New York, 1986
Five months after I began my affair with Melanie Brown, my boss, Dr. Caroline Weaver, knocked on my office door. She held a coffee in her hand, her leather briefcase at her side. It was a Wednesday, 8:45 a.m., and the practice had not yet opened for appointments. I was seated at my desk reading over a report from a social worker regarding a new patient I was to meet that morning—a troubled youth in a foster home situation. The court had requested a psychological analysis regarding a violent crime he had committed in the spring.
“You’re in early today,” Caroline said.
Normally, I began appointments at ten on Wednesdays and took evening appointments.
I tapped the open file on my desk. “I wanted to prepare for my session with the Abbott boy.”
“That’s today?”
“Yes. In fifteen minutes.”
She hesitated in the doorway, then took a few steps into my office and looked around at the sofa, the bookcase, the grandfather clock. She pursed her lips, and I sensed she was displeased about something.
“I’d like to see you in my office later when you have a chance,” she said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
I sat back with a tremulous feeling in my gut. “All right.”
She looked around again, as if she were redecorating the office in her mind, and I feared suddenly that she knew about my transgression and was about to have me fired or, worse, brought up on criminal charges. She said nothing more as she turned and walked out.
I had a hard time concentrating that morning. I’m not sure if my patients were aware of how distracted I was, but at one point, I had to excuse myself and leave the room, lock myself in the bathroom, and take a few deep breaths to calm my stress levels. When I returned to my chair and my patient resumed talking about his late brother, I sat in a heightened state of terror that my relationship with Melanie had been discovered.
Oh God, what had I been thinking, becoming involved with a patient? It was an unconscionable abuse of power, and I’d known it was wrong at the time—of course I had—but I was weak and lonely and broken up inside after the death of Auntie Lynn. I should have called John Matthews immediately and begun sessions with him. I should have followed the proper protocols. But I didn’t. And now, here I was.
At lunchtime, I said goodbye to my last patient of the morning and braced myself to go upstairs and face Caroline.
“Come in. Have a seat,” Caroline said without looking up from the notes she was writing at her desk. She waved her hand impatiently, as if I had disturbed her train of thought and she needed me to be quiet until she finished.
I sat down. She ignored me while she continued to write. Then she slammed down her pen, shut the file, and folded both hands together, facing me squarely from across the large desk.
“Last night,” she said, “I was at Lincoln Center, and I was introduced to someone who asked a favor of me.”
I let out a small breath. Was this something else? Or was it a roundabout way of broaching an awkward subject?
“A favor?” I repeated.
“Yes.” She stood up, moved around her desk, and leaned on it, directly in front of me, so that I was forced to look up at her. Carolyn certainly had a talent for asserting her professional power as owner of the practice and making everyone feel intimidated.
“That someone just happened to be Oscar Hamilton,” she told me.
I felt my shoulders relax slightly because anything to do with Oscar Hamilton, one of the richest business moguls in New York, could have nothing to do with me and my lowly indiscretions.
“It turns out that one of his daughters is a film student at Tisch, and she’s making a documentary about how people deal with grief after the loss of a loved one.”
I shifted in my chair, waiting for Caroline to explain what the favor had to do with me.
“Mr. Hamilton asked if his daughter could come here to interview a therapist who could shed light on the psychology of grief, and since that was the subject of your very well-received doctoral thesis, I thought you’d be the perfect person.” Caroline stood and returned to her chair behind the desk. “On top of that, you’re easy on the eyes. You’ll look good on camera.”
I laughed uncomfortably and lowered my gaze to the floor. “I don’t know about that.”
“You’re too modest, Dean. Maybe that’s what makes you so attractive.” She studied my face for a moment. “Anyway, I just got off the phone with Oscar’s daughter—Olivia is her name—and she’d like to come tomorrow afternoon. She said it would take an hour, possibly two, so I already told Jane to reschedule your afternoon appointments.”
I drew back slightly. “I see. So . . .” I paused. “I guess that means I’m about to make my film debut.” I spoke amiably, though I was miffed that she hadn’t asked me first.
“You’ll be great,” she said. “I really appreciate it.” She picked up her pen, signaling that she wanted to get back to work.
I got up, returned to my own office, and collapsed with relief onto my chair.
It was dark by the time I arrived at Melanie’s apartment that night. I had stayed late at work to write long, in-depth notes about the boy from the foster home, who had been breaking into neighbors’ houses to snoop around while they were sleeping. When he was finally caught in the act by a homeowner, who had risen in the night to get a snack, the boy had lashed out and thrown a large carving knife at him.
I wasn’t ready to form a conclusion yet. I would require more sessions with the boy because he was determined not to talk about what had happened or how he felt about it. It was like trying to squeeze water out of a stone.
The empty parking lot behind the insurance broker’s office was dimly lit by a single lamppost that flickered and crackled, but the steps on the outside of the building, which led to Melanie’s apartment on the second floor, were well lit by her outdoor light. I climbed the long set of stairs and rapped lightly on the glass window.
She took her time answering, and when the door finally opened, she had a sour look on her face. “You’re late,” she said.
My spirits sank because it had been a long day—first with the stress of my paranoia about getting fired, then with a difficult afternoon session where I’d been yelled at, cursed at, and called a few unpleasant names by a patient with anger issues.
“Sorry. I had to write up a report that’s due tomorrow.”
“Then you should have called.” She turned away but left the door open for me to enter. “I cooked supper, but now the chicken’s dry and the broccoli’s limp. It’s all ruined.”
I closed the door behind me and noticed a white tablecloth, candles, and a bottle of wine, even though she knew I didn’t drink. “I didn’t know you had something special planned.”
She usually worked on her thesis paper until I arrived and never minded if I was late.
She went to the oven, removed a pan with two chicken breasts she’d been keeping warm, and served up the vegetables and rice to go with it. She dropped both plates onto the table with a clatter, then picked up the wine bottle and emptied the last of it into her glass. She pitched the bottle into the garbage can and said, “Well, go ahead. Sit.”