Why me? Why was I the lucky one?
Maybe that’s why I became a therapist. Maybe I needed to feel like I was doing for others what Auntie Lynn had done for me.
When I finally reached my neighborhood, entered my building, and climbed the steps to my apartment, I felt no better about my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about Auntie Lynn’s bedroom, the smell of those ashtrays in the living room, the garbage bins in the kitchen that needed to be emptied, and the dirty, ripped linoleum floors with rotten wood beneath.
If only I’d had more time to pay off my student debt and open a practice of my own. If only Auntie Lynn had lived long enough to see me succeed.
As I lay in bed that night, I was overcome by a profound feeling of loneliness and a deep sense of failure.
Who was I to anyone? What did my dreams matter now?
CHAPTER 12
MELANIE
New York, 1986
“It’s good to see you,” I said as I entered Dr. Robinson’s office and headed for my usual spot on the sofa, reminding myself that I could call him Dean now.
Our conversations never began until we were both comfortably seated, so I waited for him to get settled and pull his notebook onto his lap. Then at last he asked, “How were things for you this week?”
Part of me wanted to unload all my woes and tell him how miserable I had been since our last session—how I’d missed him and longed for him, dreamed of him!—but another part of me wanted to be strong and put on a brave face. The last thing I wanted was to be pathetic in his eyes. Or make him feel that he had to transfer me to another therapist because I couldn’t keep my emotions in check.
“To be honest, I’ve had better weeks,” I replied. “I’m not even sure where to begin.”
“Where would you like to begin?” he asked. “Take your time.”
I stared at him and studied his beautiful pale-blue eyes. There was something different about them today. There was a problem. I felt it in my core.
Oh God. What if he was going to end our therapeutic relationship, and this was to be our last session? An almost debilitating sense of dread rose up in me, and I had to look away, toward the window.
“I still don’t believe you,” I said.
“About what?” he asked.
I should have exercised some self-restraint or at least spoken in a tactful, roundabout way, but I couldn’t stop myself from spewing out my true feelings.
“About this being a clinical thing. Erotic transference. I tried to convince myself of that all week, but it was hopeless. All I felt was heartache because of your rejection. It was like someone had died.”
“It wasn’t a rejection,” he said. “Try not to look at it that way.”
I met his gaze. “How else can I look at it? I’m in love with you, and you don’t return my feelings. You don’t want to be with me. At least that’s what you say. So I have to accept that. I have to try and move on. To bury my feelings, like a corpse in the ground.”
“I don’t want you to bury anything,” he said. “To the contrary, it’s best to lay things out in the open so that we can work through them together.”
“But I don’t want to work through them if the end result is the same—that we can never be together. That will be too painful. Maybe it would be best if I transferred to another therapist so that I could work through it with that person. Because it’s going to take a lot for me to get over you.”
No! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t want to transfer to another therapist!
What was I saying?
He twirled his pen around his fingers and regarded me closely and carefully. “If that’s what you want, Melanie, I’d be happy to recommend someone.”
I shook my head and looked down at the floor. “I didn’t expect you to call my bluff.”
“I didn’t realize it was a bluff,” he replied. “And what did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed, dejectedly. “You’re an excellent therapist. You’re not taking advantage of me because that would be unethical. You’re doing the right thing, referring me to someone else. But maybe that’s what makes this harder to bear, because you’re so decent and honorable. You don’t have a temper like those men in my mother’s life. You’re caring and responsible and so unbelievably perfect.”
He set his notepad aside and shook his head at me in a disapproving way.
“What?” I asked.
His expression changed. For the first time he seemed impatient with me. “This is exactly why you need to recognize that what you’re feeling for me isn’t real.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not perfect. Far from it. As I said before, you don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Then tell me,” I pleaded, sitting forward on the edge of my seat. “Please. Isn’t this what you said I need to do? Recognize the difference between what’s real and what’s fantasy? Help me separate the two. If you want things out in the open, then don’t be a hypocrite. Consider it your parting gift to me so that I can have better luck with my next therapist.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Seriously? You can’t share anything with me? Last week you said you wanted to help me learn how to have healthier relationships with people, but you’re like a brick wall, and all this is doing is making me feel more certain that I don’t want to get involved with anyone. Ever. That it’s not possible to really know someone, and I’m better off alone because people are either mean and nasty or . . .” I gestured toward him with my hand. “They’re totally closed off and impenetrable, and either way, they break your heart.”
I sat back and folded my arms, seething inside.
The room was quiet except for the pendulum on the grandfather clock, swinging back and forth while we both waited for me to recover my composure.
At last, Dr. Robinson—Dean—spoke. His voice was soft and resigned as our eyes met.
“I drive a crappy car,” he told me. “It’s in the shop right now getting fixed, but I can barely afford the repair because I’m broke. I’m always broke. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, so when you see me sitting here in this elegant leather armchair in this upscale Manhattan brownstone . . . well, that has nothing to do with me. I live in New Jersey. On top of that, my father went to prison for manslaughter after killing my mother in a drunk driving accident. Drove straight into a tree. He’s still a drunk, and my brother is currently serving a five-year sentence for burglary and assault. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in prison myself, because I stole a car once, and I torched it with a bunch of juvenile delinquents. I just never got caught. No one I work with knows any of that, by the way. So I’d appreciate it if you respected the rule of confidentiality in this room.” Dean spread his hands wide. “So there you have it. Not so perfect after all.”
I stared at him in silence. Part of me was surprised, but not really. I should have been stunned by everything he had just told me, but for some reason, I wasn’t. I suppose I had always felt an inexplicable understanding between us—that we were the same. The only thing that surprised me was that he had shared it all in one single, uninhibited flood of truth and emotion.