The Mother's Promise(55)
“Rings a bell,” Paul said, though she suspected it didn’t. The truth was, it was just one in a line of professions that she’d been certain were the career for her. Journalist, PR professional, nanny. Back then, everyone told her she was a “people person.” So why not help people, she’d thought, and found herself a job as a receptionist at a psychology clinic, to see what it was all about.
Alice’s new boss, Dr. Sanders, was in his mid-forties. Good-looking, for an oldie, with an air of authority that Alice had never encountered before. It hadn’t taken Alice long to realize that Dr. Sanders was a superstar. He was revered all over the country for expertise in adolescent psychology—he had published two books on the subject and was a regular on TV as a consulting psychologist. The phones rang hot, wanting him to give keynote presentations at conferences or seminars. Clients came out of his office smiling—kids who, Alice knew, had suffered sexual assaults, loss of parents, debilitating mental illnesses. Parents phoned up daily, so desperate for a session with him they were willing to wait a year for any appointment.
Alice worked hard for Dr. Sanders. He was an old-school kind of boss, never made his own coffee, never typed up his own notes. Everyone in the office called him “Dr. Sanders.” He commanded a certain respect.
Alice wasn’t sure when she started trying to impress him, but it didn’t take long before she started going above and beyond the call of duty of a receptionist. Once, after he mentioned he liked his coffee from a certain coffeehouse on the other side of town, she made a special trip on a Saturday to pick up a jar for the office. She’d work Saturday morning if he asked her to, because the part-timers, according to him, had no idea what they were doing. It was addictive, the way he looked at her. That look of gratitude when she’d fielded a call for him—making elaborate excuses when his mother, aunt, or sister called. No wife ever called, at least not when Alice answered. He didn’t talk about personal things at work, but Alice noticed he didn’t wear a ring.
She did think about him sometimes. It wasn’t that she had a crush on him, exactly—he was too old for that. But occasionally, she wondered what it would be like to be with him. It was like wondering what it would be like to be a housewife in the 1800s—she was fairly certain she wouldn’t like it, but she wondered all the same. It was his calm, powerful nature, she supposed, that got her wondering.
One night, right as Alice was leaving the office for the evening, he called. He’d headed home an hour or so earlier to prepare for an interstate conference the next day and had left some documents at the office. It was too late to book a courier.
“Would you like me to drop them to you?” she’d said.
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he said. He always said things like that.
“I insist,” she assured him. “I’m on my way.”
The truth was, she was being nosy. Someone like Dr. Sanders was bound to have a fabulous house. And Alice was naturally curious.
He was on the phone when he answered the door and he ushered her inside. Alice hadn’t expected to be invited in and she felt a little thrill as she stepped across the threshold into the vast home. She followed him across a parquet floor into a paneled living room, glancing around wildly to check the place out. He gestured for her to sit, then wandered off, the phone still pressed to his ear. Alice glanced at the open bottle of red wine on the table. There were two glasses there, one of them clean. Was it for her? Surely not. Maybe he was expecting company? A date?
“Sorry about that,” he said a moment later, putting his phone onto the coffee table. He looked at the untouched glass, then at her. “You’re not having a drink?”
“Oh, I … I wasn’t sure it was for me,” she said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Who else would it be for?” he said.
Alice shrugged as he picked up the bottle. For the next few moments the glug of wine leaving the bottle was deafening in the silence, and it might have been the sheer awkwardness of it but Alice felt a sudden urge to flee.
“Can I ask you something, Alice?” Dr. Sanders asked, sitting down next to her and handing her the glass. He twisted his body to face hers, his elbow resting casually against the cushions.
“Uh … sure.”
“Do you enjoy working for me?”
“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Of course. It’s a great job.”
“What do you see for the future?”
Suddenly Alice understood. It was a performance review, of sorts. The realization relaxed her a little.
“Well, since you’ve brought it up,” she said, “I’ve been thinking more and more that I might like to become a therapist.”
He smiled. “I think you’d make a wonderful therapist. But I was actually asking what you see for the future personally, not professionally.”
“Oh.” She felt suddenly on guard again. She didn’t expect to have this kind of discussion with Dr. Sanders. “Well, you know … I hope I’ll get married one day. Have children.”
“The usual.”
“It’s not very original, I guess,” she admitted.
“Perhaps not. But I suspect there’s a reason everyone wants to do it.”
The silence stretched on. Alice took a gulp of wine. She waited for Dr. Sanders to say something, but he didn’t. His expression was unfamiliar, and a little unsettling.