We step into the waiting room, and Alfie heads straight to his office. He has a lot of patients this afternoon, and I have his session notes from yesterday to type up. It’s funny knowing so many intimate things about people I’ve never met. But his Wednesday afternoon clients are a bit of a mystery to me. I tryto picture their faces, but they’re usually just a body with a blur for a head. I’ve noticed that most of his court-ordered patients are on a Wednesday, and I wonder if that’s for my benefit. Or perhaps it’s just easier for Alfie to lump them all together so they don’t mingle with other patients.
I slip into my chair and pull out the bottom drawer, my heart pulsing in my throat.
Despite expecting it, seeing the note with the slightly wilted flower makes my chest ache.
I’ll kill any man who lays a finger on you.
My eyebrows pinch together as I suck in a sharp breath. It’s not his usual style, but I can’t deny the notes have been getting a little more extreme each week.
They started out as sweet and sort of wholesome, but they’d turned into possessive threats that I wasn’t really comfortable with.
I pull out the other notes from the last few weeks.
I hate being so close to you and not being able to touch you.
We will be together.
I know you’ve been dreaming about me.
I’ll kill any man who lays a finger on you.
When I group them together, it seems kind ofoff.There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Hey.” Alfie knocks the wooden door frame, and I scramble to collect all my notes, shoving them back under the keyboard.
“Hey.” I smile professionally, my heart hammering in my chest.
“You good?”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer quickly.
He frowns but continues. “Do you want to have lunch? Strictly professional of course.” He winks.
Part of me is relieved he’s acting normal. Maybe the notes are meant to be sexy? It’s hard to tell with written words whatthe tone is. It’s why I love psychology so much and working with patients. It’s not just their words you’re listening to. It’s their behavior, their intentions, their body language. It all adds up to tell a story. From there, you assess and create a plan to help them feel better.
“Actually, yes, I’m starving. I’ll run out and grab some.”
“Thanks, I’ll leave Sean Sanders’s notes on your desk to type up for later.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get to it this afternoon.”
???
I email the report to Alfie and save it to the patient’s files. For my own practice, I type out a few notes on what I would do for treatment, including services that may need to be informed if the patient does escalate further into their obsessive tendencies.
I think back to the charity ball where Dr. Lockwood had insinuated Alfie has an easy job here in his practice. In reality, the pressure of meeting such a range of patients could be potentially overwhelming. Mr. Sanders, for example, is undergoing court-ordered therapy, and so is Nate. But patients, such as Helen, are here because they have survived an abusive relationship and are now building a life without being constantly controlled by someone else. Alfie flips between different needs and different therapy styles with ease, and his ability to remain calm is one of my favorite things about him. Growing up with four older brothers, the noise was relentless. In our house, if you wanted to be heard, you had to shout the loudest. Sometimes I felt like my voice was never heard.
When I started therapy after I moved to Seattle, my therapist thought that might have been what made me the perfect targetfor Mr. Corbin. He was looking for someone who wanted to be listened to. He knew exactly what I needed and quickly became that person for me. It wasn’t until after a few weeks that he started to punish me for certain things I did or said. He would hold things against me until I apologized and promised not to do it again. But the goalposts always moved, and I never knew if I was doing something wrong or whether he was happy. It was like walking on eggshells. That, and the fact that he was in the process of separating from his wife, meant it was already stressful sneaking around. He kept pushing me into more and more situations that I would never have put myself in. If I questioned him, or refused, he would tell me it was obvious I didn’t love him and threaten to break up with me.
I keep expecting Alfie to do the same. To test me, and when I ultimately fail the test, to punish me. I expect him to hold things over my head or get angry if I don’t agree with him. It’s almost like I want him to do it because then I’ll know that my paranoia isn’t for nothing. Like these thoughts in my head hold weight and I can trust myself. Even if there is a small part of me that knows Alfie would never. He’s always respected my individuality, my self-determination. He’s even respected my need for space, to work through these feelings on my own and process that maybe he really does like me for me. Despite how different we are and despite how unlikely a relationship between us would form, he’s left these small hints that he’s interested, and he’s still waiting. I like it. I like the attention and the way he makes me feel. Maybe he could ease up on the notes a bit, but maybe it’s his way of showing how excited he is for what we could be.
Alfie finishes up with Mrs. Lindle, an elderly lady who lost her husband a year ago. They had been together since they were seventeen, and I think mostly, she just likes having someone to talk to.
“Goodbye, Mia, nice to see you,” she whispers, shuffling toward my desk.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Lindle, have a good weekend.”
“Oh, I’m going line dancing this weekend. The girls told me it’s time to get out dancing again.”
