Someone Is Watching (17 page)

Only then do I notice the framed diplomas on the pale blue wall. One boasts an undergraduate degree from Vassar, the other a Master of Social Work from Yale. No medical degree, but impressive nonetheless.

“Why don’t we go into my office?” Elizabeth Gordon opens another door to reveal a modestly larger room than the one we’ve just been in, which is painted the same soothing shade of blue. On one side of the room sits a desk, piled high with files and loose pieces of paper covered in illegible scribbling. On the other side are grouped a tan-colored sofa and two mismatched chairs, one green, the other navy, an attempt, I decide, to appear casual and get clients to relax and open up. I wonder if the tuna sandwich was another such ploy.

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologize again, as she motions for me to have a seat on the sofa.

I sit down at the far end while she folds herself into the navy chair across from me, crossing one long leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap. “You seem to be upset about that.”

“I don’t like being late.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s rude. It shows a disrespect for other people’s time.” I recall that my father was a stickler for promptness. But I don’t tell her that.

“Being late makes you anxious?”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“I don’t know. Does it?” She smiles. What exactly does she expect me to say? “I understand from your sister that you’ve been going through a difficult time.”

I almost laugh, roll my eyes instead, the way Jade often does when talking to her mother. “I guess you could say that.”

Elizabeth Gordon jots something down on the pad of foolscap she is holding. I don’t remember seeing this pad in her hands before and wonder where it came from. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. What
would
you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

She waits. “Why did you come to see me, Bailey?”

“My sister thought it would be a good idea.”

“Yes. She told me you’ve been having crippling anxiety attacks for some time now.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“I understand they’ve been going on ever since your mother died.”

“I guess.”

“Approximately three years.”

“I guess,” I say again, although I know exactly—almost to the minute—how long it’s been.

“Claire tells me that your father died recently as well.”

“That’s right.”

“And that a few weeks ago you were beaten and raped.”

“My sister has been quite the blabbermouth.”

“I think she was just trying to be helpful.”

“Did she also tell you I’m having an affair with my married boss?” I watch Elizabeth Gordon’s face for any sign of disapproval, but her face remains impassive and judgment-free.

“She left that part out. Is
that
what you’d like to talk about?”

I feel a burning sensation in my chest that causes my face to flush. “No.”

She chooses her next words with obvious care. “Look. I know from your sister that the rape has been an awful setback for you, and I can see you have a lot of feelings related to all the things you’re dealing with. I hope you’ll feel comfortable enough to start putting those feelings into words, that we can work together to integrate those feelings with your cognition of what happened, with the eventual hope of getting better.…”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I realize certain events are harder to talk about than others.…”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I think the question is, what do
you
want from
me
?”

“I want …,” I begin, then stop. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.” I shake my head, lower my eyes to the beige shag carpet at my feet. When I finally look up again, my voice is a whisper. “I just want to stop feeling so damn scared all the time.”

“What are you scared of?”

“What do you think?” The sneer in my voice matches the sneer on my lips. “I was raped, for God’s sake. The man almost killed me.”

“You’re afraid it might happen again?”

“He’s still out there, isn’t he?”

“That’s a pretty frightening thought.”

“Is this what therapists do—state the obvious?” I’m being deliberately provocative, although I’m not sure why.

“No. Therapists try to understand and assist the people who come to them for help,” she says, refusing to rise to the bait. “You seem frightened and hostile, Bailey. Both edgy and on the edge. I’d like to know what is most upsetting to you now.”

“Are you fishing for details of my rape, Dr. Gordon?”

“Elizabeth,” she corrects gently, “I’m not a doctor, remember? And no, I’m not looking for specifics. I’m just trying to get you to put into words what is most troubling you. That’s the only way I’ll be able to help. People usually feel better when they leave their problems here. But I know it’s a difficult process, and there’s a lot going on with you. It will take time. The good thing is that we have as much time as we need.”

“We have less than an hour.”

She checks her watch. “Today, yes. But I’m hoping you’ll trust me enough to want to come back.”

“I’m not sure what good it will do.”

“Well, you don’t have to make any decisions right this minute. Why don’t we see how the rest of the session goes first? Sound fair to you?” she asks when I fail to respond.

“I guess.”

“Why don’t we start with your telling me a bit about yourself. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.” I wait for her to tell me I look much younger, which would be a lie, but she doesn’t, which I appreciate. I tell her about my job, supply vague facts about my life, steering well clear of any more intimate revelations.

“Tell me about your mother,” she says.

My eyes fill with tears. “What can I say? She was wonderful. The best mother … my best friend.”

“It must have been terrible to lose her so young.”

“She was only fifty-five.”

“I was talking about you,” she corrects gently. “And your father? I understand from Claire …”

“Then you understand nothing,” I say sharply, my muscles tensing.

“… that he was quite a bit older than your mother,” she continues, finishing her thought, “that she was his secretary.”

Again I feel my muscles constricting. “I’m sure Claire told you all about their affair.”

“Actually, no. You’re saying your father was married when he started seeing your mother?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” I say, impatiently.

“What am I getting at?” She looks genuinely confused. Which only makes me more impatient.

“You think that because my mother had an affair with her boss when he was married to another woman that I think it’s okay to sleep with mine?”

“Is that what
you
think?”

“I don’t think my mother has anything to do with my affair, that’s what I think.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“Do
you
think my mother has something to do with it?” I ask after a pause in which my heart is pumping so fast and hard it threatens to burst from my chest.

“I think there are all sorts of reasons why women get involved with married men. Sometimes they’re lonely. Sometimes they have nothing better to do. Sometimes the man isn’t fully honest about his circumstances.” She pauses briefly. “In some cases, getting involved
with a married man keeps them from dealing with the demands of a more normal relationship.…”

“You think that’s the case with me?”

“In your case,” Elizabeth Gordon says, and I can see her weighing her answer carefully before she continues, “I don’t know. We’ll see. It might speak to some yearning you have to understand your mother better.”

I fall back in my chair, expelling all the air in my lungs with a deep whoosh, as if I’ve been kicked in the chest. Once again, my eyes fill with tears.

“What is it, Bailey?”

“I can’t do this.” I jump to my feet. “I have to go.” I’m at the door, my hand on the brass knob. “This is not why I came here.”

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now, Bailey.”

I look toward the ceiling, then down at the floor. I will my hand to open the door, but it remains immobile. I command my feet to move, but they refuse to budge. “I just feel so stuck,” I cry, pushing the words from my mouth.

“How about vulnerable?” Elizabeth Gordon asks, rising to her feet.

“Of course I feel vulnerable. How could I not?”

“Is it the stuck or the vulnerable that’s making you so frightened and angry?”

“It
all
makes me angry.”

“Then let’s look at the
all.
The rape, the loss of your mother, the death of your father, the sleeping with your boss.”

I try to speak, but no words come. Instead I just stand there and cry, my shoulders convulsing with each sob.

“I see we struck a chord,” she says gently. “Tell me what you’re feeling, Bailey. Try to put it into words.”

I’m silent for several more seconds, then surprisingly, I hear the words tumble from my mouth. “I just feel so sad.”

“Then I think you’re ready to start therapy,” Elizabeth Gordon says simply, putting her arm around me and leading me back to my chair.

“Well, you’ve certainly had an eventful day,” Jade says as we enter my apartment together.

I am almost giddy with delight at the sight of my familiar walls. I feel as if I have just made a successful emergency landing after a dangerously turbulent flight. I want to kiss the marble floor of my foyer with the same reverence that soldiers kiss the ground after returning from a tour of duty in a hostile foreign land.

Jade is unaware of the emotions raging inside me. She walks directly into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, almost as if she is the one who lives here and not me. “Feel like something to drink? I’m dying of thirst.”

I realize I am equally parched. “Is there any Coke?”

She retrieves a can and opens it as I lean against the counter, grateful for its support and enviously watching the ease with which she moves. There is nothing tentative about her. She pours half the contents into a glass and hands it to me, then sips the rest directly from the can. “I like the fizz,” she explains.

I fight the urge to walk over and take her in my arms. Has she any idea how happy I am to see her? I’d been dreading the scene I
imagined I’d be returning to—the fallout from my leaving the scene of an accident I was responsible for, even though no one had been hurt. But when I stepped out of the taxi in front of my condominium, I discovered that my car had already been towed to a service station and that my sixteen-year-old niece, who’d skipped her afternoon classes to check up on me and was waiting at the concierge desk wearing cut-off jeans and a lime green halter top, had managed to mollify both the construction workers and the police. “How’d you manage that?” I asked in the elevator on the way up to my apartment.

“I promised them all blow jobs.” She laughed when she saw the horrified expression on my face. “Just kidding. Only the cute ones.
Kidding,
” she added again quickly, twirling several strands of long blond hair between her fingers before letting them fall back across her bare shoulders. “I just explained the situation, told them that you’ve been under a lot of stress and stuff and were on your way to see your therapist when the accident happened, and that the police should check with Detective Marx—that’s her name, right?—if they needed further clarification. I think the ‘further clarification’ part might have sealed the deal.”

Again I smile. “Something else you got from
Dog the Bounty Hunter
?”

“CourtTV. Anyway, the cops said they might have some questions for you later.”

“I’m sure they will.” I try not to think about what those questions might be.

She finishes her drink, then tosses the empty can into the recycling bin under the sink. “So, what was it like? Therapy, I mean.”

“Pretty good.”

“What’d you talk about?”

I shake my head. “Everything.”

“In one hour? You must talk pretty fast.”

“I booked some more appointments. Every Wednesday at one o’clock for the foreseeable future.”

“Mother will be very pleased. I know Elizabeth Gordon was a big help to her when I was in juvie.”

“What was
that
like?” I ask, relieved the focus of the conversation has shifted.

“About what you’d imagine.”

“I can’t imagine,” I say honestly. “Tell me.”

“Can we go watch TV?” she asks instead, already moving toward the hall. “
Millionaire Matchmaker
should be on.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, my God. You’ve never watched
Millionaire Matchmaker
? Patti Stanger’s the best.”

“Who’s Patti …” But Jade has already disappeared into my bedroom; I have little choice but to follow. I enter my bedroom to see a pretty, dark-haired woman with remarkable cleavage filling my TV screen. She is lecturing a group of nubile young women in the art of seducing a millionaire.

“No sex without monogamy,” Patty proclaims as I collapse on top of my bed, exhaustion covering me like a heavy blanket.

“Oh, crap. I’ve seen this one.” Jade leans back on the pillow beside me. “This couple ends up having sex on their first date, which is like this big no-no for Patty. She says you have to be in a committed relationship before you sleep with the guy, or you don’t feel safe, and it won’t work out. Do you agree with that?”

“Makes sense.” I wonder if I’ll ever feel safe again where men are concerned. I wonder if I ever have.

“Do you think you’ll ever have sex again?” Jade asks.

I swallow the impulse to gag. “What?”

“Sorry. I guess that qualifies as none of my business. My mother says that I ask too many questions, and that sometimes I’m just plain rude.…”

“I don’t think you’re rude, just …”

“Inappropriate?”

“Let’s say inquisitive. Tell you what,” I continue, surprising both of us. “You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

“What question was that?”

“What was it like in Juvenile Hall?”

“To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t all that awful. Everybody was pretty nice. They wanted to help. Kind of like your therapist,
I guess.” She shrugs. “But you’re still locked up. You can’t watch your programs or go out when you feel like it. And I hated having to make my bed a certain way and share a room with a bunch of psychos. But it’s not like anybody raped me with a broomstick or anything.”