I knew nothing about a daughter. Hell, she didn’t mention a husband until the third session. She spoke tearfully of a spouse who couldn’t support her ambition, who thought acting was just a hobby.
But a child…she never mentioned that. And there’s no record in my notes of a husband named Griffin. Just Gary—always Gary—the stoic, humorless, stick-in-the-mud who Gabrielle claimed held her back.
Her side of the story was all I had to go on.
I take another deep breath and switch to my process notes. There’s more detail here, more intimate observations.
She was depressed, absolutely.
And anxious and scared and married to a man she sensed was not her soulmate.
No mention of a child. Would it have made a difference in how I counseled her?
I keep skimming, dread curdling my gut.
Because what’s troubling me isn’t Gabrielle’s record. It’s what this means for Griffin and me.
I can’t breathe a word of this to him. Legally, I can’t admit I’ve ever met his wife. Privacy laws protect the doctor/patient relationship. A husband could call his wife’s therapist because she asked him to take care of her bill or make a new appointment, and legally, a psychologist can’t confirm or deny she’s a patient. Not even if she’s standing by as he makes the call, her voice shouting credit card numbers across the room.
This is the reality of my world.
Without a signed consent form, I can’t even acknowledge I know her.
As I scan Gabrielle Julia’s file with my palms sweating and my heart knocking my ribs, I see no sign of a consent form.
And no sign that there’s any way out of this mess.
It’s just before five when I lock myself in my office at the lodge the next morning and dial Dr. Susan Pantoja with steady hands. I’ve had all night to process things, and her text message this morning said this is a good time to talk.
The phone rings twice as I sit stiff in my leather chair and survey my office. I had extra soundproofing installed everywhere, even the windows. There’s extra security on the phone lines in this building, which is why I’m here instead of my cabin. One can never be too cautious with patient privacy.
Susan answers on the third ring. “Mari! It’s good to hear from you. Tell me how the research is going.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself to go slow. To remember that having a self-contained microcosm of society as a home base for research is a psychologist’s dream. We’ve talked about this for months. Years, even. As my mentor, Susan’s as invested as I am.
“It’s going well.” I fill her in on personality testing schedules and new data. I keep glancing at the clock, wishing I could skip the foreplay and get to the main act.
At the thought of foreplay, Griffin’s face zings through my brain.
“Wonderful.” Susan sounds delighted. “And you’re able to document all of this with both audio and visual recordings?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “Community members commit to being filmed for the show, obviously. But filming for research purposes is vital to tracking the study.”
“What a tremendous opportunity.” She sighs. “I admire you, Mari. What an incredible opportunity to study human behavior. The Journal of Experimental Psychology is going to eat this up.”
My ego swells, but that’s not what’s important. What she’s saying about the research is exactly why I got involved in this project in the first place. That, and the chance to publish my study in one of the most reputable psychiatric journals.
But that’s not why I called. “There is one problem.” I take a deep breath. “Potentially, a significant one.”
“Oh?”
“It’s funny, actually.”
It’s not funny at all. Not even a little, so I’m not sure why I said that. With another deep breath, I dive in. “It turns out one of our subjects—one of the community members—is the ex-husband of a former patient of mine.”
Susan goes quiet. “Come again?”
I fill in details with clinical detachment, grateful the law permits me to discuss Gabrielle Julia’s case with a supervisor. That the documents signed by residents at Juniper Ridge permit me to share the basics of Griffin’s file.
Susan Pantoja has been my mentor since my last year at UCLA. One of the few therapists in the country specializing in celebrity therapies, she’s supervised me through countless hours of continuing education. Working with a unique population requires gobs of specialty training, and we’ve documented it carefully over the years.
But this situation…
“Oh my,” she says softly. “This is…highly unusual.”
“Exactly. And I haven’t gotten to the worst of it yet.” I stare out at the pinkening sky, not sure how to phrase this. “Her husband. Er, her ex-husband, Griffin. Griffin Walsh. That is, um…he’s…well…”
“Oh, dear.” A pause. “You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?”
I close my eyes tight, willing this whole thing to go away. “Yes,” I admit softly. “I kissed him, actually.”
There’s another long silence. “This was before you knew of the connection to your former patient, of course.”
I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure how to. How do I explain that I kissed Griffin knowing full well I was putting us in an ethical gray area?
Susan hears plenty in my silence. “Well.” She clears her throat. “Tell me about the ex-wife. Did you support her plans to leave the marriage?”
This is the part that kept me up all night. “I urged Gabrielle—Elle—to think things through carefully. To make lists of pros and cons and take inventory of her life goals.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Susan says, seeing through my ass-covering language. “But in your professional opinion—”
“Yes.” I close my eyes again. “Based on what I knew of her situation, I felt staying in the marriage could be detrimental to her health and happiness.”
It was all right there in my notes. Gabrielle’s disillusionment. Her yearning for something different. Her husband’s refusal to relocate to Hollywood, to help Gabby chase her dreams. How much of that was true, and how much was a patient building a case for what she already planned to do?
I may never know.
Or maybe I already do. Last night’s conversation with Griffin filled in a dozen missing colors of the painting. The stark black and white that Gabrielle sketched for me was just a glimpse of the greater picture. If I’d known about Griffin, about Soph, would I have guided her differently?
“How did you discontinue treatment?” Susan’s question drags me back to the immediate problem.
“It was when Shrink to the Stars got picked up.” Saying it out loud makes me cringe, and I sit up straighter in my chair. “I followed all appropriate protocols. Gave three referrals to other therapists. When I left the state, she would have received my form letter stating I’d no longer be practicing in California.”
“So you have her address.” Susan seems relieved. “You can have her sign a consent form granting permission for you to tell the ex-husband about your history with her.”