One We Love, The (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

I
t could have
been worse. Paul was what I call an “easy talker.” Not always a linear one—his
eagerness often led to tangents—but mostly all I had to do was sit back and
listen. I’d forgotten how much we had in common. Paul was planning to graduate
with a social work degree as soon as he completed his internship program. He’d
also known my attacker on a first name basis, but he was sensitive enough to
refrain from bringing it up.

Once I got him talking about his schooling, he chattered on
and on. He was having trouble landing an internship placement, and I felt bad
telling him that our agency wasn’t taking any on this semester since Marshall
had left. Bob wasn’t “into” training and, hopefully, admin had better sense than
to set up an impressionable intern under his supervision anyway.

Listening to Paul was kind of bittersweet. I couldn’t
remember ever being as idealistic as he was, even when I was in college. Maybe
it had to do with my childhood, but I’d never had the kind of faith in people
that Paul obviously had. Maybe I would have been a better therapist if I had.

I couldn’t help feeling that Paul was in for a let-down. Part
of me wanted to warn him, but who was I to burst his world-view bubble? In
first grade, Bailey Bronson had taken it upon himself to inform me that a
certain jolly, fat man didn’t exist. I punched him in the nose and cried all
the way home. Nobody loves a prophet.

The other refreshing thing about Paul was his interest in
other people, specifically me. But it would serve him well in his future career,
too. I found myself telling him about the shelter. Not about my real fears, not
at first, but about how my coworker had died and named me as her professional
executor. He was fascinated. They hadn’t covered the issue in school, not even
in his ethics class, so he asked lots of questions. Good ones, too. Ones I
wished I’d thought of asking.

“This would make an awesome paper,” he said. “I bet no one
else has thought of writing about providing aftercare for your clients after .
. . you know.”

“After you die,” I filled in the blank he so delicately
avoided. He’d have to get over that. “Maybe I should make a will. Especially
now.”

“Why now?”

“Huh?” I stalled.

Paul streamlined all of his manic, high-powered energy into
focusing on my answer. ‘Huh’ wasn’t going to get it. “Why now? Why would you
need a will?”

“Look, I don’t really want to get into it. I’ll sound
crazy.”

“No, you won’t. Not to me. Well, not unless you start
talking about little green men taking over Washington or something.”

“What? You don’t believe in aliens?” I said.

“I don’t believe they’re green. But I’ll believe
you
.
What’s going on?”

I debated how to answer. “There are some strange things
going on in that place. Instead of arranging for me to assess and refer Regina’s
clients myself, they went and transferred them to the two administrators. I can
kind of understand that, even though it goes against Regina’s instructions. The
women and kids they serve have very specific needs, and Clotilde and Lachlyn
have been working with them for years. But I’m supposed to at least have access
to Regina’s clients and their files. Yet they’re limiting it to just the last
three months. And I’ve come across some things that suggest they’ve altered
records, too.”

“Really? That’s illegal. Is it some kind of insurance scam?”

Hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think so,” I finally said.
“I don’t think many of these women have private insurance. Even if they did, I
doubt it would cover a residential stay. The shelter pretty much exists on government
grants and donations. Besides, the pages I think they were messing with had
nothing to do with financials. Very little in the client files did.”

“What do you think they’re hiding?”

Paul was looking very distressed. In his world, helpers
helped. They didn’t forge or hide documents, didn’t ignore the wishes of the
deceased, and presumably didn’t decease the wisher. Good thing he didn’t know
my suspicions there. His world would crumble.

“So enough about that, Paul. How long have you been sober
now? Couple of months, huh?”

His expressions warred between wanting to pursue the subject
and well-deserved pride in his achievement. I let him ramble happily on while I
sipped coffee and brooded.

T
uesday was just
as chaotic as Monday. To get caught up, I’d even scheduled a client for my lunch
hour—something I normally tried to avoid.

Lisa popped into my office while I was writing up progress
notes in between my 10- and 11:00 clients. As usual, she out-styled me, wearing
a combination of layered shirts in ice-blue tones and a magenta scarf that I
would have never thought to put together. Since the Snow Queen rarely left her
lair in the front office, I gave her my full attention.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Got something for you.” She handed me a file. My stomach
lurched, thinking she had found another of Regina’s stolen shelter records.
Almost immediately, however, I recognized our clinic’s system of stickers. If
I’d had any doubt, a faded yellow sticky note in Marshall’s cramped writing had
been stuck to the front. FOR REVIEW, it said. I checked the client’s name: Bettina
Reyes. Didn’t recognize it.

“This isn’t mine.” I tried to hand it back to her.

“It is now. It’s one of Regina’s. One you haven’t seen.”

I sat back with a thump and almost flipped ass-over-tea
kettle in my rickety office chair.
Another one?
“Why haven’t I seen this
one? Did someone tell you to keep it from me?”

“Paranoid much?” Despite her hurry, she took a moment to
scoff at me. Enjoyed it, too; I could tell. “It’s just been lost.”

“Lost?
You
lost
a file?” My turn to scoff. I
liked it, too.

“It was set aside for review. After Marshall left, it must
have just sat there. I found it yesterday when we were cleaning up for the
audit that never happened.”

“What kind of review? Internal or for the licensing board?”
A quick flip through the documents didn’t disclose anything out of the
ordinary.

“I don’t know. I guess if anyone knows anything it would be
Marshall. Maybe, um, you could ask him?” She waggled her eyebrows mischievously.
 

“I think it would be more appropriate to talk to Bob. I’m
sure he would have been made aware of the situation.” I refused to meet her
eyes.

“If so, he never followed up on it. Big surprise. Look, I
think the ball got dropped when Marshall left so abruptly. Regina had her hands
full between the clinic, the shelter, and you.” Lisa gave me a look that was
equal parts pointed and tender. How did she do that?

I had more questions, but a glance at the wall clock told me
I was already five minutes late for my next client. She was impatient, bipolar,
and working on anger management skills. I supposed I could tell her this was a
test.

But tonight, no matter what, I’d dig through everything one
more time. Just me, the stolen files, and this new one. Maybe some popcorn,
too. Siggy liked popcorn.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

I
allotted Siggy
four kernels of unbuttered and unsalted popcorn, but he was not impressed. He
kept leaping daintily up on the coffee table where my popcorn bowl rested,
trying to snag a pawful of buttery contraband. Miffed at my stinginess, he
refused to sit next to me on the couch. Instead, he slunk to the middle of the
room, staring with eyes like the hungry children commercials on late night TV. When
that didn’t work, he gave me the tail and stalked off down the hall toward the
bedroom.

I started with the file Lisa had given me: Bettina Reyes,
age 47, married. She’d been seeing Regina weekly since January for marital
concerns; the last session, just after Labor Day. The psychosocial history
looked unremarkable. Bettina and Frank Reyes had been married twenty-seven
years and had two grown children, both within driving distance. Regina noted
that Bettina had denied any domestic violence or abuse, something I’d thought
might connect this file to the shelter.

According to the early progress notes, it looked as though
Bettina’s primary concern was on how to “reconnect” with her husband. She
reported that he was frequently irritated with her and she didn’t know how to
please him anymore. Frank, resistant to therapy in general and female
counselors in particular, refused all invitations to attend sessions with
Bettina, something that makes couples therapy almost impossible. Regina recorded
that she’d offered Bettina a list of male therapists in the area, but she
hadn’t included a copy, so I didn’t know to whom she’d referred the couple.

Two weeks after getting the referrals, Bettina reported that
Frank had made an appointment with a psychologist. Again no mention of who
Frank was seeing, but later notes indicated that Bettina participated in a few
sessions with Frank and his new counselor while remaining in individual therapy
with Regina.

Shortly after, an unexplained break in therapy occurred—not
uncommon, although six weeks was a bit longer than usual. When Bettina
returned, Regina noted a significant mood change from anxious and weepy to
giggly and lighthearted. Bettina denied any changes in her life, seemed
disinclined to talk about Frank or their relationship, and was elusive about
her current activities. Regina wrote “secret?” in the margin and circled it. I
tended to agree. Bettina sounded twitterpated, and cranky Frank was likely not
the source.

They continued in this fashion for another three weeks until
finally, in late May, Bettina conceded she was having an affair.

With Frank’s counselor.  

I read the passage twice, brain reeling. This had to be it.
This is what Regina was in contact with the licensing board about. Sexual
contact between a therapy professional and his client is strictly prohibited. In
my opinion, Bettina would be considered a client since she had met with her
husband and his therapist, but maybe I was wrong. Or maybe, like so many other
abusers, the therapist had justified his actions by splitting that theoretical
hair.

Only three more progress notes remained, each documenting Regina’s
efforts to educate Bettina about the nature of the therapeutic relationship and
how the other therapist’s actions constituted abuse. Bettina disagreed. She was
an adult and she wasn’t his patient. He “understood” her and was helping her
overcome her intimacy issues, which could only help her marriage. Conversely, she
and her analytic amour agreed that it would be “anti-therapeutic” to inform
Frank of their efforts on his behalf.

No kidding.

Regina, bless her, stayed firm, advising her client to
report the relationship. I could sense through Regina’s terse notes that she
was becoming frustrated with the situation. In the recommendations section of
the second to last note she wrote that she planned to seek consultation. I wondered
with whom? Marshall?

Not surprisingly, the last session didn’t go well. Regina
informed Bettina that she felt obligated, legally and ethically, to report the
violation to the authorities and that she was seeking professional advice about
her options. However, she didn’t want to act without at least trying to obtain
Bettina’s cooperation and hoped they could continue discussing the dilemma. Regina
offered to hold off for a month while they talked through the emotional
repercussions of taking action.

Bettina “became enraged and terminated the session
abruptly.” Apparently she didn’t want to conversate. She wanted to fornicate.

But “who with?” was my ungrammatical but pertinent question.
And “would somebody kill over this?” was the next.

I’d been reported to the licensing board on completely bogus
charges and had to suffer under an investigation even though my accuser had a
documented vendetta against me. I’d had enough evidence attesting to my
innocence that I hadn’t even bothered hiring an attorney, although Regina had
advised that it couldn’t hurt. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to
have the board come down on me in a situation where I really was guilty.

I had to find out who Bettina’s husband—and Bettina herself
for that matter—were seeing. The first thing I’d do at work tomorrow would be
to follow-up with Bettina and see if she would meet with me. It was a long shot,
maybe the affair had already run its course and she’d had a chance to rethink
her position.

Since I was stymied on the Reyes file, I turned to the
others. I’d already gone through them twice, but I was certain there was
something tying them together. Third time pays for all, they say, and so it
did.

I came across a set of initials on the bottom of each
discharge summary. Three letters: RTA. I couldn’t imagine how I’d missed them,
but they were tiny, block printing, and placed at the end of the narrative
portion of the form. I started paging back through the layers of papers,
searching for someone with those initials. I knew it wasn’t Regina. Her last
name was Fleisher. Just to make sure, I dug out the little funeral notice that
gets handed out to mourners. Regina Edith Fleisher.

No RTA in that.

I moved to the computer, pulling up the shelter website. The
“About Us” page had a directory of staff and volunteers with the separate page
listing the board of directors by name. No RTAs.

Sighing, I set that question aside for later, and, since I
was at the computer anyway, I decided to Google the women’s names.

Starting alphabetically and because the name seemed vaguely
familiar, I typed in “Cherly Bailey.” In this information era I figured I’d
find something, maybe a social networking site, something from the community,
things like that. Instead, I found a lot more.