, a schizophrenic, is kicked out of a halfway house for sexually acting out, his estranged, older brother, Chris, is forced to take him. They go to Florida for the summer in a senior mobile-home park. Well-intentioned but misguided, Chris tries to cure his brother. For a time Michael charms the old folks with his Michael Jackson style dancing. Then pandemonium sets in. Sometimes funny, sometimes wrenching, the brothers try to resolve the past that brought them to where they are. Does sibling rivalry or brotherly love win out?

  If you liked Rain Man, Silver Lining Playbook, and Manchester by the Sea, you’ll love Summer with Michael. Download your copy from Amazon now!