God's Therapist

novel.

PROLOGUE

H EADS UP! SHOUTED THE preppy coed, sporting a sweatshirt with a faded MIT logo. A green plastic disk yawed to the left and crashed into the side of psychologist Arthur Martindale’s head. The Frisbee careened off his skull, fell to the ground, and wobbled back and forth a few times before coming to an abrupt halt. Martindale was breathing heavily, having just finished a pre-noon five-mile run along the Charles River separating Boston from Cambridge, Massachusetts. His black hair glistened with sweat that trickled down his well-toned muscles.

Oh my gosh, she said. That must have smarted; are you okay, mister?

Martindale rubbed the side of his head, bent over to retrieve the disk, and turned to face the young woman. You have a permit for this weapon, miss? he deadpanned, using his best Tommy Lee Jones imitation. With a flick of the wrist he expertly tossed the Frisbee back to one of her friends. Noticing the concerned look on her face, Martindale added: Don’t worry, I have a real hard head. He rapped it a few times for emphasis.

I still feel awful, said the coed. Let me make it up to you. How about tossing the disc around with us? You look fit enough.

Martindale, Marty to his friends, considered her offer, taking in her compliment while recognizing that despite her loose-fitting sweatshirt and baggy shorts, the young woman was quite eye-catching. He looked over to her group of friends who laughed and teased each other as they resumed their simple game of catch. When was the last time he had felt that joyful, that free?

Hello, she said, I’m still waiting for your answer.

Marty just stood there mute, mired in indecision.

Come on, she said, no thinking allowed. Just do it!

This snapped him out of his silence. Just do it. Who do you think you are, Michael Jordan? He smiled to assure her he was teasing, wondering if she was too young to remember the NBA player’s Nike TV commercial.

She playfully grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the rest of her group. Suddenly she released him and sprinted away, shouting; Throw it to me high. I’m a jumper.

That was an outstanding workout, said Marty, bending over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. He checked his watch and was surprised to see an hour had passed. Wow, a whole hour without thinking about Sandy—that was nice. Maybe the way to snap out of this funk is to get out more often. You guys wore me out; that was even tougher than my run. But I’m afraid I’m done for the day.

We’re usually here this time every Saturday, she said. Maybe we’ll see you next week. By the way, she added, for an over-forty guy you did really great.

Marty watched the young woman and her group for a few more minutes, and then he sauntered over to the park bench that looked out over the river. He wanted to enjoy this moment of quiet relief. He stretched out and looked up at the azure sky. But instead of the expected respite from his angst, questions kept arising, and the main one being why hadn’t he seen it coming? How could he have been so blind?

Dr. Martindale, is that you?

Startled at hearing his name, Marty pulled himself up to a sitting position. He tried placing the fellow standing over him.

Archer Stanley, Department of Psychiatry, McLean Hospital. You were a postdoctoral fellow when I was there, probably about seven years ago.

Yes, of course, said Marty. I remember attending your excellent lectures on Borderline Personality Disorder.

I’m glad you enjoyed them. By the way, said Dr. Stanley, Speaking of excellence, I’ve heard a lot of good things about your work with Borderlines. In fact, I’ve referred several of them to you over the years.

Marty tried to recall if one of those patients might have been Katherine.

Dr. Stanley checked his watch. Well I need to run. Perhaps sometime we could get together for dinner? I’d like to hear about your work.

That’s very kind of you. Yes, I’d like to do that, said Marty, politely.

Say, if I recall, said Dr. Archer, didn’t you meet your wife at the hospital during your fellowship? Why don’t you bring her along? I’d love to meet her.

Marty’s muscles tensed and his heart began to race. How was he supposed to respond about bringing Sandy?

Good seeing you again Martindale, said Dr. Archer, without waiting for a reply. Keep up the good work.

A stiff breeze blew through the bare Sycamore trees. Marty noticed that the college kids had vacated the green. He looked out at the Charles River, flowing gently, in stark contrast to his turbulent emotions. Damn, he cried out, grabbing a handful of leaves from a low-hanging Sycamore branch, crushing them, and throwing them down on the ground. Why Sandy, why didn’t you wait? Can you ever forgive me?

When the heaving of his chest finally subsided, Marty became painfully aware that his marriage was now nothing but a few short years of memories. No children. No growing old together. And why, he lamented, for what possible reason? There was no one to blame but himself. What kind of man, what kind of husband, would be more preoccupied with his Borderline patient than with his own wife?

CHAPTER I

TWO MONTHS EARLIER, DECEMBER, 2007

ON THE DAY THAT WAS TO CHANGE his life forever, the late afternoon sunlight knifed through the Venetian blinds casting zebra-like stripes on Marty’s office wall. Leaning back in his swivel chair, anticipating Katherine Simmons’s arrival, Marty noticed how the black and white pattern cut diagonally across the mosaic of framed diplomas, fellowships, certificates of recognition, and state board certifications. After several years of intense effort, without even taking a vacation, his practice was finally thriving, and he was being recognized for his work with difficult-to-treat mental health disorders like Borderline Personality.

Sandy, his charming wife of seven years, had been instrumental in his success. She’d given her unwavering support, especially in the early stages of establishing his practice, when patients had been few and far between. At that time, her income was essentially supporting both of them. He reached forward on his desk and picked up the eight-by-ten mounted photograph of the two of them, looking at each other lovingly, taken on a day hike in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado. Was it possible that after only seven years, their marriage had lost its spark? That was hard for him to fathom, particularly since he was convinced that fate, not randomness, had brought them together.

He had been working late at McLean Hospital, located in Belmont, a few miles outside of Boston, fully intending to go to an 8 o’clock seminar. As he made his way past the hospital cafeteria his stomach had begun to growl, hastening a decision to quickly refuel before the presentation. With only a few minutes to spare, he had been rushing through the salad bar line with his tray piled high with salad smothered in Thousand Island dressing when the collision took place. He could still see salad flying in all directions and creamy salad dressing streaking down his red silk tie. He remembered how mortified the woman had been about making a mess of his shirt and tie. And it hadn’t helped when they both bent down to clean up the mess and banged their heads together. At such close proximity he caught a whiff of her perfume. It was intoxicating.

For a brief moment he had been irate at the mess she had caused. That is, until he realized how cute she was—no, cute was the wrong word—striking was more appropriate.

Please, let me buy you another salad, she said, placing her hand over her mouth, suppressing a giggle at the absurdity of the situation. That’s the least I can do.

Agreed, he said, but only if your let me buy you dinner. Now let’s go find a place to sit.

She extended her hand as if closing a business deal. I accept your terms. The name is Sandy Barron.

Sitting across the table from the woman, he took her in. She had incredible luminous gray-green eyes, a porcelain complexion, and an elegant swan-like neck. He thought she looked a little like Audrey Hepburn—and was even more beautiful. Marty Martindale, he said, his throat turning dry.

Marty had always felt intimidated in the presence of beautiful women, as if the aura they emitted was too powerful. Tonight was no exception. He forced himself to make eye contact.

Well, Marty, what do you do here?

I’d rather you tell me about yourself.

Hey, no fair. I asked first.

I have to warn you, it’s not very exciting.

Let me be the judge of that, she said, reaching across the narrow table and touching him lightly on his arm. She left it there for a second or two. For Marty the contact was electrifying. He wondered if she had put a spell on him.

He began to matter-of-factly describe his research on Borderline Personality Disorder, a serious and often debilitating mental health condition, when Sandy interrupted. Are you always so modest? Aren’t Borderlines a difficult population to work with?

Marty flushed. It was rare for him, a mere postdoctoral fellow, and low man on the academic totem pole, to hear such praise. Let’s talk about you instead, he said, taking himself out of the spotlight.

I’m up on the fifth floor, working with disabled kids.

Now who’s being modest?

Okay, okay, she laughed. I get your point. I’ve been working with Autistic children—trying to improve the quality of their lives. There’s so much we need to learn about how to best help them.

Marty couldn’t believe his luck. Not only was Sandy eye-catching, but like himself, she was also passionate about her work. He was about to ask her for more specifics when she looked up at the cafeteria clock. Well, Mr. Psychologist, I thought you said that you had somewhere important to go.

It can wait.

He placed the picture back on his desk and leaned back in his chair, hands folded on top of his head. A vacation, that’s it; that’s the solution to the funk we’ve been in. We’ll rekindle the old spirit by going back to the Rockies. Okay, okay, slow down dude, before getting excited I better run this by Sandy. As Marty placed the photograph back on his desk, his eyes wandered to the voluminous chart of his last patient of the day. Suddenly he forgot all about Sandy and the vacation. On the front tab of the chart in black magic marker was written:

Simmons, Katherine: DOB: 6/21/85.

Marty opened the chart to the section Patient History, which included a description of the young woman’s troubled life-starting in adolescence when she had been repeatedly sexually abused by her brother, two years her senior. Katherine had told the school social worker, who had done the right thing and called Child Protective Services.

But the brother had denied everything to the CPS investigators, the parents had backed him up, and the investigation had been closed. When she realized that no one, not even her own parents, believed her story, Katherine fell into despair. She started acting out sexually, and for quick relief from her emptiness she turned to drugs and alcohol. In her junior year of high school she attempted suicide and thus began her long journey though the psychiatric mill.

As Marty continued to read Katherine’s chart, he noted that none of her previous therapists or psychiatrists had been successful in reining in her sexually impulsive behavior, explosive anger, and roller-coaster mood swings. Nor had they been able to prevent Katherine’s cutting herself or attempting suicide two times. Despite the severity of her symptoms, the serious diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, and the apparent inability of other providers to help her, Marty felt confident he could restore Katherine to health. He prided himself on counseling challenging patients like Katherine, and had agreed to see her pro bono when he learned that her parents would not pay for the sessions.

Their initial therapy sessions had been rocky. Why, she had challenged, would he succeed when a host of other therapists had failed? But with almost nine months of intensive therapy, a strong therapeutic bond had developed between them. Katherine’s mood gradually stabilized, so much so that she had initiated the application process to return to her university studies. But, just when her hopes for recovery were the highest, she suffered a series of devastating panic attacks that left her feeling totally demoralized. In their most recent session, at the end of their fifty-minute hour, Katherine had declared that she was exhausted from being mentally ill and cared little if she lived or died.

Marty had pleaded with her not to leave until her safety was ensured. But she smiled, assuring him that she would be back for her next session. Thus as he waited for her arrival, the danger of suicide, a therapist’s greatest nightmare, weighed heavily on his mind.

Marty glanced at his black Fossil watch, which read ten minutes before the hour. Since he had barely eaten all day, and surmising that his session with Katherine was going to be a rough one, he opted for a quick jolt of caffeine. He arose from his chair, walked over to his coffee pot, and poured the last few ounces of the hot brew into his mug labeled World’s Greatest Shrink. As he took his first gulp he heard the discordant squeaking sound of the door to his waiting room open. He made a mental note to spray the hinges with WD40.

Katherine, is that you? he asked, peeking his head around the corner. Just give me a couple minutes, and I’ll be right with you. Marty noticed that Katherine seemed out of breath and that her usually curly hair was straight, damp and shiny, like she had just jumped out of a shower. Returning to his office, he straightened out his desk, sat down in his swivel chair, and took out a few pens and a pad to jot down session notes. Hey, he called to her, I’m ready for you now; come on in.