Blood Sugar(70)

I knew Gabrielle’s schedule pretty well because, similarly to how I discussed my daily minutiae with Alisha, Gabrielle discussed hers with me. For about a year she had been able to fully support herself writing, so she no longer bartended. She usually worked from her one-bedroom apartment on Fourteenth Street and Ocean Drive. I did know her exact address but felt showing up at her home would definitely seem too aggressive on my part. I needed to see her in a public setting, so she wouldn’t feel as threatened.

So I went to drag queen bingo at the Standard hotel on the Venetian Causeway. It was a retro space, filled with modern tastemakers. The event was held every Monday night, and Gabrielle was a regular. It started at seven and finished at ten. So I got there at 6:45 to be sure not to miss her. I wore a baseball cap pulled way down, paid my twenty dollars, and hoped no one would recognize me. I sat down with my bingo card and played so I would fit in. Glancing up every so often to look for her. I hit bingo but did not raise my hand. I didn’t need the added attention. Gabrielle never showed up.

I had to wait another whole week to try and see her again, and I kept myself mostly at home cocooned with Mr. Cat, giving him the new insulin that hadn’t been seized as evidence and letting him indulge in the running faucet. I had dinner with my parents several times. Not out. Always in. Away from strangers and now-unfriendly friends.

That next Monday night I went back to bingo. Gabrielle walked in with two friends at ten minutes to seven. Based on her descriptions in therapy, I knew immediately who these friends were. The tall one with the blunt bangs was Lola, and she had just had an abortion because she had slept with two different guys in the same week and couldn’t handle having a baby without knowing who the father was during the pregnancy. Gabrielle thought this was a bullshit reason and wanted Lola to just admit she was having an abortion because she didn’t want a baby at all, which was totally okay. I had gently reminded Gabrielle not to be judgmental since no one could really know what Lola was going through except for Lola. The shorter girl with a blond pixie cut was Kat and she probably had a drinking problem, although Gabrielle wasn’t sure if it was something she should address with her or not. I asked Gabrielle if the situation was in reverse, and it was Gabrielle with the possible drinking problem, would she want Kat to mention it to her? Gabrielle said, “Yes. That’s what friends are for. To look out for each other.” And so there was her answer.

I didn’t want to wait for Gabrielle to spot me first because I didn’t want her to feel like I was lurking. So I walked right up to her, again wearing my baseball cap pulled low. She seemed confused and disoriented. Then embarrassed. Like when you’re a kid and you randomly see one of your teachers out in public and not in the classroom. Seeing your therapist in public has the same effect. Therapists are people too and it’s extremely weird to think about. They have wants and needs and allergies and cars and different outfits. Thinking about it too much is enough to make a person dizzy.

Usually if a therapist sees a patient out and about, they might make eye contact in acknowledgment and then ignore the patient. Therapists don’t want to overstep their boundaries, so they leave it up to the patient to make the first move. Maybe the patient says, “Hello.” Maybe they give a quick smile and a wave. Maybe they avoid the entire thing, dart out of the vicinity, and then talk about it incessantly in their next session. Some people overdo it and yell out, “Ha! That’s my therapist! Oh my God, this is so weird!” One of these four responses usually happens. But this was not a usual circumstance.

Gabrielle quickly processed how odd it was to run into me there; then I saw a look of paranoia sweep over her face. It occurred to her that I knew everything about her and her two friends. She willed me with her eyes to please not say anything about anything. To please not sabotage her life by exploiting all her secrets at drag queen bingo. Of course I would never. Besides the obvious fact that it would be absolutely unethical and cruel, I could lose my license over that sort of behavior. I might have been accused of murder, but I still had my license and a strong sense of professional ethics. Then I saw a new expression on her face. Her paranoia turned into fear. I wanted to put my hand on her arm, to comfort her. But I stopped just shy, not wanting to seem physically threatening in any way. So instead I seemed awkward as I jerked my arm back down.

“Gabrielle, I just need five minutes.”

Even after all these years of being her therapist, I couldn’t predict her behavior for sure. It wasn’t an exact science. She might scream. Or run. Or punch me in the face like I almost did to Renee. She looked around the crowded hotel lobby, decorated in high-end plastic furniture and neon kitsch, filled with aging drag queens and young hipsters wearing rompers, and she weighed her options.

I caught her searching eyes and said, “I promise you. After I tell you what I need to tell you, I will leave you alone forever.”

This was clearly what she wanted most, and she wanted it to start as soon as possible. She turned to her friends. “I’ll be back in five minutes. If I’m not, get security. And the real police.”

Ouch. But I understood.

I inched her into a corner of the main lobby, where it was sort of private. And I explained. “When I was little, like a tiny child, I loved to eavesdrop, to gain insight into a world much larger than my own. And I was really good at it. I sort of melted into the scenery and I heard all sorts of things I wasn’t supposed to hear and I almost never got caught listening in.”