Whittaker 02 The One We Love

by Donna White Glaser

  I could pretend that I didn’t look like a troughing pig, chew for the next seven minutes methodically breaking down the mass until I could appropriately ingest it, all the while holding up a polite “just one moment” finger.

  Or I could swallow it down en masse and risk choking to death.

  I didn’t die, but I wished I had. Marshall had entered with a concerned, we-should-talk look on his face, but my candy bar contretemps loosened him up. He slumped in the chair laughing helplessly. We were both close to tears by the time I finished. He from mirth, me from scraping the inside of my throat raw by ingesting a jumbo size clump of peanut-studded candy.

  “Are you finished?” I finally asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I might believe that if you weren’t laughing so hard. It ruins the sincerity vibe.”

  “I’ll have to work on that.” A residual grin brought his dimples out.

  “Yeah,” I said weakly. I loved those dimples. “You do that. What, uh … Why are you here?”

  “I came back to go over some things with the realtor. It’s not exactly the best economy for selling a house. I’ve got to decide if I’m going to wait or take a loss.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something you …” I stopped. I couldn’t ask if there was something he wanted when he so obviously didn’t want me. “Why are you here?” I stabbed my finger at the floor to differentiate “here in Chippewa Falls” from “here and sitting two feet away looking more delicious than an Easter basket full of chocolate bunnies.”

  He didn’t answer right away. His laughter faded, leaving him looking sad, maybe a little wistful. Which pissed me off. What right did he have to be wistful? He was the one who ran away.

  “Look, Marshall—”

  “I wanted to see you. I just …” He sighed, dropping his eyes and running a hand through his dark brown hair. It ruffled nicely, damn him. “I’m not proud of myself. Okay? I know I didn’t handle everything very well.”

  “You fled the state. Took off cross-country. You absconded.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He smiled ruefully.

  “You wouldn’t let me come visit you at the hospital. You put me on a list. No Visitors.” My voice got more strained, ending in a raspy whisper. “Like I was some kind of criminal.”

  “Yeah. I did.” No more smile. “I did that. Look, Letty, I’m sorry. I am. But I’m also …

  “What?”

  “Confused. I know what happened to you wasn’t your fault, but at the same time, there were things you did that didn’t help the situation, you know? I mean, come on! You drugged me. You thought I was a killer.”

  Okay, yeah.

  “I didn’t know what to think, Marshall,” I said. “There was a lot going on.”

  We both grinned at the understatement. Through all of the terror and craziness in the past, we’d been able to laugh together. It was one of the things I loved … and missed.

  “I remember,” he said. Then his smile faded again and his hand rose to rub at the spot where my stalker had shot him in an effort to remove any rivals for my affection. “I remember,” he said again.

  I felt helpless. How could I fight a memory? What reassurances could I offer? As crazy as it sounded, I was after a killer again. I couldn’t tell him he had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t tell him anything. I think he knew I was holding something back. His dark brown eyes—no wonder I was addicted to chocolate—searched mine looking for an answer to a question I was forced to evade.

  He left soon after and his leaving felt as awful as it had two months ago.

  I changed my mind and went to an AA meeting. By the time I got to the HP & Me club, I was almost overwhelmed with frustration. I was being blocked at every turn, denied the things I wanted, obligated to things I didn’t.

  I hadn’t even cleared the doors before Paul bounced up to me. He’d gotten new glasses, transforming his held-together-with-masking-tape wire rims into techie-nerd fashionable. Usually his abject adoration bugged me, but today his sunny smile felt like balm. He wasn’t trying to get rid of me or trying to thwart my every move. He wasn’t all conflicted and angst-y about his feelings for me.

  Might be why, when he asked me out for coffee, I said yes.

  Mistake.

  I watched the joy spread through his body, causing multiple system failures as it flowed. His mouth and eyes formed perfectly symmetrical O’s, I could hear his breath hitch, and his Adam’s apple did a fine Mexican-jumping bean impersonation.

  “Paul? Wait. It’s not—”

  “No take-backs!” he said. It took him a while because he stuttered over the consonants in his excitement. “You said yes. I’ll see you after the meeting.”

  He took off, heading for a group of guys in order to rejoice with the fellas. Publicly, at length, and in great detail.

  Sue joined me. “What’s going on?”

  I experimented in my mind with various ways to phrase the situation. They all ended up sounding like “date.”

  “It is not a date,” I said.

  Sue played along. “Right. Not a date. Of course not.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Right. What’s not a date?”

  “It’s just coffee. With a peer. That’s all.”

  She followed my petrified gaze to where Paul was practically yodeling with joy.

  “Coffee?” she said. “With Paul?”

  For once, perhaps for the first time ever, Sue was stricken silent. I was too dazed to enjoy it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  It could have been worse. Paul was what I call an “easy talker.” Not always a linear one—his eagerness often led to tangents—but mostly all I had to do was sit back and listen. I’d forgotten how much we had in common. Paul was planning to graduate with a social work degree as soon as he completed his internship program. He’d also known my attacker on a first name basis, but he was sensitive enough to refrain from bringing it up.

  Once I got him talking about his schooling, he chattered on and on. He was having trouble landing an internship placement, and I felt bad telling him that our agency wasn’t taking any on this semester since Marshall had left. Bob wasn’t “into” training and, hopefully, admin had better sense than to set up an impressionable intern under his supervision anyway.

  Listening to Paul was kind of bittersweet. I couldn’t remember ever being as idealistic as he was, even when I was in college. Maybe it had to do with my childhood, but I’d never had the kind of faith in people that Paul obviously had. Maybe I would have been a better therapist if I had.

  I couldn’t help feeling that Paul was in for a let-down. Part of me wanted to warn him, but who was I to burst his world-view bubble? In first grade, Bailey Bronson had taken it upon himself to inform me that a certain jolly, fat man didn’t exist. I punched him in the nose and cried all the way home. Nobody loves a prophet.

  The other refreshing thing about Paul was his interest in other people, specifically me. But it would serve him well in his future career, too. I found myself telling him about the shelter. Not about my real fears, not at first, but about how my coworker had died and named me as her professional executor. He was fascinated. They hadn’t covered the issue in school, not even in his ethics class, so he asked lots of questions. Good ones, too. Ones I wished I’d thought of asking.

  “This would make an awesome paper,” he said. “I bet no one else has thought of writing about providing aftercare for your clients after … you know.”

  “After you die,” I filled in the blank he so delicately avoided. He’d have to get over that. “Maybe I should make a will. Especially now.”

  “Why now?”

  “Huh?” I stalled.

  Paul streamlined all of his manic, high-powered energy into focusing on my answer. ‘Huh’ wasn’t going to get it. “Why now? Why would you need a will?”

  “Look, I don’t really want to get into it. I’ll sound crazy.”

  “No, you won’t. Not to me. Well, no
t unless you start talking about little green men taking over Washington or something.”

  “What? You don’t believe in aliens?” I said.

  “I don’t believe they’re green. But I’ll believe you. What’s going on?”

  I debated how to answer. “There are some strange things going on in that place. Instead of arranging for me to assess and refer Regina’s clients myself, they went and transferred them to the two administrators. I can kind of understand that, even though it goes against Regina’s instructions. The women and kids they serve have very specific needs, and Clotilde and Lachlyn have been working with them for years. But I’m supposed to at least have access to Regina’s clients and their files. Yet they’re limiting it to just the last three months. And I’ve come across some things that suggest they’ve altered records, too.”

  “Really? That’s illegal. Is it some kind of insurance scam?”

  Hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think so,” I finally said. “I don’t think many of these women have private insurance. Even if they did, I doubt it would cover a residential stay. The shelter pretty much exists on government grants and donations. Besides, the pages I think they were messing with had nothing to do with financials. Very little in the client files did.”

  “What do you think they’re hiding?”

  Paul was looking very distressed. In his world, helpers helped. They didn’t forge or hide documents, didn’t ignore the wishes of the deceased, and presumably didn’t decease the wisher. Good thing he didn’t know my suspicions there. His world would crumble.

  “So enough about that, Paul. How long have you been sober now? Couple of months, huh?”

  His expressions warred between wanting to pursue the subject and well-deserved pride in his achievement. I let him ramble happily on while I sipped coffee and brooded.

  Tuesday was just as chaotic as Monday. To get caught up, I’d even scheduled a client for my lunch hour—something I normally tried to avoid.

  Lisa popped into my office while I was writing up progress notes in between my 10-and 11:00 clients. As usual, she out-styled me, wearing a combination of layered shirts in ice-blue tones and a magenta scarf that I would have never thought to put together. Since the Snow Queen rarely left her lair in the front office, I gave her my full attention.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Got something for you.” She handed me a file. My stomach lurched, thinking she had found another of Regina’s stolen shelter records. Almost immediately, however, I recognized our clinic’s system of stickers. If I’d had any doubt, a faded yellow sticky note in Marshall’s cramped writing had been stuck to the front. FOR REVIEW, it said. I checked the client’s name: Bettina Reyes. Didn’t recognize it.

  “This isn’t mine.” I tried to hand it back to her.

  “It is now. It’s one of Regina’s. One you haven’t seen.”

  I sat back with a thump and almost flipped ass-over-tea kettle in my rickety office chair. Another one? “Why haven’t I seen this one? Did someone tell you to keep it from me?”

  “Paranoid much?” Despite her hurry, she took a moment to scoff at me. Enjoyed it, too; I could tell. “It’s just been lost.”

  “Lost? You lost a file?” My turn to scoff. I liked it, too.

  “It was set aside for review. After Marshall left, it must have just sat there. I found it yesterday when we were cleaning up for the audit that never happened.”

  “What kind of review? Internal or for the licensing board?” A quick flip through the documents didn’t disclose anything out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t know. I guess if anyone knows anything it would be Marshall. Maybe, um, you could ask him?” She waggled her eyebrows mischievously.

  “I think it would be more appropriate to talk to Bob. I’m sure he would have been made aware of the situation.” I refused to meet her eyes.

  “If so, he never followed up on it. Big surprise. Look, I think the ball got dropped when Marshall left so abruptly. Regina had her hands full between the clinic, the shelter, and you.” Lisa gave me a look that was equal parts pointed and tender. How did she do that?

  I had more questions, but a glance at the wall clock told me I was already five minutes late for my next client. She was impatient, bipolar, and working on anger management skills. I supposed I could tell her this was a test.

  But tonight, no matter what, I’d dig through everything one more time. Just me, the stolen files, and this new one. Maybe some popcorn, too. Siggy liked popcorn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  I allotted Siggy four kernels of unbuttered and unsalted popcorn, but he was not impressed. He kept leaping daintily up on the coffee table where my popcorn bowl rested, trying to snag a pawful of buttery contraband. Miffed at my stinginess, he refused to sit next to me on the couch. Instead, he slunk to the middle of the room, staring with eyes like the hungry children commercials on late night TV. When that didn’t work, he gave me the tail and stalked off down the hall toward the bedroom.

  I started with the file Lisa had given me: Bettina Reyes, age 47, married. She’d been seeing Regina weekly since January for marital concerns; the last session, just after Labor Day. The psychosocial history looked unremarkable. Bettina and Frank Reyes had been married twenty-seven years and had two grown children, both within driving distance. Regina noted that Bettina had denied any domestic violence or abuse, something I’d thought might connect this file to the shelter.

  According to the early progress notes, it looked as though Bettina’s primary concern was on how to “reconnect” with her husband. She reported that he was frequently irritated with her and she didn’t know how to please him anymore. Frank, resistant to therapy in general and female counselors in particular, refused all invitations to attend sessions with Bettina, something that makes couples therapy almost impossible. Regina recorded that she’d offered Bettina a list of male therapists in the area, but she hadn’t included a copy, so I didn’t know to whom she’d referred the couple.

  Two weeks after getting the referrals, Bettina reported that Frank had made an appointment with a psychologist. Again no mention of who Frank was seeing, but later notes indicated that Bettina participated in a few sessions with Frank and his new counselor while remaining in individual therapy with Regina.

  Shortly after, an unexplained break in therapy occurred—not uncommon, although six weeks was a bit longer than usual. When Bettina returned, Regina noted a significant mood change from anxious and weepy to giggly and lighthearted. Bettina denied any changes in her life, seemed disinclined to talk about Frank or their relationship, and was elusive about her current activities. Regina wrote “secret?” in the margin and circled it. I tended to agree. Bettina sounded twitterpated, and cranky Frank was likely not the source.

  They continued in this fashion for another three weeks until finally, in late May, Bettina conceded she was having an affair.

  With Frank’s counselor.

  I read the passage twice, brain reeling. This had to be it. This is what Regina was in contact with the licensing board about. Sexual contact between a therapy professional and his client is strictly prohibited. In my opinion, Bettina would be considered a client since she had met with her husband and his therapist, but maybe I was wrong. Or maybe, like so many other abusers, the therapist had justified his actions by splitting that theoretical hair.

  Only three more progress notes remained, each documenting Regina’s efforts to educate Bettina about the nature of the therapeutic relationship and how the other therapist’s actions constituted abuse. Bettina disagreed. She was an adult and she wasn’t his patient. He “understood” her and was helping her overcome her intimacy issues, which could only help her marriage. Conversely, she and her analytic amour agreed that it would be “anti-therapeutic” to inform Frank of their efforts on his behalf.

  No kidding.

  Regina, bless her, stayed firm, advising her client to report the relationship. I could sense through Regina’s terse notes th
at she was becoming frustrated with the situation. In the recommendations section of the second to last note she wrote that she planned to seek consultation. I wondered with whom? Marshall?

  Not surprisingly, the last session didn’t go well. Regina informed Bettina that she felt obligated, legally and ethically, to report the violation to the authorities and that she was seeking professional advice about her options. However, she didn’t want to act without at least trying to obtain Bettina’s cooperation and hoped they could continue discussing the dilemma. Regina offered to hold off for a month while they talked through the emotional repercussions of taking action.

  Bettina “became enraged and terminated the session abruptly.” Apparently she didn’t want to conversate. She wanted to fornicate.

  But “who with?” was my ungrammatical but pertinent question. And “would somebody kill over this?” was the next.

  I’d been reported to the licensing board on completely bogus charges and had to suffer under an investigation even though my accuser had a documented vendetta against me. I’d had enough evidence attesting to my innocence that I hadn’t even bothered hiring an attorney, although Regina had advised that it couldn’t hurt. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to have the board come down on me in a situation where I really was guilty.

  I had to find out who Bettina’s husband—and Bettina herself for that matter—were seeing. The first thing I’d do at work tomorrow would be to follow-up with Bettina and see if she would meet with me. It was a long shot, maybe the affair had already run its course and she’d had a chance to rethink her position.

  Since I was stymied on the Reyes file, I turned to the others. I’d already gone through them twice, but I was certain there was something tying them together. Third time pays for all, they say, and so it did.

  I came across a set of initials on the bottom of each discharge summary. Three letters: RTA. I couldn’t imagine how I’d missed them, but they were tiny, block printing, and placed at the end of the narrative portion of the form. I started paging back through the layers of papers, searching for someone with those initials. I knew it wasn’t Regina. Her last name was Fleisher. Just to make sure, I dug out the little funeral notice that gets handed out to mourners. Regina Edith Fleisher.