“Okay,” she says, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and her left shoe string untied as she walks down the hallway to my office.
I turn back to JP. My chest is tight and my throat hurts. “This isn’t really allowed, JP.”
His chin snaps back. “I mean, it’s a little awkward, but—”
“But your family. She’s my patient. We’re kind of... dating.”
“Does that mean I’m your boyfriend?” he asks, teasing. He doesn’t realize how serious this could be if anyone found out or how inappropriate it is for a therapist to be sleeping with her patient’s uncle.
“You were in my bedthis morning,” I whisper-shout.
He chuckles quietly. “I remember.”
I drag my hands down my face. “Just lay low, okay? I’ll figure it out.”
His gaze narrows on me. He can obviously see I’m distraught, but he clearly has no indication of how messy this can be.
The receptionist is no longer on the phone, so more loudly I say, “We’ll be done in an hour. The restroom is around the corner if you need it and there’s fresh coffee over there.”
“Thank you,” he says. To the naked ear, it sounds normal. Polite. Professional. But to mine, I sound like a fraud, and the way JP is smiling lets me know he holds all of my secrets.
I avert my eyes and head down the hallway to meet Ellie in my office. I pass by the doors of the two other therapists here and one psychiatrist, and at this moment, I want to bang each of their doors down and ask, this isn’t as big of a deal as they make it out to be in grad school, right?
Dr. Flanigan would laugh in my face. Everything is textbook. Black and white. Right and wrong. And this—I glance at Ellie as I enter my office—is so inappropriate. Anytime a therapist has a relationship with a family member of their patient, especially sexual, it is what the textbooks call a dual relationship, and it shifts the power dynamic between the therapist and the patient.
I can’t date my patient’s uncle. I can’thave sexwith my patient’s uncle.
His face flashes across my mind and my chest hurts when I think of how good the past three weeks have been, and a flailing wish that I could redact the third statement in the Clinical Mental Health Counselor Declaration.
I will engage in my profession with integrity and in keeping with codes of ethics, laws, and the best practices of clinical mental health counseling.
Psph... What code of ethics?
The back of my neck starts to sweat and I glance around the room, finding five things I can see... the desk, the chair, the coffee table, the fluorescent light, and the maple tree outside of the window.
Four things I can touch... the doorknob, the plush chair, the coffee table, and my coffee mug.
Three things I can hear... the sound machine in the corner, a car backfiring in the parking lot, my heart pounding in my ears.
Two things I can smell... Ellie’s body spray and my deodorant—which is currently working on overdrive because my pits are sweating.
One thing I can taste... the bitter taste of disappointment.
I deflate and take a sip of coffee instead.
Ellie sits on the gray couch across from me in my leather tufted chair. “So, how has the week been?” I ask, keeping things open-ended.
She seems more on edge than usual, rubbing her palms against her jeans, and I’m certain she knows I’ve been falling for her uncle the past few weeks.
“Fine.”
She’s being shorter than usual as well.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
Again, very short.
