Tegan doesn’t make any attempt to apologize, but her eyes do widen with dread at my threat. And for now, that will do.
Ten
Lucas
At midday, on Wednesday, I wrap up the last session of the morning, type in a few notes, and then I’m ready to stretch my legs and go out for lunch.
As I walk down the block, I’m surprised to find Medusa’s daughter sitting on a bench with a forlorn expression as she stares right ahead.
I stop next to her, asking, “Another half-day?”
Tegan looks up and shakes her head. “No, I’ve been suspended.”
Suspended? This girl seems so self-possessed; she didn’t give me the impression of being the suspension type.
I sit next to her. “What happened?”
“Does being a therapist work the same as being a lawyer?”
“I’m not sure… How do you mean?”
“That if I give you, say, a dollar, you’re hired and everything I tell you is bound by confidentiality.”
I raise my hands defensively. “I can’t be your therapist.”
“Why not?”
“I have no experience in child counseling.”
“Good.” Tegan’s mouth sets in that same stubborn pout I’ve witnessed so many times on her mother’s face. “Because I’m not a child. On your plaque, it says you’re a family specialist.”
“Yes, but I’ve specialized in couples’ counseling. And you’re a minor, which means I can’t provide mental health services without seeking your mother’s approval.” I scoff. “And I guarantee you I wouldn’t be her first choice for a therapist. Or even her last choice, for that matter.”
“But I like you. And I don’t want to go talk to a total stranger, who’d probably just agree with Mom to keep the checks coming.”
“I’m flattered, but I still can’t do it. What I can do is recommend a colleague with unquestionable ethics, who will listen to you and not take anyone’s side.”
“I don’t need some stranger telling me what to do.”
“That’s not what therapists do, Tegan. We don’t give orders—we listen, and then we guide patients so they can consciously decide on their own.”
Tegan considers this, then sighs. “Never mind. Mom would never pay for therapy anyway; she thinks shrinks are charlatans.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? I’m not fresh on the code, but if a minor is seeking a mental health consultation and the legal guardian refuses to provide them access, I could in theory offer my services.
A gray area at best. Still, I’ve never refused to help someone who sought my counsel, and I’m not starting today.
“Give me that dollar,” I say.
Tegan beams at me, pulls a bill out of her jeans pocket, and hands it over.
“Let’s go back to my office,” I say. “How long before you’re supposed to meet with your mother?”
“At least another half an hour, but she’s probably going to be late like always.”
“All right, chop, chop, then.”
***
Back in my office, I’m sitting in my armchair, notepad in hand, while Tegan is the sole occupant of the couch usually reserved for couples.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “Why did you get suspended?”
“For drinking vodka at school.”
Okay, didn’t see that one coming.
“Is drinking alcohol a habit, or was it the first time?”
Tegan shifts in her chair, not answering.
“We’re in session,” I remind her. “I won’t tell your mother anything you say here. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
She blushes. “It wasn’t the first time, but I’m not an alcoholic or anything. Sometimes I drink a beer or two at house parties or, you know, stuff like that.”
“And I assume your mother has no idea?”
Tegan shakes her head.
And, I have to be honest with myself here, the next question is one hundred percent professionally needed, but I’m not going to pretend it won’t satisfy a great curiosity I’ve had since learning my office neighbor had a daughter.
“What about your father? Does he know?”
Tegan becomes uncomfortable again. “I don’t know who my father is.”
And I’ve stumbled on a minefield. From now on, I must tread carefully.
“Does your mother not know, or—”
“Oh, no, she does. She’s just refused to tell me point-blank every time I’ve asked, so I’ve stopped.”
“Has she given you a reason why she doesn’t want you to know?”
“Yeah, she said my father wanted nothing to do with me or her after he discovered she was pregnant, and that I’m better off without that bastard in my life.”
“And what do you think about that?”
She fidgets with the silver band on her middle finger. “I’d still like to meet him. Even if he chose not to be in my life, I want to know who he is, what he does, if we have anything in common. Half of my genes are his, and I have no clue who the guy is. He could be a stoner loser, or a genius.”
“Would it make any difference if he was one or the other?”
“Probably not, but I’d still like to know where I come from. And…” Tegan places both her hands under her thighs on the couch.
“Go ahead,” I prompt. “You’re safe here, please talk freely.”
“I want to ask him why he abandoned me. Mom already has her answer, but I never got mine.”
“That’s an excellent point, Tegan, and we can work on convincing your mother to reveal your father’s name. Or better, even. If you decide therapy is something you want to continue, you and your mother could see a family specialist together. One that would make your mother comfortable, and where she’d feel on neutral ground. I’d love to help you, but I’m not the right person to consult you both.”
“Mom would never agree to that.”
I really don’t want to say this next part, but my personal preferences are outweighed by my professional obligation to help this young woman. “I can talk to her,” I offer. “I can try to persuade her
