by Anise Eden
“Preparing your admission forms,” he said without bothering to look up.
“Admission to what?”
“Our program.”
“What program?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No, she didn’t tell me anything.”
“All right, I’ll tell you.” He folded his hands together on the desk and looked over at me. “Dr. MacGregor has developed a program to help people with special abilities like yours. Today’s interview confirmed that you’re appropriate for the program, which is why I am now preparing your admission paperwork.” He wore an expression of relaxed confidence, as though he had explained everything.
My head began to spin. “But what program, and what special abilities?”
“The special abilities you described to us: the filaments, empathic submergence.” Then, in response to what must have been an uncomprehending look on my face, he added, “The anxiety and depression you’ve been experiencing are not uncommon among people with gifts like yours. These problems occur when someone doesn’t know how to handle what could be described as an excess of empathy.”
“Oh.” At least “excess of empathy” sounded like a fair, non-pathological description. “So, what? You’re going to help me reduce my empathy?”
“No. We probably couldn’t, even if we tried. But our program is designed to help you to manage your empathy so that it doesn’t cause you so much difficulty. My mother created it to help people like you develop a specific set of coping skills.”
“Your mother?” I exclaimed, realizing too late that I sounded more shocked than was probably polite.
He chuckled—an unexpectedly stirring sound. “Yes, sorry, I should have mentioned that earlier. I’m Ben MacGregor. I manage the program. My mother is the clinical director.”
Ah-hah. That explained some things at least. Ben and Dr. MacGregor did seem a lot alike. They had the same pale skin and unusual light-brown eyes, and they shared a few facial expressions. But Ben’s broad, straight nose, his square jaw, and his dark ridge of eyebrows must have come from his father.
“And those are the admissions forms?”
“Yes, if you could start filling out the highlighted portions.” He handed me the clipboard and a pen.
“But I still don’t know what the program entails.”
“Of course,” he said casually, as though he weren’t about to say something completely outrageous. “You’ll be here eight hours a day for three weeks, including weekends.”
“Eight hours a day? For three weeks?” I had never heard anything so ridiculous. What had they been thinking, that I was going to drop everything and turn my entire life over to them? “Look, there must have been some kind of misunderstanding. I can probably come in once or twice a week for an hour or so, but no more than that.”
“I’m sorry, I must have missed something.” He tilted his head to one side. “Are you telling me that you have conflicting engagements?”
I revised my first impression that Ben was somewhat handsome as I realized what a piece of work he was turning out to be. Maybe I didn’t have “conflicting engagements” per se, but I had staring-into-space to do, lunches with Simone to eat, online poker games to play—not to mention that Sid would be back from his business trip soon, if he wasn’t already.
I slammed the clipboard onto the desk and reached for my purse. “I’m sorry,” I snapped, “but it appears this has been a waste of time for all of us. Please thank Dr. MacGregor for me, but this isn’t what I’m looking for.”
Ben considered for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether I was serious. Then he nodded. “I’m truly sorry to hear that. I’ll let them know.” He picked up the phone handset from the desk and began to dial.
I leaned toward him, eyes narrowed. “Who’s ‘them?’”
He looked at me as though he were wondering why I was still there. Then he resumed dialing. “Dr. MacGregor and Dr. Nelson.”
“Dr. Nelson? You’re not calling him, are you?”
Ben’s non-answer told me that yes, in fact, he was. He leaned back in his chair and put the handset up to his ear. I heard a ringing sound.
I bolted to my feet. “You do not have my permission to talk to my boss! Do you hear me? Hang up that phone right now!”
His eyes locked onto mine as he spoke into the receiver. “Zeke? It’s Ben,” he said with infuriating familiarity. I could hear Dr. Nelson’s muffled voice coming through the earpiece. Ben answered, “Yes, my mother thinks she’s perfect for the program, but Miss Duncan doesn’t think it’s for her.” More muffled Dr. Nelson. “As a matter of fact, yes, she is.” Ben held the phone out to me.
I imagined a freak lightning bolt cutting in through the top of the window and striking Ben where he sat, leaving his charred remains on the chair in a neat pile of ash. With no other option, I took the phone. “Hi, Dr. Nelson.”
“Hi, Cate. What seems to be the problem?”
Still fuming, I sat down, doing my best to sound calm and rational as I explained to Dr. Nelson how ridiculous the program requirements were. But his delight that Dr. MacGregor had accepted me seemed to render him temporarily deaf.
Just as I was about to begin pleading, Dr. Nelson asked, “Are you saying that you don’t need their help because you’re ready to come back to work?”
Oh, hell. He was calling my bluff. “No. I mean, nothing’s changed,” I mumbled, feeling about the size of a dried pea.
Dr. Nelson’s voice took on a hard edge. “Cate, it’s up to you. I can’t force you to attend their program as a condition of your employment. However, if you can’t come back to work and you refuse do what’s necessary to help get yourself back to work, then you and I will have to have a serious conversation about your future at the clinic.”
My future at the clinic—or lack thereof. I watched my options fly away like a cloud of starlings. There was no escaping it: I had been snookered. “Okay, Dr. Nelson.”
“Great. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll keep taking good care of your clients as usual. When does Ben want you to start?”
I stared at a random spot on the desk and covered the receiver with my hand. “He wants to know when you want me to start.”
“Sunday,” Ben said.
“What?” Two days away, and on a weekend? Was he serious? But the look on his face told me that he was, in fact, serious. I uncovered the receiver. “Sunday.”
“Fine, fine. Cate, don’t worry about a thing. The MacGregors are great people. They’ll take good care of you. I’ll check in every so often to see how you’re doing.”
I could not believe what was happening. I barely managed another “Okay, Dr. Nelson.”
“Work hard and good luck!” Click.
I stared at the phone because it seemed a better option than looking at Ben. Eventually, however, I had to look up again. I could tell he was trying not to look smug, but he wasn’t trying quite hard enough.
“So we’re good, then?” he asked.
“We are in no way good.” I glared at him. “You had no right to do that.”
“But you’re going to do the program.”
“That is beside the point. You had no right to call Dr. Nelson without my consent.”
“I thought the point was that you’re going to do the program—or did I misunderstand your half of the phone conversation?”
It took a moment for me to identify the hot, heavy feeling in my stomach as hatred. Reluctantly, I met his gaze. “Yes, I am, but under duress and against my better judgment, in order to save my job—”
“Great!” He cut me off, again handing me the clipboard and pen.
I hated being snookered almost as much as I hated needing help. Well, there was no reason I had to be the only one to suffer. In an effort to perturb Ben, I took my time with the paperwork, pretending to painstakingly review each page. The truth was that I was too exasperated to concentrate on anything I was reading. I told myself that it didn’t really matter since they all looked like boilerplate form
s anyway.
That was, until something jumped out at me on the last page, the program contract. It read, “Participants must commit to completing the entire twenty one-day program, during which the following are prohibited: smoking, drugs, alcohol, meat, and sexual activity.”
I held up the clipboard and turned it to face Ben. “What is this?”
Ben leaned forward. “Oh yeah, the contract. Those are just the program rules.”
No sexual activity? No Sid? My heart knocked against my ribcage like a fist pounding on a door. “But this is outrageous! I don’t understand how what I eat or any of my other…activities are any of your business, or how they could possibly have an impact—”
Ben interrupted me. “I know more than you might realize how strange all of this must sound to you,” he reassured. “If it helps you to know this, I have a Ph.D. in psychology.”
“You…huh?”
“I’m Dr. MacGregor too, which is why I don’t usually mention it. It would cause too much confusion. Besides, I studied organizational psychology, not clinical, so I’m not qualified to treat clients. My role here is strictly managerial. Still, I have some understanding of how strange this may seem to you.”
My head began to ache. I held my hand over my eyes. “Then would you mind please explaining all of this to me, starting with these insane rules?”
“I will explain in time. But everything you’ll be learning here will be new to you. If I jump too far ahead, it won’t make any sense and will only confuse you more. Cate, please look at me.”
I removed my hand and looked at him. His eyes focused on mine like two warm, chocolatey tractor beams. “We’re here to help you,” he said gently. “All we’re asking for is your trust, and some patience.”
I wondered if he had any idea how ironic that sounded, coming from someone who had just called my boss without my consent and was now trying to rush me into signing a ridiculous contract. “Trust, patience—and that I spend the next twenty-one days living as a vegetarian nun.”
He gave me his mother’s tight-lipped smile. “Not entirely vegetarian. You can still have eggs, fish, and dairy products.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. My fighting energy was tapped. Besides, if Ben did have a Ph.D. in psychology, maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t like I had a choice.
As I reached over to the desk and picked up the contract again, a hopeful thought dawned on me. “And when exactly do I have to start following these rules?”
“Sunday, when you start the program.” He gave me a sly glance. “Maybe you should plan a steak dinner between now and then.”
After everything that had just happened, was he actually trying to make a joke? “Maybe I will!” I scrawled my signature on the contract and thrust the clipboard at Ben. I felt compelled to remind him, “You know that I’m not at all happy about this.”
“Yes, I got that.” He moved onto the next topic as though my happiness or lack thereof were of absolutely no consequence. “Since you’ve been having trouble getting out of the house, Pete, my assistant manager, will pick you up on Sunday morning at eight forty-five.”
My jaw dropped. They were going to chauffeur me? I didn’t know whether to be impressed by their thoughtfulness or outraged by their presumptiveness.
Before I had a chance to decide, Ben said, “Here’s my card. Call me with any questions.”
The urge to get the heck out of there overcame any desire to argue. I stood up, took his card, and picked up my purse.
Ben stood as well. “Would you like me to walk you out to your car? It’s still raining, and I noticed your umbrella…”
“No, thank you.”
“All right. See you Sunday.”
I bolted out of the office and down the hallway, grabbed my windbreaker, and escaped into the parking lot. Not even bothering with my umbrella, I held my jacket over my head as I struggled to unlock the car door.
Once inside, I slammed the door behind me, fished my cell phone out of my purse, and speed-dialed. Voicemail. “Hi, this is Sid. Leave a message.”
Merely hearing Sid’s voice helped me start to breathe normally again. I hoped I wouldn’t sound too desperate on the recording. “Hi, it’s me. I hope you’re back, because I really need to see you, the sooner the better. Okay. Hope you had a good trip.”
I knew the last sentence sounded like the afterthought that it was, but I also knew that Sid wouldn’t take it personally. We didn’t call each other to chat.
I raced out of the parking lot and sped down the abandoned streets toward home.
Chapter Three
I was lucky enough to find a parking spot right in front of my house. I lived in one of the tiny row homes that lined the side streets of Highlandtown. It was small, but just the right size for a person who lived alone and didn’t like to do a lot of housekeeping. The front door opened into my living room, and beyond that was a small kitchen. A narrow staircase led up to my bedroom and bath.
Community mental health, while rewarding in other ways, was not a generously paying gig. My one big splurge had been a soft, brown leather couch and matching armchair that I had purchased at a second-hand store in Fells Point. I sank onto the couch just as my cell phone rang. Expecting Sid, I quickly picked up the phone and slid my finger across the screen without looking to see who was calling. “Hello?”
“Hi, Cate,” chirped a female voice.
“Oh. Hi, Simone.” I tried not to sound as disappointed as I felt.
“Good to know you’re so glad to hear from me!”
I glanced at the clock. Seven p.m. If Sid hadn’t called by then, he probably wasn’t going to. “Of course I am. I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired. How was your day?”
“No way. You first. How did things go with Dr. Nelson’s friend?”
I suppressed a groan. “Not as well as expected, let’s put it that way.”
“Here we go. Tell me what happened.”
I propped my feet up on the long coffee table. “Well, Dr. MacGregor was okay, I guess. But they’ve roped me into this totally unreasonable treatment program. I have to go every day for three whole weeks, eight hours a day—including weekends!”
Simone gave a low whistle. “Wow, that does sound unreasonable. Especially for someone who isn’t working…and who never leaves her house…and whose only hobby is online poker…”
I would have smiled if her words hadn’t brought to mind Ben’s sarcastic remark about conflicting engagements. “Very funny. And I’m fully aware of how messed up I am, thank you.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, that does sound pretty intense. But think about it. Dr. Nelson has his flaws, but clinical judgment isn’t one of them. If he’s recommending this program, it must be top notch. Plus, he told me he’s paying for it from the clinic’s continuing education fund, so he must have a lot of faith in whatever they’re doing.”
“Why are you taking his side? Are you getting a kickback or something?”
“If only,” she said dryly. “Look, you know I love you, and it hurts me to see you like you’ve been lately. I know your house is your comfort zone, but you can’t hide out there forever. I want the old Cate back, and so does everyone else. I know it’s not what you had in mind, but maybe this program is the kind of thing you need.”
“I don’t know,” I said, but I suspected that she might be right. Since returning home from my mother’s funeral, I’d been expecting the natural emotional healing process to kick in. When it didn’t, I used every therapeutic intervention I could think of on myself to push through the stages of grief, lift my mood, challenge my anxious thoughts—whatever might help me feel better. But nothing had worked. If anything, I’d become more firmly entrenched in my depressive state—something Simone had no doubt noticed on her visits. I had to admit that if I could have figured out how to fix my problems on my own, I would have done so already. “You might be right,” I acquiesced.
“I’m always right.”
“I know, I know,” I said, smiling because she was, usually. “But the other problem is that the clinic manager is Dr. MacGregor’s son, and he’s a grade-A jerk.”
“Oh no. Please don’t tell me he hit on you.”
I wish. The thought came unbidden, but my mind quickly beat it back. “No, worse. He’s one of those people who expects you to do what he says without asking any questions, just because it’s him saying it.”
I heard an explosive “Hah!” followed by exuberant laughter. I could picture Simone’s long dreadlocks flying as she tossed her head back. “Oh wow,” she finally said. “He’s definitely tangling with the wrong girl then. Come on, you can handle this guy. Think of it as entertainment. At least you won’t be bored while you’re there.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Okay, all right. You win. It’s a done deal anyway. I’ve already signed the admission papers.”
“Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, let me tell you about Elana.”
According to Simone, I was right: Don had been the source of Elana’s woes. She had caught him in flagrante with another woman. Overwhelmed by emotion and afraid that she might lose control, Elana had checked herself into Washington Hill’s psychiatric ward. “I’m not sure if she went in because she was really feeling that badly or because she wanted to get away from Don,” Simone said. “Either reason would be a good one, if you ask me. He sounds like a real asshole.”
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the filament that connected me to Elana. “That’s the impression I got, too, but I think Don is really the only person she’s close to here in town. Her family’s in North Carolina, and Don has done his best to drive her friends away.” I could feel Elana’s hurt and disappointment flowing into me, but she also seemed steadier, more peaceful. “Is she doing okay now?”
“Yeah. Better since she got to Washington Hill. She’s still undecided about whether to forgive Don or kick him to the curb. I told her I’d be her temporary therapist when she gets out.”
“Thank you so much,” I said as tears began to blur my vision. “Thank you for taking care of her, and everyone else. I feel terrible that I’m not there.”