Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.
Rated: PG
Author's Notes: It's the return of Dr. Westerfield, psychiatrist and commentator from 'All Things Change But Truth'; if you haven't read that story, then none of what follows will make any sense.
Thanks, as usual, Cheri, for moral support and punctuation. And thanks to both of you, Cheri and Judy, for loaning me Westerfield for a solo outing.
This is the first thing I've released in parts. I'm assuming, at this point, that I can probably finish what I start.
Sessions
"Are you sure you don't need a psychiatrist?
I have a regular three-thirty slot open on Thursdays."
Dr. Westerfield--ATCBT, Chapter 13
Phillip Westerfield had made a little wager with himself, as he stepped out of the elevator and into the hospital lobby that afternoon. He'd just come from Mark McCormick's hospital room, and had then, on the way out, encountered Milton Hardcastle getting off the elevator upstairs. He'd extended them each the same invitation, and both had turned him down.
He was pretty sure that the younger man would bite first, and he gave him, at the outside, two weeks.
Hardcastle he wasn't so sure of. At least Mark, despite all his protestations about psychiatry, appeared to have a notion that talking about things might help. For the judge, it seemed to require a much greater crisis of faith before he would even consider opening up.
And now that the crisis was past, who knew how much longer it would be before he felt the need to confide in anyone again?
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Ten days later, walking into his office, his receptionist handed him a note. "One of your patients, ah, Mr. Hardcastle. He's not on the regular schedule." She nodded at the slip of paper. "He called."
"Oh?" He took the slip, studied the number, "It was just an initial consultation." Westerfield frowned. He'd already turned over all of his notes to the authorities, not the session with Hardcastle, of course, but all of Dr. Henry's research and his own conclusions about the drug that had temporarily crippled Hardcastle's memory. "Did he say what it was about?"
"No, he said it wasn't an emergency, and that he'd call back. I took his number off of his file."
Westerfield nodded once—message received. Hardcastle had something to talk about, but didn't want him to call. It was just further evidence that there really was no second-guessing when it came to the human mind.
He fielded the second call from the judge, himself, a few hours later that afternoon. The man sounded relaxed enough, and the request was prefaced by an apology for not having called sooner to thank him for everything he'd done. Westerfield accepted it all at face value, at least over the phone, and then said 'yes' to an invitation to lunch the following Tuesday.
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The man who was waiting for him in his reception area at noon sharp on Tuesday, was considerably different that the one he'd met almost three weeks earlier. For one thing, he was smiling, and now that the worst of his worries were apparently dealt with, his demeanor was gruffly charming.
"Saw a place down the street that looked pretty promising, Doc."
"Eduardo's?"
"Yeah, Italian okay with you? I figured you wouldn't want to go too far."
"Well, yes, I have a one o'clock. And Italian is fine."
His host shepherded him out the door with a wave and a nod at the receptionist, sweeping him up in warm but idle chatter all the way down the elevator, and to the restaurant—the weather, the Lakers' prospects, even current affairs abutting on the practice of psychiatry. Westerfield had begun to think that if this was going to be anything but a pleasant lunch with a very experienced raconteur, he would have to take the reins and steer the conversation a little.
"How's Mark?" he asked casually during the brief lull in the conversation as they'd been handed the menus.
"He's fine," Hardcastle replied, looking up. There'd been a momentary twitch before he'd answered, but his tone was still honest and open. "He's back in school."
Westerfield caught the fleeting hint of a smile, as if this fact was a matter of great personal satisfaction for the judge. The general impression was that Mark was not the problem, but, the psychiatrist reasoned from experience, impressions could be deceiving.
"Yeah, he's doing pretty good." Hardcastle's smile had become an open grin. "Wally Gularis even sent him a 'get-well' card. I told him to save that one for his scrapbook. Wally's a guy who gives the expression 'going to the dogs' a whole new meaning."
Westerfield's eyebrows went up just a notch in question.
"Oh," the other man's smile had gone sober, "he uses a pack of Dobermans in his loan repayment incentive program." There was a slight shake of the head; the smile was entirely gone. "Had to sleep with the devil on this one, but," he brightened a little, "I hear the IRS is taking a renewed interest in him; someone in the Security and Exchange Commission noticed something in the Schedule A papers of the Symnetech filing, section twenty-six. The financial discrepancies had Gularis' name written all over them."
The judge's face had taken on a slight shadow of guilt at the mobster's impending misfortune. Then he shook his head once, as if he was shaking off a thought.
"And, anyway," he returned back to the original subject, "I never really thanked you for what you did for Mark, either," Hardcastle went on, a little more slowly, with just a slight hesitance, as if he wasn't exactly sure what Westerfield had done. "You were, ah, there for him." He paused again and, getting not much more than a smile from the psychiatrist, seemed to edge forward into the next bit warily. "I didn't know if you had talked to him, I mean, since the hospital."
"No, he hasn't called," Westerfield replied, simply.
Hardcastle nodded, looking a bit more deep in thought. "No," he finally said. "I didn't think so."
"But you said he's fine," the doctor added.
"Oh . . . ah, yeah," the judge hesitated again, then plunged into it, "He wanted to quit—law school, I mean. He offered to do that."
"Why?" Westerfield kept his tone light, merely inquiring.
"So he'd be around. So he can keep me out of trouble, I think." Hardcastle gave him a sharp glance. "You know what we do, right?" he asked, as if he was hoping he wouldn't have to explain it. "McCormick says he's Tonto."
"Well, he didn't tell me that." Westerfield smiled. "But Lieutenant Harper told me some things, when he was picking up Henry's papers. Said criminal justice was a hobby for you."
"Damn expensive one, too," the judge muttered, and from something in his expression, Westerfield was sure he wasn't talking about mere financial costs. "I think maybe it's time to retire." The judge had let out a long sigh with this last statement. He lifted his eyes slowly. "Anyway, I promised him I would stay out of trouble. That was the deal. If he would go back to school, I mean."
Westerfield kept his face even. "You can do that?" he asked. "Stay out of trouble?"
"I . . . think so." Hardcastle frowned. "Been a while since I tried."
There was another pause. The waiter returned and took their order. When he'd departed, the judge settled back in his seat, looking a little pensive. Then he started up again, as if there'd been no break in the conversation, at least no break in his thoughts.
"It might be a while, though, before he trusts me." He cocked his head, as if he thought Westerfield might have some information about this.
The psychiatrist merely shrugged. "Trust tends to be based on past experience." Westerfield gave the other man a long, considering look, "Overall, I'd say his faith in you is still intact."
Hardcastle quirked a smile. "Possibly unfounded, but hard to shake." Still, he looked relieved to have heard Westerfield say as much. The smile faded. "He might need someone to talk to, I think."
"Someone besides you?"
The older man grinned, "Someone to talk to about me."
Westerfield kept his surprise off his face. Insight could come at the most unlikely junctures sometimes.
"I mean, look at this. He's talking about giving up law school because of me." Hardcastle sighed heavily. "And why the heck is he doing it in the first place, if not for me." He stopped, frowning down at the table, then lifted his head again. "I think he likes it. He's good at it. I think he wants to do it. But I'm not even sure if I can tell anymore."
Westerfield smiled gently. "Where one person's needs leave off, and another's begins? Sometimes they run in parallel, you know."
The waiter returned bearing salads. Both men turned their attention to the food. It was a moment before Westerfield continued on, feeling surprisingly hesitant.
"And what if he told me he didn't want to be a lawyer? What if he said he wanted to fix cars for a living?"
"As long as he doesn't want to steal 'em, it'll be okay with me." Hardcastle grinned over a forkful of salad. Then a more sober smile, "I just hope he understands that."
"Well," Westerfield said, "maybe you should tell him yourself."
"Dunno," Hardcastle replied, after a moment's pause. Then he cocked a smile. "Maybe I'm afraid he'll believe me." The smile had gone rueful. "Damn, Doc, but he'd make a fine lawyer." He shook his head once, "Not that he wouldn't make a good auto mechanic.
"And, anyway, I'd like to think he had someone to talk to, just in case."
"He was pretty adamant about not needing a psychiatrist," Westerfield pointed out.
"Oh, that," Hardcastle smiled. "Yeah. But he likes you . . . might be kinda hard to get him in the office, though. And," there was a moment of nervous hesitance, "he might not think he could afford you."
"Well, I don't see as either of those things would be much of a problem. I like hot dogs for lunch once in a while, and I do some . . . what do you call it?--'Pro bono' work myself."
Hardcastle knitted his brow for a moment. "But I'd pay for it; that's not an issue."
Westerfield smiled and shook his head slightly. "No, might not be such a good idea. I wouldn't want it to look like there was a conflict of interest."
"Yeah, well, I can understand that." He still seemed a little unhappy. "But it's not like he'd have to know."
Westerfield's expression was mildly disapproving. "If you're worried about having too much control over his life, this might be a good point to give in on."
"Oh." This was followed by a long silence. "Yeah . . ." It looked like it was taking him a minute to get used to the idea. "Okay. I get it," he finally sighed.
The waiter returned, removing the salad plates and putting down their main courses. Both men turned their attention to the food and the conversation drifted that way as well. It was only after they were sitting back, contentedly full, that Westerfield gazed curiously at the other man.
"You know," he began, "I'd let you pay for your own sessions."
"Me?" Hardcastle replied, with some surprise. "I don't need a psychiatrist."
Westerfield's brief laugh produced a look of puzzled chagrin from the other man.
"Well," the judge grudgingly admitted, "you didn't see me at my best last month, but I'm okay now."
"All right," Westerfield took a sip of water and swallowed his smile along with it, "forget I mentioned it." The smile came back, unbidden. "Just remember, if either of you need me, I'm here."
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The Lakers occupied them again through the canolis. Then Westerfield checked his watch as he said, "I've got that one o'clock," and they were both rising.
"Thank you again, for everything," Hardcastle said, in a tone that covered all debts, past and future.
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Westerfield returned to his office at five minutes to the hour. As he greeted his receptionist, she handed him a note.
"A call from a Mr. McCormick."
He took the piece of paper, with no small satisfaction in cinching at least one of his small internal wagers—it was still one day short of two weeks.
The receptionist frowned, "The name isn't in the files, but it sounded familiar."
"Oh, not a patient, more like a friend," Westerfield said with a smile. "Probably just wants to get together for lunch."