I’M IN SESSION with my patient, Tom, putting on an Academy Award-worthy performance, acting as though a woman didn’t barge into this office a few hours ago to tell me my dead mother is still alive.
“I told her I got the promotion,” Tom says about his mother. He’s thirty years old and has spent the last year in therapy coming to terms with having a narcissistic mother.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“She made it all about herself, like usual. Barely acknowledged it and then asked if I knew she was leaving for Sedona next week.”
As he’s speaking about his mother, I can’t help but think about my own. If Mom is still alive, deserting Dad and me twenty-six years ago is whatever comes after narcissistic.
Could she really be alive?
“The good news is I didn’t expect her to react any other way,” Tom continues. “Something clicked in our last session when you told me to think of her narcissism as unchangeable, just like her eye color. It helped me not take her response personally—”
My cell phone buzzes on my desk, interrupting him. I usually silence it before seeing patients, but with everything that happened this morning, I forgot.
It buzzes again and again and again—it won’t stop.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I forgot to turn my phone off. My apologies.”
As I lift my phone, another text blooms, adding to the stream that’s already there:
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
LIE
Lie? My palms immediately clam up in a sweaty panic. Who’s sending me these texts? I don’t recognize the number.
Who is this? I text back.
Message undeliverable.
“That light just went on,” Tom says, pointing to the call light next to the door, alerting me that my next patient has arrived, even though my next session isn’t supposed to start for forty minutes.
“Do you have another patient now?” Tom asks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I think there might’ve been a mix-up with scheduling today. I’ll be right back.”
I leave my office, confused by the texts and the call light. A police officer stands by himself in the waiting area.
“Are you Dr. Bennett?” he asks me.
My heart pounds like I’ve done something wrong, even though I haven’t done anything.
“Yes …” I say.
“Detective Thompson,” he says, showing me his badge. “Do you have a minute?”
“I’m in the middle of a session now.”
“It’s important,” he says. “Based on street camera surveillance, apart from the janitorial staff, only two people entered this building before seven this morning. One of them was you, and the other was a young woman wearing a baseball cap …”
He’s here about the fake patient?
“Did you meet with her?” he asks pointedly, meeting my eyes and not letting go.
LIE, the texts said.
Is she the one that sent all those texts? Did she mean I’m supposed to lie to him about her being here, or what she told me about my Mom, or both? But how would she even know he’s here?
“I need to know what she said,” he presses.
Part of me wants to tell the officer that the fake patient told me my mom is still alive, to ask him if a police report exists about the hit-and-run that killed her, since Frank admitted he never saw her body. But I remind myself of the woman’s warning to stay away from law enforcement—that it could put Mom in more danger if she’s still alive.
“I’m not allowed to reveal who my patients are or discuss what they tell me. Patient-therapist privilege,” I say.
“Thing is, the woman that entered this building at 6:44 this morning is the primary suspect in a murder,” he says.
Good thing I have years of practiced stoicism under my belt so as not to look shocked during patient revelations.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he continues. “If she told you about a felony crime that she committed, and is trying to work through a way to escape punishment, you could be charged as an accessory after the fact.”
I stand up straighter. “Without a court order, I’m only legally allowed to tell you if I believe a patient may hurt themselves or somebody else. I’m not required to report past crimes. And in this case, I know nothing about any crimes committed in the past, present, or future.”
He nods, unconvinced.
“I’ll find out one way or another what she told you,” he says. “You’re just making things harder for yourself by not cooperating with an officer.”
“I have a patient waiting for me in my office,” I remind him. “I need to get back to work.”
When I return to my office, Tom continues talking about his mother for the rest of the session, but it’s hard to focus. What the detective said sounded like a threat.
I’ve only had the police visit me one other time in my life, and it wasn’t a good experience back then, either.