The Golden Couple(15)
Other details have been equally easy to ascertain: their favorite neighborhood restaurant (La Ferme), their most recent vacation destination (Palm Beach), the last book Marissa adored (Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House), and how Bennett looked after he caught his first pop fly in baseball (more shocked than elated).
My crack about Marissa serving up glossy Instagram posts was spot-on. I confirmed it by checking out her social media accounts after the Bishops’ first session.
I redirect our conversation: “Matthew, at our last meeting I asked you to think of a question.”
“Yeah, I’ve got one.” He leans forward. “Did you know you were going to lose your license?”
He’s twisting the rules; the query was supposed to be for his wife, not me. But men such as Matthew are accustomed to controlling a room; he was blindsided during our first meeting, so now he’s trying to keep me off-balance as a way of evening the score.
It’s obvious Matthew has done some investigating of his own, I think as I take an unhurried sip of my water.
“I read the Washington Post profile,” Matthew adds when I don’t immediately reply.
I look at Marissa. “Did you?”
Marissa clears her throat. “Yes.… A friend forwarded it to me a little while back. Actually, it’s the reason I sought you out.”
She’s providing these details, even though I didn’t ask for them, because she’s essentially truthful. Or because she wants to appear that way.
Matthew is even more difficult to decipher. His trust and pride have been badly wounded, and that is coloring our experience together.
“No, I didn’t know I was going to lose my license.” I put down my glass. “But as I told The Post, I’ve never regretted it.”
The Washington Post reporter sought me out when he learned by reading the police blotter about the criminal charges Skylar filed. I agreed to the interview because I knew I could control the narrative better than anyone else. The reporter and I sat in my living room on two consecutive afternoons, and I shared the evolution of my ten-sessions system. He asked questions and jotted my answers in his notebook, like a kind of reverse therapy.
I recounted some of my story, but not everything. When the reporter asked how I came up with my protocal, I told him I’d had a burst of inspiration during a long run, and that even though my unorthodox methods meant I could no longer be a licensed therapist, my results spoke for themselves.
In his provocative, mostly flattering profile the reporter dubbed me “D.C.’s Maverick Therapist.”
I answered all of his questions without lying; I just omitted pieces of the truth. I need to do the same thing now to earn Matthew’s confidence.
“I’m glad you brought up the article, Matthew. It’s important for us to be direct with each other. You can ask me anything. I’m not promising I will answer, but you can ask.”
He nods. “Okay. How is talking for ten sessions—actually, eight and a half more sessions—going to fix me and Marissa?”
I smile. The second session is Disruption, and I’ve been waiting for this opening to introduce it. “You’re right. Talking alone won’t help. We could sit here for dozens of hours and not solve anything. So, I’m going to have free rein in your lives—to a reasonable degree. I’m not going to read your diaries or plant a camera in your house or spy on Bennett. But in order to help you, I need to really know you. Not just what you tell me.”
“Free rein?” Marissa echoes. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I just came from the outdoor patio at La Ferme.”
Marissa’s brow creases. She doesn’t get it yet. “We go there all the time!”
“I’ve never been there before, but I thought I should check it out. The truffle popcorn really is delicious.”
There’s a moment of silence. I watch their confused expressions morph as they get my underlying meaning. Matthew half rises from his seat, immediately on the defensive. “What the—!”
“Matthew’s addicted to that popcorn!” Marissa says. “But how—”
“Most therapists only know what you tell them,” I say. “Even if you try to be one hundred percent honest, you create an illusion based on your perceptions and unconscious biases. I need to access who you are when I’m not around in order to learn the truth, and for our work together to be effective.”
Clients understand they’re in for something different when they come to see me. But they don’t realize the full scope until they learn I’ll be scrutinizing their lives on my own time and on my own terms. Some of them terminate our contract on the spot. But most stay; sometimes even the ones I least expect.
Matthew’s a private man. Unlike his wife, he leaves almost no footprint on social media. His body language is resistant; his arms are now folded across his chest.
This might be too much for him.
What’s more interesting to me, though, is that Marissa’s body has also stiffened. She’s the public one, with her charity meetings and boutique located on a busy stretch of Connecticut Avenue and annual Halloween bash at their home, which is always transformed into an elaborate haunted house.
Matthew sinks back into his seat. His anger flares quickly, but his control over it is impressive. “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple of days. I’m not sure I can truly forgive Marissa. But I want to give it a try. So, I’m on board with this. I’ve got nothing to hide.”