Sacrifices of Joy (9 page)

“There you are.” My executive assistant/receptionist/ office manager Darci Dudley smiled as I entered my office suite. “You have some new messages, some old messages, and a bunch of other odds and ends I'm taking care of.”

“Thanks, Darci. I don't know what I'd do without you.” I grinned, feeling more confident that the day was finally heading in the right, and mundane, direction.

In the three years since I'd opened The Whole Soul Center, the practice had grown from a small single office space with a miniature waiting room in Rosedale in which I sat in by myself, to a four-office suite complete with a full-sized front desk and chart room. I'd hired three other therapists who worked varying hours to keep the clinic open from early morning to late evening, occasional Saturday mornings, too. The arrangement worked well for me; I was able to build more visibility for my center and the financial payoff was more than what I'd anticipated.

Darci was a young woman in her mid-twenties who was working her way through college to become a nurse. A single mother to three-year-old twins, I understood her plight and allowed her to make the job's days and hours fit her schedule when I first offered her the position. Somehow, she managed to maintain full-time hours at my office while continuing her studies. This brunette, green-eyed beauty had been a godsend since she'd responded to my job listing on Craigslist last year. Her authenticity and eagerness to help proved that not everyone in this country was hung up on race and cultural differences. From the suburban soccer moms to the foster children to the court-mandated parolees who made up my clinic's diverse clientele, Darci, at the front desk, genuinely accepted and welcomed all of the people who came through the door.

“Hope you had a great weekend!” Darci, ever the optimist, grinned at me as she shuffled through some papers on her desk.

“Yes.” I smiled back, not wanting to disappoint. “Any changes in the schedule today?” Darci had access to my online calendar, but I had not checked it prior to entering the office.

“Nothing major. The usual,” she chirped. “Your one o'clock called to say she is running late. Your two o'clock, Mrs. Groves, called and said that she will be bringing her husband along for her appointment. Your three o'clock cancelled, and I am waiting to hear back from the administrator from juvenile justice to confirm your meeting with him at four-thirty.”

“Great, sounds like a regular Monday.” I knew Darci would have no idea how significant just saying that was to me.

And, indeed, the afternoon plugged on at its usual pace. After checking in with a couple of the other therapists who were present, I began my forty-five-minute sessions with my clients. I helped a thirty-three-year-old new client explore the alcoholism that defined her family tree; I sat supportively and quietly as another client bravely confronted her husband about his philandering ways. I caught up on paperwork and work-related e-mails during the hour of my cancellation. I was waiting to get word about the late afternoon meeting when Darci knocked on my door.

“I hope you don't mind, but I just squeezed in an intake for you. I don't think Mr. Jackson from DJJ is coming so you have a new client waiting in the waiting room. He's a walk-in.” Darci knew that I was open to walk-ins as my schedule permitted. My practice had benefitted from being an open door to newcomers in crisis. Just the same, something in me immediately felt uncomfortable, and not just because Darci had come in person to tell me about this intake. She usually merely buzzed me from the front desk.

“Is everything okay? You don't normally come back to tell me there's a newbie in the waiting room.”

“I know,” Darci looked serious for a moment, and then she let out a mischievous giggle. “I'm trying to stay professional, and coming back here was the only way I could save face. Sienna, forgive me for saying so, and I'm not trying to be inappropriate, but this man is seriously hot. It's a good thing I'm not a therapist because I'd be in danger of breaking all kinds of ethical rules and regulations. Okay, I'm going back to my desk before you fire me. My game face is back on.” She dropped the grin and managed to take on the expression of a severe schoolteacher.

“I'll be right out,” I called after her, the pit in my stomach inexplicably widening.

No, there was an explanation.

I bet it's him.
I shut my eyes, seeing those icy blue ones that had bored into mine Saturday morning. He was out there waiting for me, I was sure of it
.
My nerves were on high alert.
Calm down, Sienna,
I told myself, taking two deep breaths and tightening and relaxing my shoulder muscles. I had to remain grounded and logical. Too many times over the past couple of days I had jumped into a panic for no good reason and to no good result.

I got up from my desk and walked toward the waiting room.

“There she is,” Darci said to someone out of my view as I approached the waiting room filled with plants, paintings, and soft music. “Ms. St. James is coming to get you right now,” she continued, poised and proper, but with an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

“Hello, welcome to The Whole Soul Center.” I smiled and forced myself not to scream or freeze as I rounded the corner.

It was him.

Muscle tee. Torn skinny jeans. Unbuttoned light denim shirt. Navy blue canvas shoes.

He looked like a poster boy for a fashion magazine. Today his blond waves were lightly tousled atop his head. He smiled up at me when I entered the room, a small smile, a pensive smile. A harmless smile. Uncertainty filled his eyes, none of the ice, none of the steeliness I must have imagined when we first met.

Laz's words brought a burst of calm and confidence as I extended a hand to the man. He gripped my hand in a dry, firm shake.

“You sought me out.” I smiled. “Come on back.”

Without a word, he stood and followed me back to my office. I had a large corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls. The rolling hills and pastoral views of Northern Baltimore County were my backdrop.

“Have a seat,” I offered, waving a hand at the large leather couch that faced my armchair. He sat down and I took my seat. Both my armchair and my desk were closer to the door than where my clients sat, a first lesson learned in graduate school.

“Before we begin, I need to let you know that whatever we talk about in here is confidential, unless you are having suicidal or homicidal thoughts, or you disclose a child, past or present, who has been abused or neglected. These exclusions to privacy are to keep everyone, including yourself, safe. More details about our policies are in the welcome packet I will give you at the end of our session today. If you have questions at any time, please ask.” It was my customary spiel that I said to each client at intake.

He nodded and his smile widened, showing off perfectly aligned white teeth. Darci was right. He had movie star good looks. Why had I been so unnerved by this man again?

But good looks meant nothing.

“Okay,” I continued. “Let's get started.” I grabbed a blank intake packet, an ink pen, and notepad.

His smile suddenly weakened some.

“You don't like me taking notes.” I said what he had not voiced.

“You can take notes,” he spoke softly, his smile now fully gone.

“Let me just get some basic information from you, have you fill out some forms, and then I will put the pen and paper away. How's that?”

“You didn't get my message?”

The e
-
mails!
“Uh . . .” I tried to think of what to say.

“I left a phone message for you Saturday.” He studied me as he spoke. “I said that I can pay you myself. You don't have to worry about any insurance billing paperwork.”

“Oh, yes, that.”
He's not talking about the e
-
mails. Exhale, Sienna.
“I did get your message.” I managed a weak smile as I continued. “You stated that you wanted to simply meet to have, what was it? Conversations. No insurance forms. No diagnoses. Just talking. We can do that, but I still need to get some basic information from you.”

He raised an eyebrow. I quickly continued.

“Like, your name? Your age? Your address? Your contact info? That sort of info helps if we are going to talk.”

“What does a name tell you?” He crossed a leg over a knee and sat back more comfortably on the sofa.

“Well, it lets me, and the rest of the world, know how you want to be identified, for one.”

He stared at me intently for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. “The Non-Exister.”

“Excuse me?” I tried to avoid blinking my eyes, but my eyelashes fluttered anyway.

“You asked how I want you and the rest of the world to identify me, and that is who I am. The Non-Exister.” The man continued to stare at me intently.

“I need your name,” I asserted.

“No, you said you needed to identify me.”

“So, you don't have a name that you answer to?”

“I have a name. It just doesn't match my identity. And you asked for my identity.”

I looked down at my notepad and considered whether I needed to take notes.
A personality disorder? Schizophrenia?
I was determined to stay a step ahead. A working diagnostic impression, even if I didn't write it down, would give me a frame in which to base therapeutic treatment. Was therapy what he even wanted?

“Okay, let's start this again. Hello, my name is Sienna St. James. I am a therapist and the founder of The Whole Soul Center. And your name is?”

“Little blessed one,” he responded immediately.

We both sat in silence and stared at each other.

“You asked for my name and I gave it to you.” He spoke again. “Now you have both my name and my identity. What else do you need to know so we can have our conversation?”

I narrowed my eyes and studied him as intently as he studied me. “You said on Saturday that I would ‘know your name soon enough.' What did you mean by that if you aren't even willing to tell me who you are?”

“You know who I am.”

A chill went through me, but I had to stay composed. I could not let this man sense that he was getting to me. I shuffled through the papers in my hand but didn't break my gaze. “I have no idea who you are.”

“I just told you my name. I just revealed to you my identity. What else do you need to know?”

“Okay, how old are you?”

“Infinity.”

I let out a loud sigh. “Okay, Mr. Little Blessed One who doesn't exist.”

He smiled at my title of him and his blue eyes twinkled.

“I need you at a minimum to sign a consent form if you want treatment.”

His smile stopped and his eyes turned icy. “We are not here for treatment. We are here for a conversation.” His voice was flat.

He said he didn't want treatment, so I had every right to dismiss him from my office, escort him out of my clinic. But clearly the man was delusional. I had an ethical obligation to at least assess him for safety and ensure that he was not suicidal or homicidal.

I shook the thought away as I regrouped, and reframed my approach.

“Okay, we'll do things your way.” I put my pad, packet, and pen down. “Let's talk.” Then I said nothing, waiting to see where he wanted to take the conversation. Ten minutes of uncomfortable, complete silence passed as he sat looking at me, and I looked at him. Then I looked at my wall clock.

“Looks like you're not wanting to talk just yet. I'm here to listen when you're ready. I'm going to finish working on something. Let me know if and when you are ready to talk.” This was what I usually said to belligerent teenagers who were pushed into my office by exasperated moms and dads. I stayed true to my word and walked over to my desk and began typing up a report I'd been working on for weeks. My intention was to check in every few moments with a gentle reassurance that I was open to listening. I'd had some clients in the past who'd sat in silence for two or three entire sessions before the floodgates opened. The silence did not bother me.

After another five minutes passed, I looked over at him and smiled. “Again, I will listen to you whenever you are ready to talk. No rush, no worries.”

He kept his eyes on me. His smile was gone and his expression was unreadable. I turned back to my desk.

Another five minutes of silence passed. Finally:

“So this is how you have a conversation?” The irritation in his voice was unmistakable, though his face remained unreadable.

I stopped typing, spun my desk chair around to face him, but stayed silent.

When another minute or two passed and nothing else was said, he got up from his seat and headed toward the door. “I'll be back tomorrow to see if you are ready to talk, but I'm not paying you until we have a conversation.” He shoved my office door opened and marched down the hallway.

I wanted to tell him that I didn't want his money anyway, that I did not have time in my schedule to see him tomorrow, that I wanted him to leave and never come back.

But this man obviously needed some kind of psychiatric help, and one of the first rules I held to as a clinician was to meet the client where he or she was.

He was out of my office and out of the clinic front door before I had a chance to respond.

“Darci.” I turned to my right-hand helper the moment the door closed behind him. “Did he tell you his name?”

“No, I didn't ask.” She was focused on her computer screen. “I just gave him the usual face sheet we give all newcomers.” She pointed to one of the waiting room chairs. “Looks like he left it over there. Also, he said something about talking to you personally regarding his payment arrangements. Let me know what kind of co-pay you need me to collect from him next time. Is he going to call to schedule his next appointment?”

I missed all she said, focusing only on a paper-packed clipboard that sat in an empty seat next to where the man had been waiting. He hadn't written down a single word on any of the pages of the registration packet.

But he had drawn a picture.

A window.

Using black ink, a detailed picture of a window with striped curtains filled the corner of the top sheet. He'd also drawn a cat perched on its wide sill.

Odd, but worth keeping, I decided, and I slipped the sheet of paper into a folder along with a note about his “name” and “identity.”

“Do you want me to file that?” Darci looked up from her work and pointed to the folder in my hand.

“No, I'm holding on to this one.”

“Mmmm. Sounds juicy.” Darci giggled. “I'm just kidding. I'm a professional. Just a lonely, semi-desperate professional.” She giggled, but then quickly sobered at my silence. “A professional who has enough sense to not get involved with a client,” she added.

No, especially not this one!
I wanted to scream. My head hurt as the beginning of a migraine rapped on the top of my skull. It was nearly five p.m. Though I'd only worked half a day, I felt like I'd just finished a twelve-hour shift. “I'm going home now, Darci, but I'll be in early tomorrow.”

When I left the building ten minutes later, I felt off-kilter, unbalanced. Very few clients I'd worked with left me with that feeling. In fact, one of the last times I felt like this was when I'd engaged in a couple's counseling session a few years ago with a man and woman who had more secrets, dead bodies, and high crimes in their past than I cared to know. Got kidnapped and nearly killed because of it, because of them.

That had been the beginning of the end.

Right after dealing with their drama, I'd found out the truth about RiChard, lost Leon for good, and Roman started looking up colleges in San Diego.

Too much to think about on a Monday evening.

I knew as I started the engine of my lost and found Accord where I was heading next. Though I knew I'd face a lecture about my waning church attendance, I also knew I'd get a hot meal with few questions about what was really bothering me.

My mother wasn't into details and sob stories. She just wanted to make sure I was living right.