Missing Persons

40

In the same way that a boxer who has just absorbed a right uppercut has many options as he’s lying on the canvas staring straight up at the klieg lights listening to a referee count “eight, nine,” at that moment I had many options.

I could have reached back into my quiver for the safety of my SHUT UP AND WAIT arrow.

Or I could have said something classically therapeutic, and classically arrogant, like, “This isn’t about me, Bill. This is about you.”

Or, of course, I could have out-and-out lied: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Instead, almost purely instinctively, I chose an alternative that I hoped might buy me a moment to think while at the same time it reinforced the separation that existed between, and needed to continue to exist between, my chair and that of my patient. What I said in reply to Bill’s question about why I was at his house was, “And that’s why you’re here, Bill?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Excuse me?” I was honestly perplexed by his quick reply. Bill Miller was implying that my appearance at his neighbor’s house was coincident with what, exactly? I really wanted to know. “What kind of coincidence are you talking about?”

“Why would you be at my next-door neighbor’s house twice in two days with two different people?”

He apparently wasn’t eager to answer my question; I was certainly not about to answer his. Discussing with Bill Miller that I’d been at his neighbor’s house because I’d been concerned about the apparent disappearance of another one of my patients, and the disappearance of my partner and friend, wasn’t about to happen.

“Is this meeting”-I waved my hand between us-“a professional meeting? Did you come to see me for psychotherapy, or for something else?”

He hesitated long enough that I knew he had hesitated, which told me that he’d had to think about how to answer my question.

I said, “The distinction is important. If we’re going to work together, the distinction is important.”

“Yes, yes, of course it’s professional,” he said. “I need your help, Dr. Gregory. But I’m also concerned why you’ve been… so close to my home in the past few days.”

Was that a reasonable concern for him to have? I could have argued yes, I could have argued no. But was reasonableness the point? “Go back three days please, Bill. Were you considering calling me for psychotherapy then?”

“What do you mean?” he stammered.

“You said that you’ve seen me at your neighbor’s house twice in the past couple of days. I’m wondering whether that is the reason that we’re talking today, or whether you had been considering asking me for help prior to that.”

Shit. By babbling on, I’d just given him a road map for how to respond.

No surprise, Bill consulted the map before he replied. “I’d been considering it. Seeing you next door brought everything closer to the surface, a lot of old memories, unresolved, you know, feelings about… what’s happened, so I decided to call and set something up. But I feel I deserve an explanation as to why you’ve been in my neighborhood so much. I do.”

Did he deserve an explanation? It was an interesting question. Were I truly interested in buying Doyle’s house, that would potentially make me Bill Miller’s next-door neighbor. If he and I were neighbors, the dual-relationships ethical restriction would definitely kick in: Preexisting therapeutic relationship or no preexisting therapeutic relationship, missing daughter or no missing daughter, I certainly could not provide psychotherapy to my next-door neighbor.

I decided to provide just enough of an explanation to allay his concerns.

“Bill, I can assure you that my presence at your next-door neighbor’s house had nothing to do with you or your family.”

Was that really true? I actually wasn’t sure.

“Are you thinking of buying that house?” Bill asked.

An easy question, finally. “No, I’m not.”

“You were there with the woman who is listing that house.”

“I’ll repeat what I said. I’m not considering buying the house.”

“Then why were you with her?”

“My presence had no direct relevance to you or your family.” Did it have indirect relevance? The question of indirect relevance had to do with Bob Brandt and the conversations he’d had with Mallory through the fence. The answer to the question of indirect relevance was either all chronicled in the pages in the Kinko’s box Bob had given me, or it wasn’t. My money was still riding on “wasn’t.” Barely.

I went on. “Assuming for a moment that we each decide that we are comfortable working together…”

“Yes,” Bill said.

“How can I be of help?” A quick glance at the clock told me we had precious little time remaining until my twelve thirty showed up in the waiting room.

“I’m under a lot of stress.”

I can only imagine.

“I’m not sleeping. I’m losing weight; I don’t have any appetite at all.”

Likely culprits for that constellation of symptoms? Depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress. Given the circumstances of Bill’s life, there were no surprises on that list. The most natural thing for me to do at that moment would have been to presuppose the source of Bill Miller’s symptoms. I cautioned myself not to do it.

I pressed him, wondering aloud what he thought was going on. He responded with generalities about “events” and “the kids” and “work.” I tried for some clarification. He eluded me.

Was I observing resistance-that psychotherapeutic Great Wall that separates so many patients from the issues that are most tender to them? Possibly. I decided to challenge the resistance a little. “How was she feeling, Bill?”

“My daughter?”

Not Mallory. My daughter. I nodded.

“The holidays are hard for her. Always. This year, too. They haven’t been fun for her since…”

I filled in the blanks with her mother left.

“Hard how?” I asked.

“She gets nervous. Withdrawn, irritable. She’s definitely a teenager.”

Bill had grown anxious and withdrawn, too. As I considered the fact that the media had failed to report any details of Mallory’s troubled holiday mood, and as the final moments of our appointment time dripped away, I decided not to test the flexibility of Bill’s resistance any further. We made tentative plans to meet again the following Monday. I told him that I’d call him if I ultimately decided that my ethical concerns were so grave that I couldn’t proceed.

Bill Miller left my office that day without having once spoken aloud his daughter’s name.

Was it too painful for him?

I didn’t know.