16. Gilbert
16
GILBERT
“Since our last session, have you noticed any specific triggers or patterns?” I ask, notebook open, pen poised for scribbling.
Emily — my 11:00 A.M patient — hesitates, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. “There was one night…”
I remain focused as we delve into the details, providing a steady, calming presence. Each patient brings their own story and pain, and hers is, well, complicated. In addition, these sessions are court-ordered, which does little to instill her confidence in the system — the same one meant to protect her.
My role as her psychiatrist is not just to listen, but to guide her through the labyrinth of her emotions, helping her find the light amidst the darkness. And even though this is our sixth session, I don’t see her warming up to me anytime soon.
Per her request, I stay behind my desk for a good portion of our sessions, the surface immaculate except for a single open notebook, a fountain pen, a closed laptop, and a small framed photo of Rachel and myself. Emily, on the other hand, sits in the plush, gray armchair facing my desk. I comply with her request because she needs to feel like she has some semblance of control over her own life, and if this is how she gets that, then so be it.
At twenty-nine, Emily’s goal is to get out of a conservatorship imposed on her by her grandparents. I read her files, and I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt that they had good intentions when it was put in place a decade ago. Now, it borders on the financial and emotional abuse of a vulnerable adult — one who so desperately wants control of her life. Yet the adults who should be helping her achieve this are more interested in keeping her under their thumb.
“I called a friend,” Emily is saying. “She came over and stayed with me until I calmed down. We talked about everything and nothing, just to keep my mind off it.”
I nod, jotting down a few notes. I underline the word friend a few times, to expand on it in our next session. She’s on a roll, and I won’t interrupt her flow.
Initially, I made it clear to her that she didn’t have to like me, but she needed to trust me. To trust that I’d have her best interests at heart. Even though she had no reason to. I consider each session a step forward, a small victory in her ongoing battle against… well, everything. She’s come a long way and knows she still has a long way to go.
Court-ordered therapy was Emily’s grandparents’ idea, and they found a judge to sign off on it. Aspen Grove Psychiatry has contracts with the Justice Department for cases like this. With my background, I was the ideal psychiatrist to take her on. Also, I am the only doctor in the building who doesn’t have a regular client rooster because, up until three months ago, I was rarely in the country long enough to build and maintain one.
However, my job isn’t to side with Emily’s grandparents. They also aren’t privy to her medical records without her consent, which she made it clear she was not interested in giving. And when I let them know that I don’t work for them, I work with Emily, that certainly didn’t sit well with them. Too bad they don’t have the authority to pull the plug on Emily’s court-ordered therapy sessions — which they insisted on — not without giving the judge a damn good reason.
Frankly, Emily is not obligated to warm up with me. In fact, I’d prefer it if she didn’t. It means my subconscious won’t inadvertently draw parallels between her situation and Ashlynn’s. I know it’s nowhere near the same thing. Still, the circumstances that led both women up to the situations in which they find themselves are pretty damn similar.
The difference?
Ashlynn has a robust support system — including me — but Emily never did.
At the end of our session, I jot a few remaining thoughts. She slips out, but not before I detect a glimmer of hope in her eyes — the first one I’ve seen from her in weeks. It is moments like these, however brief and fleeting, that make this work I do worthwhile.
Quietly, I click the door closed and lock it before moving over to stand by the window. The view overlooks the bustling city, the noise muted by the thick glass. The vibrant life outside is a stark contrast to the serene calm of my office, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the city.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment to center myself. Balancing administrative duties with patient care can be challenging, but it’s a rhythm I’ve grown accustomed to. I own Aspen Grove Psychiatry, overseeing a team of talented psychiatrists, each with their own specialty. It’s a demanding role but one I find deeply fulfilling. The administrative tasks can sometimes be overwhelming, but patient care and the opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life keep me going.
Administrative tasks can be done from anywhere in the world. My Office Manager, Terri, keeps things running when I am not physically present. She’s been with me since the doors opened and is practically a fixture around here.
Speaking of fixtures, my office is as draconian as it gets. The room is tastefully decorated with neutral tones, a mix of modern and classic furniture, and a few carefully selected pieces of abstract art on the walls. It is intended to make the patients feel comfortable in the space, yet impersonal and detached. Now that I am here to stay, I should do something to the space.
A soft buzz from the intercom on my desk interrupts my thoughts. I return to my chair, settling in before pressing the button. “Yes, Terri?”
My Office Manager’s efficient voice comes through. “Dr. McKenzie, your 12:30 P.M. with Dr. Jenkins is confirmed, and Dr. Flemming requested a brief meeting regarding a new patient case.”
“Thank you, Terri,” I say, glancing at the clock — it’s 12:10 P.M. “Please inform Dr. Jenkins I’ll be with her in ten.”
I lean back in my chair, savoring a quiet moment before heading to Sheila’s office. Even though I’ve finished seeing patients for the day, I still have administrative tasks to complete. My notebook is still open in front of me, filled with notes from Emily’s session. I close it, placing it neatly to the side.
I pick up the framed photo of Rachel and myself, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. It was Rachel’s idea to keep one on my desk here, a gag gift meant to keep our charade believable. It belongs to the same photo series on the nightstand in Rachel’s old room. Or, at least I think it’s still there, I haven’t been able to bring myself to set foot in there since she died.
Gosh, I miss her. The void left by Rachel’s absence is a constant reminder of the personal sacrifices I’ve made for my career.
But that ends now. I want to put down roots somewhere. Here, for the time being.
And… I still haven’t found the right time to broach the subject of Ashlynn moving into Rachel’s old room. Or rather, the other primary bedroom.
Ashlynn has officially lived with me for six weeks now, and I’d like for her to think of the house as her home… because it is. Granted, the first thing she and I did together was update her old bedroom to reflect her current tastes, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that it wasn’t enough. That I should be doing more to show her that she’s not the burden she thinks she is.
She’s not a burden, period.
That she even thinks that doesn’t sit well with me. It irks me so much that I want to find the unfortunate soul who put that idea in her head and wring their stupid neck. It’s irrational, I know. Then again, in the last few weeks, I have realized that when it comes to Ashlynn, not all of my actions have been rational.
There’s so much more to her than meets the eye. For someone who pretty much lived alone for the last five years, she’s very perceptive, thoughtful, patient, and driven. She’s also very, very dedicated to ballet. Bonnie wasn’t kidding about that. I never have to wonder where she is or what she’s doing at any given time. She does the same things, goes to the same places, and meets with the same people.
She goes to Bluegrass High School five days a week because she has to. She goes to Brookfield Performing Arts Academy six days a week because she wants to, plus an hour in the studio every night before bed. She goes to the café near Brookfield three days a week for, in her words, any beverage but coffee, to do homework and people-watch. She’s gone to two dance competitions so far, not to compete but to support her classmates. Russ goes with her for those. And, on her days off, she spends at least three hours in the studio working on her technique — modified versions of it anyway — plus she free- styles to whatever strikes her mood. Surprisingly, she has been taking it easy on her feet. Every time she doesn’t, another week gets tacked on to her ‘sentence.’ Thus far, it’s been doubled. I’ll be the first to admit it’s a novel technique to force an overachiever to slow down. I also suspect it’s because they know she practices at home anyway.
Free time is a foreign concept to her.
It’s easy to forget that she’s only eighteen because she doesn’t act like one. I can’t say I know what eighteen-year-olds today are like, only that I was eighteen once, and my priorities then were different. For someone so young, her dedication and drive rival my own. Every waking minute of her day is accounted for, so she’s out like a light by the time her head hits her pillow at night. Also, either she’s making herself too exhausted to have nightmares, or the house really is helping since the frequency of her nightmares has been on the decline.
Then there’s her social life. Or lack-of.
At first, I wondered if she had any friends. Now I know that with her jam-packed daily schedule, she doesn’t have time for friends. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, and she’ll tell me when she’s ready to. Still, I no longer push the subject because I selfishly enjoy having her to myself at home in whatever capacity she gives me.
Like her, I don’t have many friends either. Lots of colleagues, yes. But it’s hard to cultivate those relationships when you are hardly ever around. That’s why Rachel and I worked despite the distance. She was my anchor, my partner in every sense of the word, minus the carnal aspect. We were married to each other but committed to our respective careers. Our deal was if we found someone with whom we wanted both, all we had to do was say the D word.
With Ashlynn, I find myself in a similar situation, yet different in so many ways. I am drawn to her more than I ever thought possible. It’s a revelation that both concerns and liberates me. I look forward to our daily morning coffee and tea sessions, where we talk about nothing and everything. Sometimes, it’s the only time we interact all day, so the fact that she chooses to start her mornings with me rather than in the studio means a lot.
Yet, a lingering unease persists. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s keeping me at arm’s length, ready to depart at the first opportunity. I have no evidence to support this, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I want her closer to me.
Nothing whatsoever.
Powering up my laptop, I pull up my schedule for the week. Terri has already organized it, ensuring every hour is accounted for, for all of Aspen Grove’s psychiatrists. I scan through my appointments, making mental notes of meetings and patient sessions.
As I review my schedule, something pops up — a new and last-minute addition. I’m not sure why Dr. Morrissey wants to meet with me virtually this afternoon, but it never is good. There are a few consultations this week and a staff meeting on Thursday.
Hmm… Thursday. I’ll be meeting with the forensic accountant for Ashlynn’s accounts during that time, so I’ll have to miss the staff meeting. I shoot a quick email to Terri about blocking off my afternoon that day. With the necessary adjustments made, it’s time to tackle the one consult I definitely haven’t been putting off: Ashlynn’s therapy.
A soft knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.
“Come in,” I call out, knowing it’s probably one of my colleagues.
I put the photo frame back in its place as Dr. Jenkins — Sheila — walked in, a warm smile on her face.
Sheila is one of the psychiatrists I employ, specializing in trauma and PTSD. She’s been an invaluable asset to Aspen Grove, and a personal friend — but not that kind of personal friend. Not that it matters.
Gosh, why am I being so defensive?
“Hey, Gilbert,” she says, taking a seat across from me. “Terri said you wanted to talk?”
“I was coming to you.”
She shrugs. “Thought I’d save you the trip. Unless you’d like to make this a working lunch.”
“Not for this,” I reply, leaning forward. “It’s about one of Dr. Kaplan’s patients. We have some… mutual acquaintances, which makes it a potential conflict of interest.”
Sheila nods, her expression serious. “For you or the patient?”
“Both,” I confirm. My voice sounds steady, but inside, I’m anything but calm. “She’s coming back; whether it’ll be short-term or long-term is up to her. And given the circumstances, I believe it would be best for her to see another psychiatrist.
She listens intently, understanding the nuances of such situations. “I see. And you’d like me to take over her case.”
“I do. I think your expertise and fresh perspective would benefit her.”
Sheila leans back in the chair. “Mutual acquaintances, huh? Care to elaborate?”
I hesitate, wondering how much of it is mine to share and how much it should be Ashlynn’s. A beat passes, and I settle on, “It’s… complicated.”
She lifts a curious brow. “Try me.”
“Resuming therapy was one of my stipulations, so it’s safe to say she’s not too thrilled about it.”
Sheila’s eyes narrow slightly, a mix of curiosity and concern. “Gilbert, you’re being intentionally vague about this, and that’s not like you. If there’s a conflict of interest, I need to know the details to fully understand the situation. A name would help.”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Ashlynn Crane.”
She goes silent, and her expression shifts, a mix of surprise and something else — disapproval, perhaps. Her gaze falls to the picture of Rachel and me on my desk.
Sheila wasn’t Rachel’s biggest fan. She also wasn’t privy to the true nature of Rachel’s and my relationship. She had her suspicions and had even asked about it once, but I neither confirmed nor denied it. That oversight was intentional, of which I take full responsibility. And after Rachel died, I simply didn’t see the point.
Then again, Sheila did see Everett Crane punch me at Rachel’s and Hannah’s funeral. That wasn’t a secret; a lot of people witnessed it. It was no secret that Rachel and Hannah were best friends. It made sense that we did a joint funeral for both, and they were buried in the same cemetery. For all anyone knew, Everett was a grief-stricken husband lashing out. I saw no point in explaining what had transpired, so people drew their own conclusions.
The silver lining here is that I wasn’t legally responsible for Ashlynn when she saw Dr. Kaplan back then, so as far as anyone’s concerned, there wasn’t a conflict of interest then. The last thing I would ever do is jeopardize a patient’s chances at recovery by not disclosing a connection like this, and I hold all of Aspen Grove’s psychiatrists to the same standard.
Sheila sighs, shaking her head slightly. “Ashlynn’s therapy could be impacted by this.”
“I know,” I say, my voice tinged with frustration. “That’s why I’m asking you to take over her case. Like I said, I think your expertise in trauma and fresh perspective would benefit her.”
Her expression softens, albeit slightly. “And this stipulation? What’s that about?”
“I’m her legal guardian.”
That curious brow lifts again. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”
“I told you, it’s complicated.” Reaching into my drawer, I pull out Ashlynn’s file and hand it over. “I had Terri pull her file, plus the notes from her sessions with Dr. Kaplan. I’ve read it, and before you ask, I have Ashlynn’s written consent to access all of her medical records. That doesn’t mean I’ll abuse it.”
“I wasn’t implying that.” She takes the file, glancing through it. “You realize you can’t force someone to go to therapy, right?”
“Her father died recently.”
Sheila’s lips part, then close. She studies me, and eventually, that warm smile returns. “Alright, Gilbert. I’ll take her on. It goes without saying that?—”
“You don’t need to finish that sentence, Sheila. I’d like to think that you know me better than that.”
“I do know you. So, loathe as I am to ask, does she know?”
I know what she’s asking, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her to pry that information out of me. So I counter with, “Does who know what?”
“About her mother and your wife?” My lips thin out, and Sheila sighs again, shaking her head slightly. “Even in death, you’re still protecting her.”
I point to the folder in her hands. “Can we please get back to that?”
We spend a few minutes discussing the next steps, ensuring a smooth transition. When she leaves, I feel a sense of relief mixed with the sting of Sheila’s words. I know Ashlynn will be in good hands with her, just as I know how important it is to maintain those professional boundaries and transparency at Aspen Grove, where we always put the patient’s well-being first.
Personally, though?
That remains to be seen.