It’s impossible to take my eyes off her.
It’s as if she is gliding through the streets in a protective bubble, where the elements can’t tousle her hair or snag her stockings or scuff her heels. A few men turn around to get a second look at her, and a UPS guy steering a heavy-looking cart twists it out of her path. The sidewalk is crowded with commuters and shoppers, but she never needs to slow her pace.
She turns onto Prince Street and proceeds past a row of designer boutiques that sell three-hundred-dollar cashmere hoodies and cosmetics in cases that look like jewels.
She doesn’t glance in any of the windows. Unlike the people around her, she isn’t on a cell phone or listening to music or distracted by her surroundings.
She continues to a little French restaurant farther down the block, then pulls open the door and disappears inside.
I stand there, unsure of what to do.
I want to get another glimpse of her, since I only saw her face fleetingly. But it would be too weird to wait outside the whole time she eats dinner.
I’m about to leave when I see the maître d’ has led her to a seat by the window. She is only a dozen feet away from me. If she turns her head slightly and looks up, our eyes will meet.
I quickly shift to my left, pretending to read the menu displayed behind glass to one side of the entrance.
I can still see her out of the corner of my eye.
The waiter approaches Dr. Shields and hands her a menu. I glance back at the one in front of me. If I could afford this kind of place, I’d choose the filet mignon with bearnaise sauce and frites. But I bet Dr. Shields orders the broiled swordfish au Nicoise.
She chats briefly with the waiter, then hands him her menu. Her skin is so pale that in the candlelight her profile appears celestial. I’m reminded of the gorgeous items in the procession of storefront windows we passed earlier. It seems right that she should also be displayed here for others to admire.
It’s growing darker outside now, and my fingertips are beginning to feel numb, but I’m not ready to go just yet.
She has asked me all these questions, but now I am the one brimming with queries for her. The most pressing one: Why do you care so much about the choices people like me make?
The waiter returns with a glass of wine. Dr. Shields takes a sip and I notice the burgundy color is almost a perfect match for the nail polish that adorns her long, tapered fingers.
She smiles and nods at the waiter, but after he leaves, she touches a fingertip to the corner of her eye. She could have an itch, or be brushing away a tiny fiber from her wrap. It is also the gesture someone makes to wipe away a tear.
She lifts her wineglass again, this time taking a much deeper drink.
I definitely saw a wedding band in the photo when she was holding a microphone. But her left hand is tucked in her lap and I can’t tell if she’s still wearing a ring.
I’d intended to stick around to see if I’d guessed right about what Dr. Shields ordered. But now I put in my earbuds and begin to walk east, toward my apartment.
Even though I’ve given a lot of intimate information about myself to Dr. Shields, it was voluntary. She has no idea I’ve been watching her in such a vulnerable moment. I feel like I’ve gone too far, like I’ve crossed a line.
The seat opposite her will remain empty tonight; the waiter removed the extra silverware and plate right after Dr. Shields handed him her menu.
At a table for two in a romantic restaurant, Dr. Shields is completely alone.
CHAPTER
TEN
Wednesday, November 28
You enter the white-brick building on East Sixty-second Street and take the elevator to the third floor, as instructed. You press a buzzer to be admitted into the office, and you are welcomed inside.
You introduce yourself and offer your hand. Your grip is firm, and your palm feels cool.
Most people are intrigued by someone they’ve communicated with but have never met. They take a little time to reconcile the vision they may have created with the one standing before them.
Yet you make only perfunctory eye contact before you scan the room. Have you undertaken some research of your own?
Well done, Subject 52.
You are taller than presumed, perhaps five foot six, but otherwise there are no surprises. You unwrap the fringed blue scarf looped around your neck and smooth your hair, which is heavy with loose brown curls. Then you remove your coat, revealing a gray V-neck sweater and green cargo pants.
You’ve added subtle touches to your outfit: Your pants are rolled up to mid-calf length, just above your leather ankle boots. Your sweater is tucked in at the front to display a red woven belt. The ensemble should be a disaster, with the commingling of clashing colors and assorted fabrics. Yet it looks like something that could be featured on a fashion blog.
You are invited to sit down.
Where you choose to position yourself will be informative.
The seating area contains two leather wingback chairs and a love seat.
Most people select the love seat.
Those who don’t are typically men because, subconsciously, it allows them to feel authoritative in a vulnerable environment. The general rule is that clients who select a wingback are uncomfortable about being here.
You bypass the love seat and settle yourself in a chair, even though you exhibit no discomfort.
This is pleasing, and not completely unexpected.
The chair places you opposite the psychiatrist, directly at eye level. You look around again, taking an unhurried moment to orient yourself. The practitioner’s office must make clients feel welcome, protected, and safe. If the environment is not harmonious, a client may find it more difficult to achieve a sense of ease, and therapeutic goals will prove more challenging.
Your eyes skim across the painting of steel-blue ocean waves, then past the fresh-cut camellias with crisp green stems wrapped inside an oval vase. Your gaze lingers on the books lining the shelves behind the desk. You are sharp; you take in details.
Perhaps you have even noticed the first rule of therapy: The clinician must remain somewhat of a blank slate. The items in the office that have drawn your eye cannot be identifiably personal. There are no family photographs; nothing controversial, such as an item that identifies political leanings or social causes; and nothing ostentatious, such as an Hermès logo on a couch pillow.
A second rule of therapy: Do not judge your clients. The clinician’s role is to listen, to guide, to excavate the hidden truths of a patient’s life.
The third rule is to allow the client to direct the initial course of the conversation, so the session is generally opened with a variation of, “What brings you here today?” But this is not a therapy session, so this particular rule is broken. Instead, you are thanked for your participation.
“Dr. Shields,” you say, “before we begin, can I ask a few questions?”
Some people stumble, not knowing what form of address to use. You seem to understand the protocol instinctively: Despite the intimate revelations you have shared, boundaries need to be maintained . . . for now. Eventually the other two professional rules, as well as many more, will be broken for you.
You continue: “You said you’d explain about expanding my participation in your study. What does that mean?”
The project you have become engaged in is about to evolve from an academic exercise into a real-life exploration on morality and ethics, you are told.