“Come and lie down with me,” she implored, dragging me by the hand. “I want you to hold me and promise me that everything’s going to be all right.”
I was tired and hungry, I hadn’t finished my supper, but I knew I couldn’t refuse. She was in a fragile state, and it would take some time for me to talk her out of her miseries. Perhaps she would fall asleep quickly after consuming that entire bottle of wine. I hoped that would be the case, because I was mentally and emotionally exhausted.
The following day, I saw patients in the morning, then spent my lunch hour tidying my desk and bookcases for the student film crew that was scheduled to arrive at one. Caroline popped in shortly beforehand.
“Everything looks good,” she said. “And thanks for doing this. It could be huge for us.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that but assumed it had something to do with the favor she was doing for one of the richest families in New York. Caroline was ambitious and sometimes talked about expanding the practice to Brooklyn or even Connecticut, where she lived. Finding an investor with deep pockets was probably part of her master plan.
“It’s no problem,” I replied.
I rather liked the idea of an afternoon where I didn’t have to sit in that chair and listen to other people’s problems. I was having enough trouble coping with my own lately.
The clock struck one, and my phone rang, as if on cue.
“That must be them.” Caroline tucked a few stray tendrils of hair behind her ear. “I’ll go downstairs and greet them and show them up. And don’t be nervous. They’re just college students,” she added, but I suspected the reminder was for herself, not me. “I’m sure they’ll love whatever you have to say. Good luck. Break a leg.”
“I’ll try not to,” I replied with a laugh.
A short while later, there was a knock at my door, and Caroline walked in with the film crew, which was smaller than I’d expected. It was just a young woman with a backpack, hugging a binder to her chest, and a tall, thin, bearded guy lugging a large camera case and tripod.
My eyes settled on the woman just as the sun came out from behind a cloud and shone through the oak leaves outside the window. She was slender and blonde, rather Nordic looking. She smiled at me, and it was a smile so dazzling it almost knocked me out of my chair.
I quickly stood. “Hello. Welcome.”
Caroline gestured toward me with an outstretched hand. “This is Dr. Dean Robinson, one of the most up-and-coming psychologists in New York when it comes to grief counseling. We feel very lucky to have him with us.”
The young woman strode forward confidently and extended her hand. “I appreciate you doing this. I’m Olivia Hamilton, and this is Brendan Davies.”
I shook hands with them.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Caroline said cheerfully as she moved to the door. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need. My office is just upstairs.”
“Thank you so much,” Olivia said. Then she faced me again. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and I noticed a small scar on her left cheek, which did nothing to detract from her natural beauty. In fact, it added to it. She struck me as someone who was probably quite adventurous.
“Let’s get started.” She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on my big leather armchair across from the sofa. “Is this where you usually sit?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the window and seemed to be evaluating the angle of the light and the backdrop of bookcases on the far wall.
“Would it be okay if we moved the chair over here? Closer to the bookcases? We’ll put it back when we’re done.”
“Of course. Whatever you think is best.”
She and Brendan set to work arranging the furniture and setting up the camera and a few lights, while I sat at my desk working on a file. Olivia asked Brendan to get some B-roll footage of the office and me working at my desk. Then she said, “I think we’re ready now, Dr. Robinson.”
“You can call me Dean,” I said as I stood and followed her.
She circled around the furniture. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “I’ll sit across from you and ask you some questions. The camera will be on you the entire time, but don’t look into the lens. Just try and forget about it. Focus all your attention on me. Pretend it’s just the two of us having a private conversation.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” I replied.
She moved to the small chair opposite mine, about six feet away, sat down, and began flipping through her notes.
“You can start rolling anytime,” she said to Brendan, who was positioned behind her, manning the camera on the tripod. She regarded me with a friendly expression and said, “Let’s start by talking about how you became a therapist. What attracted you to the profession?” She leaned a little closer and spoke in an intimate tone. “I just want to chat for a bit so that you can get used to the camera and feel comfortable with me.”
“Okay.” I rather liked the prospect of being on the receiving end of the questions for once.
“Great.” She blushed a little and looked down at her notes. “So. Let’s begin. Tell me about your interest in psychology.”
I spent the first few minutes describing my education and how I was grateful for the scholarships that had made it possible for me to pursue a higher education. Normally I tried to hide my past from patients and colleagues, but for some reason, I was inclined to be honest and share the facts of my upbringing—the extreme poverty and the loss of my mother at an early age.
“What an incredible life you’ve lived.” Her blue-eyed gaze settled on mine. “I would think that having experiences like that would give you some valuable insight into the emotional pain that other people might be going through.”
“Perhaps. I also lost my aunt recently, so . . .”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you close?”
“Very.”
She was quiet for a moment, then regarded me with kindness. “Is that what you find rewarding in your job? Helping other people who have had it rough?”
“Sometimes. But to be honest, I think maybe the reason I gravitated toward this profession was because I wanted to learn about human behavior so that I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes my father made. Or maybe I just wanted to feel like I’d won a losing battle in some way. That I was able to break the cycle.” I told her about my brother in prison and how I was lucky to have escaped that path.
Olivia stared at me, nodding, and I felt suddenly self-conscious.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was probably too much information. How much film did we just waste?” I laughed softly as I looked at Brendan.
“Please don’t worry about that,” Olivia replied. “It was all wonderful. I could listen to you talk about your life all day. But I’m sure you have patients to see, so we should probably get to the interview questions.” She seemed suddenly flustered as she looked down at her notes again. “Okay, so . . . let me ask you this . . .” She met my gaze with that same absorbing stare that made something inside me come alive. “Have you ever treated a patient who had trouble letting go of a loved one?”