Confidential(27)

Mom had been clean for so many years that I never thought of her that way anymore. Since I was six, she’d been more than clean; she’d been an example. She went back to school, got her life on track, made her amends, and sponsored other addicts who looked up to her. She became a loving and attentive mother. To my knowledge, she hadn’t had a relapse in almost twenty years.

But the love of her life was dying—and she just found out that love was a pedophile who’d betrayed her with her own child.

There was a clatter in the waiting room, like someone was knocking things over. Not throwing them, exactly, but a racket that loud didn’t seem entirely accidental, either.

Dr. Baylor got this unsettled look I’d never seen before, no matter what I told him, and he said, “I’m so sorry, I just need to make sure everything’s okay out there.” He opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him.

There were two sound machines—one inside and one outside—and they were emitting soothing, masking white noise, so at first, I could hear only snippets from where I was sitting on the couch. Still, it was enough for me to gather that whoever was out there was no client. It was a lover, and it wasn’t going terribly well.

I knew I should stay where I was, that I should respect Dr. Baylor’s privacy, but this was my chance, my glimpse. I moved over to the door, putting my head flat against it.

The woman was telling him that he couldn’t keep letting her down. “I deserve better than this, don’t you get that? It’s not fair.” His response was a low, comforting murmur, but she wasn’t having it. “Do you have any compassion left for me, or is it all reserved for them?” She sounded aggrieved, near tears, and I could make out that he was telling her that of course he had compassion for her, but he was at work, he was in with a client, they’d talk later. She burst out, “Fuck your clients, just like you’ve fucked me!”

I took a chance, and I turned off the sound machine on my side of the door. Then I could hear him say, “Don’t run away like this.” He told her that he had just one more client and then they could talk all night. “I love you. I’ll meet you at your place as soon as I can.”

“Unless I’m meeting you at yours, don’t bother,” she said.

It sounded like they were close to a resolution, as both their voices had dropped. I turned the sound machine back on and scooted away from the door, back to the couch. Several minutes passed. I didn’t hear how it ended.

I was dying to crack the door and catch sight of the hysterical woman Dr. Baylor loved. I wished there was some subtle way to get to the window and see her walking away from the building. But he was coming back in.

I had no idea how to play this, whether I could pretend I didn’t hear any of their confrontation. I couldn’t even remember what I had been talking about before the interruption. I was too shocked by what I’d just learned: Dr. Baylor was in love with someone, and she was crazy.

I should have figured he had someone in his personal life. Plenty of women would want him, and he had needs, just like any other man. I’d just opted not to think about it. My fantasy was that he existed only for me, that he lived for our fifty minutes together.

“I apologize,” he said, taking his seat. He was visibly disheveled by the encounter, as if he’d been repeatedly running his hands through his hair. I’d never seen him embarrassed before.

“It’s okay,” I said, pleased to absolve him for once.

“Let’s just be straight with each other.” He leaned forward, his gaze direct. “What do you think you heard?”

Such strange phrasing. It wasn’t what I thought I heard; it was what I did hear. Why was he acting like I was the crazy one, when his girlfriend was?

He was just embarrassed. I could understand that. He probably wanted me to think that his life outside this room was pristine, that he had everything in hand, and honestly, before my eavesdropping, I would have assumed that.

If he chose one crazy woman, he could choose another. I might really have a chance.

He was waiting for me to tell him what I thought I’d heard. “Your girlfriend was obviously very upset,” I said.

“I’m not going to confirm or deny that.” Was he making a joke? He didn’t smile. “I don’t really like my personal life to be on display.”

“The good news is, now we’re even.” I smiled so he’d know for sure I was joking, but he remained grim. Purposeful, rather.

“You can’t repeat what you heard.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You, of all people, know that love is complicated.”

It felt like a dig or even a threat. Like he was using my past against me. But he wouldn’t do that. I must have misunderstood.

Maybe I was pondering the wrong question. The right one being: What did he think I’d overheard?

He didn’t know that I’d stopped listening. In those last few minutes, I couldn’t know what was said; I might not even want to know.

“Are you in love with her?” I asked, because it was probably the only chance I’d ever have. He was the one who’d talked about windows of opportunity. This was a door, and right then, it was cracked.

He sighed, and he seemed genuinely tormented. About his love for her? About what I may have heard?

Finally, he said, “I don’t know what I feel.”