I returned to my desk, sat down, and considered the situation further. At least I was aware of the danger and impropriety of what I was feeling for my client. Did I really need to discuss all that with another therapist, only to have him tell me what I already knew? That I felt an intimacy with Melanie because she dredged up uncomfortable memories and realities from my own life, while at the same time she stirred my boyhood dreams of aviation? I already knew this was what drew me to her, so what was there to learn from my own therapeutic treatment?
The answer was clear. She was a patient, and it was my job to help her, not harm her. At the same time, knowing her history, the worst thing I could do presently was abandon her.
So there it was. A course of action. Decided upon.
I would continue to treat Melanie and guide her through this issue of her erotic transference, and I would look inward and rely on my training to manage my own. If I had trouble coping with the situation in the coming weeks, I would do the responsible thing and contact my mentor, Dr. Matthews, and whether Melanie liked it or not, I would move her to another therapist.
The train was crowded during my evening commute to my apartment in New Jersey that evening. I had to stand for most of it while fighting not to think about Melanie Brown as I bumped up against other passengers in the hot, sweaty confines.
What a relief it was to finally reach my station, step onto the platform, and breathe in the cool evening air. I walked to my car, a 1971 Ford Pinto with a persistent and rather concerning rust problem.
Twenty minutes later, I entered my studio apartment on the second floor of a building that overlooked a used-car lot. It had been my home since I finished my degree and in time accepted the position at Wentworth Wellness Clinic, with high hopes and big dreams for a brighter future. I had always imagined this would be a temporary living arrangement until I could afford something better, ideally in Manhattan, where I could give up my car before it died unexpectedly on me. But each year, when I was faced with the end of my lease agreement, nothing had changed. I still couldn’t afford anything better, so I signed on for another twelve months of long commutes and noisy neighbors who played the television too loudly in the evenings.
Dropping my car keys onto the kitchen table, I glanced at the mess I had left in the sink the night before, then checked the cupboard for food. I found peanut butter and crackers and a can of beef stew, which would have to do, because it had been a long day. I couldn’t face getting back in my car for a grocery run.
I dug around the cutlery drawer for the can opener, then noticed the little red light on the answering machine was blinking. I pressed the button to listen to the messages, but as soon as I heard that foul, guttural voice, I froze, my stomach clenching instantly with stress.
“It’s your father. You’d best come home if you want to see your aunt again. They moved her to hospice care today. They said it could be a few days. Not much more.”
Click.
My muscles went rigid, and I dropped the can opener onto the countertop with a clatter. What had my father just said? Hospice care? I hadn’t even known Auntie Lynn was in the hospital. The last time we spoke, two weeks ago, she told me she was doing well with the chemo and the doctor said she was in remission.
I made a dash for the phone and called the farmhouse, but there was no answer. Dad and Gram were probably at the hospital with Auntie Lynn, or Dad was at the bar. God, I should be there too. At the hospital. Not the bar. Why hadn’t anyone called me?
Maybe Auntie Lynn hadn’t wanted them to. She hated to burden me with her troubles, even though I told her she could never be a burden to me. I owed her everything. If it weren’t for her, who knows where I would be at this stage in my life? Probably in prison with my brother, because he was the person I had clung to after Mom died. I’d followed him around like a shadow until Auntie Lynn swooped in from Arizona and took me away to live with her and her husband. She’d arrived just in the nick of time too. I was thirteen and on a dark path with my brother, but she pulled me out and managed my upbringing and schooling from there. She steered me away from the drinking and partying. It’s unfortunate that she couldn’t have taken my brother, too, but it was too late for him. He was seventeen and had already quit school to pump gas and move in with his buddies.
Auntie Lynn saved my life. She had tried to save Gram’s life, too, when Gram fell down the steep farmhouse stairs and broke her hip. Auntie Lynn was a widow by then, so she left everything behind in Arizona to return to Wisconsin and care for her elderly mother. But dear Auntie Lynn hadn’t expected the greater challenge to be caring for her alcoholic brother at the same time.
It was too much for her. It would have been too much for anyone. No wonder she got cancer.
I stood up and went to my desk to find my address book, then called my boss at home and explained that I had a family emergency. She agreed that I should cancel all my appointments for the next few days and book a flight.
A half hour later, I was climbing into a taxi and making my way to the airport.
My flight to Madison, Wisconsin, landed late the following morning, and I was worn out from two long layovers and the stress of not knowing how Auntie Lynn was doing. I didn’t even know what hospital she was in. Every time I had a chance to call the house, no one answered.
I hurried out of the airport, found a cab, and made my way home. As soon as the driver pulled into the front yard, I paid him, got out, but waited for him to drive off before I approached the door.
Pausing a moment, I took in my surroundings. The place looked different. Empty and deserted. The toolshed looked like it was about to topple over. A rusty old barrel was full of stagnant water, and the door to the screened porch was wide open, banging against the outside wall whenever a gust of wind took hold of it. Off to the side, piles of brush from last season waited to be burned.
Swallowing over a bitter sense of dread at the mere notion of climbing those stairs, I instead wandered around the side of the house to see if my father’s truck was in the yard.
There it was. Older and more broken down than I remembered.
Was he home? And what about Gram?
Enough stalling. I needed to know how Auntie Lynn was doing, so I went to the back door and walked into the kitchen without knocking.
The house was quiet. I set my bag down, removed my jacket, and hung it on the coat tree. “Is anyone here?”
No one replied, so I made my way to the front parlor but found it empty. The drapes were closed, and all the rooms were dark. I felt a little sickened by the stench of ashtrays full of cigarette butts and the sight of grungy, cigarette-stained paint on the walls.
Poor Aunt Lynn. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. God, I needed to see her. I needed her to know how grateful I was for her presence in my life. I needed her to know that she had made a difference. She had performed a miracle, really.
“Hello?”
There was no response to my call up the stairs, so I climbed them heavily, with a sinking feeling in my gut as the odors of the old house brought back memories of my mother shouting at my brother and me when we caused a ruckus in the living room, wrestling and roughhousing while Dad was passed out drunk on the sofa. She didn’t want us to wake him because he’d invariably blame her for the noise, and then she would commit the cardinal sin of talking back to our father, and the situation would escalate. Over time, we learned the hard way to stay out of earshot. Mostly to protect our mother, not ourselves.