Jake quietly opened his office door. Harold Grower was sitting in the waiting room. He’d been sitting there for the last twenty minutes. Early for his appointment as usual. Jake never started sessions early — boundaries were a big issue. He closed the door silently and went to his desk. He had another minute before the session started.
On top of a pile of mail was a letter from Blue Cross, the health insurance company that would be paying for Harold’s appointments. Jake had sent Blue Cross an invoice for Harold’s first four sessions; this should be the check to cover them. He opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. After Jake’s name, Harold’s name, and some dates, stamped at the top in bold capital letters was: CLAIM DENIED Beneath that there were strings of numbers and codes that inevitably described why the claim was denied. Jake shook his head and read no further. This happened frequently with insurance companies. A doctor might forget a signature or date on a claim form, and the claim would be denied. Sometimes claims were denied because the coverage in one calendar year had run out. Jake dropped the letter on his desk. He’d deal with it later.
He looked at his watch: eleven-thirty. Harold was his last appointment before lunch. He wished it were quitting time — he wanted to get home and see his family. He wanted to unwind. He wanted to see how Wyatt was doing.
Jake opened the door to his waiting room again, this time more noisily. Harold’s face lit up, and he jumped to his feet.
“Dr. Tunnel!”
“Come on in, Harold.”
The older, slightly overweight man came quickly into the office. His manners and agility suggested a man younger than the graying hair and glasses suggested. Harold immediately settled on the couch as Jake dropped into his leather desk chair.
“What’s on the agenda today, Harold?” he asked casually.
Harold looked concerned. “I’m worried about you, Dr. Tunnel.”
Jake preferred not to be formal in speaking with clients and normally operated under first names. Some of his clients insisted on referring to him as “Dr. Tunnel” anyway — especially the older ones. Harold insisted on the title. “You’re worried about me?”
“I think you’re unhappy. I think you’re missing something.”
Jake shook his head. “You know what, you’re probably right, but I can’t let you use the session to help me. This is your time. It wouldn’t be fair.” Jake used the classic therapy line to get out of talking about himself.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I think it’s important.”
Harold had been referred to Jake by the military base. Jake had a steady stream of patients from cfb Halifax, which housed a large segment of Canada’s naval fleet. The base had its own psychiatrists and psychologists, but management often sent personnel to private doctors for ongoing therapy. Harold’s therapy was definitely ongoing.
Six months ago, Harold Grower, a Navy helicopter pilot, was sent to help locate the crew members of a fishing boat that had capsized during a bad storm. Harold had gone to the back of the chopper to bring a rescue diver and a fisherman up on the winch while the co-pilot flew the chopper. Somehow, Harold fell out of the helicopter and dropped fifty feet into the cold, thrashing waters of the Atlantic in the pitch dark. He was in the water for almost twenty minutes before the co-pilot found him and he was winched onboard. Harold Grower had been off duty for five months, and talked constantly about how God had saved him that night.
“Are you happy?” Harold asked intently. “I mean are you really happy, deep down inside?”
It was a bad time to ask that particular question. Jake was tempted to say he wasn’t the slightest bit happy. He was tempted to say his son was sick, and all Jake wanted was for Wyatt to be better. He knew he couldn’t say any of those things: the psychologist must seem invulnerable. If he showed his flaws, Jake would not be convincing as a healer. Clients need to borrow from the strength and resolve of the therapist. “I’m fine — how have you been feeling?”
Harold looked at him sadly. “God reaches out and touches all of us with a message. We just have to listen.”
“What message did God give you?” Jake asked quickly. One way or another he was going to get these sessions focused on Harold Grower.
“God wants me to lead.”
Jake smiled slightly. “To where?”
“To the answers we seek,” Harold replied without a trace of a smile. “God wants me to provide the guidance when the path is lost.”
“Do you talk to God? Can you hear Him?” Jake wondered if Harold was slipping into a psychotic disorder. His focus on being saved by God was outside the realm of a normal reaction to an abnormal event, and could indicate post-traumatic stress disorder. But if Harold thought God had given him special powers, Jake would have to try a different approach.
Harold looked even sadder. “Of course I can hear Him. God talks to all of us. We have to choose to listen.”
“How do we do that? How do we make that choice?”
Harold laughed. “I can’t answer that.”
Jake didn’t know how far to push it. He wanted to ask more questions, to search for a psychotic element, but he didn’t want to suggest he believed in Harold’s delusion. He decided to use another classic therapy technique, reflection. He restated Harold’s perspective.
“So, God communicates with all of us but we have to choose to hear the message. The problem is how and when we make that choice.”
“That’s right,” Harold said. “The curious part is how God talks to us. Sometimes it is directly, in our dreams or in things we see. Sometimes it’s indirect, like events that happen in the world. Sometimes God communicates to us in tragedies that affect us.”
“Tragedies like when you fell out of the chopper?”
Harold laughed loudly. “I wasn’t talking about me, but I see why you’d say that.”
Jake really didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to talk about God communicating through tragedies. Just thinking about it flooded him with anxiety about Wyatt. He wanted to get off the topic.
“You certainly are a man of faith,” he said.
“You are, too, Dr. Tunnel. You are, too.”
Jake waited, but Harold just smiled.
“So let’s get started for today,” Jake finally said. He opened Harold’s folder to signal they needed to get to the business of therapy. “Let’s —” He looked at the unsigned release-of-information form, right at the top of the papers in the folder.
It was fairly routine for psychologists to contact close family members to get different perspectives; it helped the doctors assess patients and monitor treatment. Jake wanted to talk to Harold’s wife, and any other relatives, if he had them. Harold had never talked about his family, and he refused to sign the release form.
“Oh,” Jake said. “Before we get started, I wonder if I can get you to sign this thing now.”
“Actually, Dr. Tunnel, I don’t think that’d be helpful.”
“Oh come on, Harold. I just want to talk to your wife and see what she thinks. I don’t need to say anything about our sessions. They’re confidential.”
Harold shook his head. “No, not yet.”
“Maybe next time?”
“Maybe. You’ll get to speak to my wife soon enough.”
Jake relented. He didn’t want to push: it could damage rapport. “Did you bring your schedule?” Harold was keeping a weekly schedule of his activities so they could make sure he had sufficient structure and social opportunities.
Harold kept smiling. “We are all people of faith. We all believe in something, even if we believe in nothing at all. Faith separates us from animals. Those of us who don’t possess it shrivel up and die.”
“Right,” Jake said. He really wanted to use the appointment for therapy. “Do you have your schedule for last week?”
Harold looked serious. He somberly reached into his coat pocket and brought out a piece of paper.
“My schedule for the last week,” Harold announced.
“Great, let’s have a look.”
Twenty minutes later, Jake set Harold’s file on his desk and stood — a signal that the session was over. Harold also stood, and they walked slowly to the door, where Jake patted his patient’s shoulder and wished him a good week. Harold, who seemed lost in thought, nodded.
Jake watched him slowly cross the waiting room toward the door, then stop. Uh-oh.
Harold turned, his expression intense. “Oh,” he said. “There’s something else.”
Jake didn’t have time for something else. He wanted to eat lunch. He spoke cautiously. “Yes?”
Harold held his hand out. “You need to have this. It will be your exit when you’re trapped. Look to the church.”
Jake hesitated but opened his hand, and Harold placed a heavy, old-fashioned key in Jake’s palm. It looked as if it could have belonged to a 1930s jail cell, made of thick, dull copper in need of polishing. Jake stared at it then looked at Harold. “What is this?”
He shrugged. “Please. Just keep it.”
Jake knew he shouldn’t accept gifts from patients — gifts blurred the professional nature of the relationship. He looked at the key again. “Okay,” he said, “thanks.”
Harold smiled but didn’t leave.
“Anything else?” Jake asked patiently.
“I just wanted to say I’ll be praying for your family.”
Jake nodded. “Thanks.”
“And especially for your little boy. Everything will be fine.”
Jake was stunned. He’d never mentioned Wyatt. “Uh, okay.” How does Harold know about Wyatt?
Harold left.
For a long time, Jake stood and stared at the doorway, a small bubble of anger slowly forming. Harold must have been following his family. He knew about Wyatt.