Confidential(3)

There he was, in the doorway to his inner sanctum. “Lucy!” he said, his face creased with pleasure at my arrival. “Come on in.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You know I totally value your time—”

“I do know that.” His smile was sympathetic, and beautiful, really. I imagined he owned any room he was in. He was like the therapist version of George Clooney. He’s so much better looking than the head shot on his website that if the photo had been more accurate, I never would have called him. I thought that what I wanted was someone smart and compassionate, with an average and nondistracting appearance. How wrong I’d been.

Distraction wasn’t as much of a problem as I would have expected, though. Dr. Baylor had a knack for keeping me focused. He was such a good therapist that I was grateful for the lousy photography that brought us together.

His office was all blond wood and white furniture, with a brightly colored braided rug and some tapestries on the wall from his travels to I wasn’t sure where (I wasn’t well traveled myself). The bookshelves weren’t full of only clinical tomes but also novels and nonfiction on a host of different subjects, as well as stacks of the Economist and the New Yorker. It made it seem like I was seeing him in his natural habitat, where he felt at home. I couldn’t help noticing that when it came to reading, his tastes mirrored my own. That helped me feel at home, like for once I could relax.

Since I’d started seeing him, I had made lots of progress on my critical self-talk. When I heard the negative voice in my head, I could just turn down the volume. He’d taught me that I didn’t have to buy every thought I had, that some were just conditioning from a less-than-optimal childhood.

I settled on the white couch, trying to slow my breathing.

“Put your feet on the floor and get centered,” he said serenely. “You’re here now.”

I did as I was told.

“Are you feeling centered?” he asked. I nodded. “Good. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Oh shit. He was firing me. It was only the third time I’d been late, but he’d had enough. He had a busy practice, with a wait list. There were plenty of other clients who’d covet my evening slot.

Or he was leaving his practice, retiring early. He was moving to Bora Bora. He had a brain tumor.

“Are you okay?” He must have seen my panic, that I couldn’t handle losing him.

“I’ll be fine. What did you want to talk about?”

He studied me an extra second, then said, “Starting today, there’ll be no charge for our sessions.”

I stared at him. “You mean, we’d keep meeting every week, and I wouldn’t pay you?”

“Yes. I do a certain amount of pro bono work—”

“You mean like charity?” He pitied me. I knew it.

“I’m aware of how stressful it is for you to pay for the sessions, and I’d like to remove that stress.”

“But I’m in a six p.m. slot. That’s prime time.”

“I can afford it.” He smiled. “Let me do this for you. Please.”

I stared down at my jean-encased legs, struggling to compute what he was saying. My old friend shame rose like bile. “There are people out there who have it way worse than me. You really should give them the pro bono slot.”

“No one deserves it more.” His tone was so kind that the shame got even stronger. I’d never been able to take a compliment, and I certainly couldn’t take this. “You’d be doing me a favor. You’re one of my favorite clients, and at some point, you might have to make a choice between therapy and other essentials, and then you’d need to stop. You have so much potential that I don’t want that to happen. Really, it’s selfishness on my part.”

He was saying I was special. One of his favorites. I’d be doing him a favor to rob him of $150 an hour, four times a month—$600 of missed income?

Special. My cheeks were in flames.

“I love our conversations. I love our work. It feels almost”—he looked like he was feeling around for the word—“wrong to take money for them.”

I felt something happening in my body that definitely wasn’t shame, but when I registered what it was, I managed to be even more embarrassed. I told Dr. Baylor everything (well, within reason), but I wouldn’t tell him this. It was just too clichéd, a girl in love with her therapist.

No, I wasn’t in love. They were just feelings, that’s all, and not even precisely romantic. I’d been in love with only one man, and that was a disaster of, like, illegal proportions.

Dr. Baylor was watching me, waiting.

“Everything else will stay the same?” I said. “Everything else from the Consent to Treatment still applies?” As in, we would still be purely professional. The only difference was, I’d get to keep my $600 a month. It was almost too good to be true. If I hadn’t known Dr. Baylor’s reputation, if I hadn’t been well aware of his good heart and his commitment to his work, I might have had some reservations.

But I did know those things. What I hadn’t known before was that I was special to him. Precious.

“Everything will stay the same,” he said.

Even though I’d been the one asking the question, I was disappointed by the answer. Because normally I could tamp down the thoughts; I could tell myself how ridiculous they were because obviously someone like Dr. Baylor had a significant other, someone beautiful and poised and established, his equal, but just then, I had to face the fact. I wanted so much more.