Ford’s receptionist wasn’t in yet and the door to his office was ajar, so I dispensed with the formalities and just barged in. “I’ve got a problem,” I announced.
He looked up from the medical journal he was perusing and queried, “Another one?” with an amused smirk.
“Yes, and I hate to bother you with this when you’ve already been so helpful with Izzy and Victor and my financial woes, but,” I started to pace back and forth in front of his desk, “it’s a problem with a patient, and I don’t know what to do. I stressed out about it all weekend. I’m sure that this is all my fault, that I said, or did, something wrong . . .”
Ford got up and came around to my side of the desk. “Have a seat,” he instructed, taking me by the arms and gently pushing me down into a chair.
He, then, perched himself on the edge of his desk and spoke in a soothing tone that invited confidences, “Tell me what happened.”
“A patient told me that he loved me,” I said without preamble.
I expected Ford to react with surprise, concern, maybe even a little sympathy, but instead, he burst out laughing like I’d just told him the most hilarious joke he’d ever heard. He laughed so hard that he had to remove his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“This is not funny!” I rose to my feet with righteous indignation.
“It is, actually.” Ford returned his wire-frames to their perch on the bridge of his nose. “First, poor besotted Victor and now, this patient. You really put the whammy on men.”
“Not intentionally,” I claimed in my defense. “Victor was an isolated case. I’ve never had a man obsess over me the way he did, and in the final analysis, his obsession had nothing to do with me. It was just his ego. He couldn’t fathom the concept of a woman not wanting him.
And this patient . . . I have no idea why he’s suddenly professing his undying love. I never flirted with him, or encouraged him, in any way. And he knows absolutely nothing about me as a person. How can you love somebody you don’t even know?”
Turning serious, Ford said, “It’s not uncommon for a patient to fall in love with a therapist of the opposite sex. Surely, you’ve read about Transference?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t know anyone who’s actually experienced it. Have you?”
He shrugged. “There were one or two patients who developed crushes on me during my residency at Sinai. Apparently, white lab coats are a big turn-on for some women.”
“So, you’ve dealt with the amorous attentions of patients before. Great!” I plopped down next to him on the desk. “Tell me how to fix this. Is there something in particular I can say to disabuse this patient of the notion that he has romantic feelings for me? I tried to tell him that he was confusing gratitude with love the other night, but he was so drunk that he wasn’t able to follow my reasoning.”
Ford frowned. “You saw a patient at night, and he came to the session drunk?”
“Not exactly. We had a session on Friday afternoon. A session that I thought went very well because we made a breakthrough about the patient’s mother. She was very cold and distant, so he grew up not trusting women and being unable to form close bonds with them.”
“What about the drunk part?” Ford wondered.
“I’m getting there,” I assured him. “So, I went home, fell asleep early, and was woken up by a call on my cell phone around 10:30. It was Mi—, I mean my patient. He was at a bar and he was obviously three sheets to the wind. He said that he’d been drinking because his life had no meaning and he was depressed.”
“And that’s when he confessed his feelings for you?”
“No, that didn’t happen until later. First, I went to the bar and picked him up.”
Ford’s jaw dropped down so far that I could see the fillings in his molars. “You can’t be serious.”
“The man was incapacitated; he needed a ride home. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Call a cab. Call one of his buddies, or a family member. Let him sleep it off in the alley behind the bar.”
“I couldn’t do that! He’s my patient. I’m responsible for him.”
“The only thing you’re responsible for is the man’s mental health. Take it from someone who’s been doing this a lot longer than you. You can’t get involved with your patients’ lives outside your office. If you do, they’ll start taking advantage. You are their doctor, not their friend or their mother.”
I sighed unhappily. “Okay, so I screwed up.”
“It was a rookie mistake,” Ford excused my lapse in good judgment. “You’ll know better next time. Finish the story.”
“I took Mitch,” forgetting that I was supposed to be protecting my patient’s identity, I used his name, “back to his apartment. He was feeling woozy, so I helped him into bed. Then, I got him some aspirin and a cool cloth for his forehead.”
“Jesus,” Ford was incredulous, “no wonder he thinks he’s in love with you. You come when he calls, you take care of him when he’s sick, you’re warm, compassionate, supportive—”
“So, I should stop being all of those things?”
“Of course not. Those are the qualities that make you a good therapist. But you weren’t in a controlled environment with this patient the other night. You were in his bedroom, which is a very intimate setting, and you were treating him with tenderness, so he saw you as a woman rather than just a doctor. Factor in your physical charms and you’ve got insta-love, or maybe lust. He didn’t try to put a move on you, did he?” His brow furrowed with concern.
Physical charms? Ford had just said that I had “physical charms,” which implied that he found me attractive, but was that in an abstract way like ‘She’s got a pretty face and a decent body. Maybe I’ll set her up with my brother the next time he’s in town?‘or in a ‘Wow, she’s so gorgeous she could give Eva Mendes a run for her money. If I weren’t a married man, I’d whisk her off to some secluded beach where we could sunbathe naked and make love all—’
“Did he?” Ford repeated the question, startling me out of my reverie.
“Huh? Oh, no, no, Mitch didn’t try anything; he was too sloshed. Come to think of it, he was so sloshed that he might not even remember what transpired between us the other night. That happens, right? A man can get so inebriated that he has a complete blackout and forgets everything that took place while he was under the influence?” My voice was hopeful.
Ford grimaced, which didn’t bode well. “It can happen, but I wouldn’t count on it if I were you.”
I deflated. “Damn.”
“Just proceed under the assumption that your patient will have total recall, and you’ll have to discuss his declaration of love. Explain Transference to him and why he’s feeling the way he is. Tell him that the two of you can work through this issue together, or you can refer him to another therapist.”
“I hope I don’t have to do that. I kind of like Mitch and I thought we were making progr—” I trailed off when I saw the disapproving expression on Ford’s face. “Alright, I know that I’m not supposed to have favorites among my patients, but I can’t help it. I find Mitch entertaining, even if he is a narcissistic man whore.”
Ford shook his head. “You women always like the bad boys.”
“We like nice doctors, too,” I said, giving him a playful nudge with my shoulder.
He chuckled just as his über-efficient receptionist, Trish, strolled into the office with a mug of steaming hot coffee in one hand, and the morning’s mail in the other.
“Good morning, Dr. Fordham, Dr. Alvarez,” she greeted us in a polite, professional tone.
“I guess it’s 7:45,” I remarked, pushing myself off the desk and into a standing position. Trish was so punctual that she was more reliable than a clock.
“On the dot,” she replied as she set the mug and mail down next to Ford. “Would you like some coffee, Dr. Alvarez? I made a full pot, so there’s plenty. Two creams and one sugar, right?”
The woman had made me coffee once, three weeks ago, and she remembered how I liked it? I was impressed, although I would never have wanted to trade her robotic competence for Margo’s warmth and quirky humor.
“Thank you, Trish, but I need to get back to my office. I have a patient at nine, and some paperwork to catch up on before he arrives.”
With a nod, the reed-thin brunette quietly returned to the waiting area.
“Your nine o’clock’s not the infatuated patient, is it?” Ford asked.
“No, he won’t be in until Wednesday, so I have a couple of days to formulate a strategy.”
“Don’t overthink it. You’ll drive yourself—”
“Crazy,” I said the word along with him.
“Fortunately, if that happens, I know an excellent psychiatrist,” I grinned archly, then turned to leave.
“Let me know how it goes,” Ford called after me.
“Will do.” I gave him a wave over my shoulder.
“Mornin’, Margo.” I found my receptionist busily typing away on her keyboard.
“I hope you haven’t eaten breakfast yet,” she responded.
As a matter of fact, I hadn’t. I’d been so keyed up about the Mitch situation that I’d rushed into work without the thought of food so much as crossing my mind. “No, why?”
“Saul woke up with a craving for my sour cream coffee cake early this morning, so I worked my magic in the kitchen and . . .” She reached under her desk, pulled out a Tupperware container, and peeled back its lid, revealing a large piece of the confectioners’ sugar-dusted breakfast delicacy. YUM!
“Oh, Margo!” I breathed in the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon and smiled with pleasure. “You are too good to me. Thank you!”
Walking behind her desk, I deposited an appreciative kiss on her powdered cheek, then made a grab for the coffee cake.
“Mrs. Scolari cancelled her appointment this morning. She wants you to call her so that she can explain why.” Margo handed me a pink message slip with the Scolaris’ phone number on it.
“Okay, thanks.” Taking the piece of paper and the Tupperware, I headed for my office.
By the time I reached my desk, I’d already devoured half the walnuts on top of the cake. I knew that I had a fork somewhere in one of my desk drawers, but I didn’t feel like wasting valuable eating time while I looked for it. So, I just used my fingers, which were soon sticky and covered with crumbs, making it next-to-impossible to call Mrs. Scolari without creating a big mess. I worked around this problem by pressing down on the number keys of my phone with the eraser end of a pencil.
“Hello?”
I quickly swallowed the half-chewed piece of coffee cake in my mouth. “Annette, this is Dr. Alvarez. I’m returning your call.”
“Dr. Alvarez, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I wanted to let you know that Jo-Jo and I won’t be coming in for any more sessions.”
Jo-Jo? I’d never heard Annette call her husband by that name before.
“Oh, really?” I licked some powdery sugar off my thumb. “Why not?”
“So much has happened in the last few weeks, Dr. Alvarez.”
“You’ve been on vacation most of that time, right?”
“Yes, Jo-Jo surprised me with a trip to Paris, the city I’ve dreamed about visiting ever since I was a little girl. It was the most romantic thing,” she rhapsodized. “One day, he just came home from work with the plane tickets and said that he was taking me on a second honeymoon. We left the kids with my parents and took off the next day.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“It was! I really didn’t think that Jo-Jo had it in him to be so spontaneous. I can’t remember the last time the two of us went anywhere by ourselves. And we had the most wonderful time! We took long walks along the Seine, had candlelit dinners with lots of wine and delicious food, went dancing, and the best part was that we talked, really talked, about our relationship and what we needed from each other.”
“Wow, sounds like quite an eventful trip.” Hard to believe that this was the same couple who never communicated and had been miserable for years.
“I’m so happy, Dr. Alvarez, and so is Jo-Jo. We feel like our marriage is finally back on track. And we have you to thank for that.”
“You do?” I mumbled, coffee cake crumbs spilling out of my partially opened mouth.
“Of course! I don’t know what you said to my husband when you spoke to him alone at our last session, but it obviously had a huge effect on him. He’s been like a different man ever since.”
Behold the power of threats and coercion!
“I’m just glad that things have worked out for the two of you.”
“We’re really grateful for everything you’ve done for us, Dr. Alvarez. You’re a terrific therapist, and I’ll definitely recommend you to my friends.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I needed all the help I could get putting butts on my couch. “And remember, I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Good luck, Annette.” I punched the speakerphone button, disconnecting the call.
Well, I’d saved a marriage, but lost some vitally important income. At least, I still had my sour cream coffee cake. With a sigh, I stuffed another piece in my mouth.