Hello again! Remember me? Depressed, rather cynical therapist?
Really? You've forgotten already.
That's fine, I guess. A lot of people do.
So, it's been a week since we last chatted. In that span of 7 or so days, my life has really taken a turn for the worse. On Monday, my son got arrested. Yup.
He's eleven.
Can you say terrible parental figure? Don't worry, I already have.
So he's awaiting a hearing. There's meth involved. I don't need more detail than that, do I?
Wednesday, the bank that holds the line of credit for our house threatened foreclosure. Therapists don't make all that much money.
And Thursday, my husband gave me the divorce papers I've been dreading for the past month. They're in the top drawer of my desk, awaiting my signature. I guess "'til death do us part" meant "'til relationship doth become difficult."
But you're really not here about me. Or my pounding headache.
All in good time.
The end of this terrible week is in sight, I guess. All I have to do is make it out of this appointment and I'm done. Free. For about forty-eight hours, at least… I resist the urge to lean my head back on the chair behind me.
But of course, it just couldn't be that easy, could it?
Don't answer that.
Anyway, in comes Beckett with a chip on her shoulder weighing a thousand pounds and a scowl visible for a mile.
Lovely.
"Good afternoon, Detective," I say flatly. I can't even find the energy for a fake smile at this point.
She nods sharply—good; at least we aren't faking congeniality at this point—and walks over to her customary chair. Instead of sitting down, however, she starts to pace back and forth in the center of my office. As previously stated, my office is quite small. As a result, there is a lot more turning than striding and a lot more hair whipping back and forth than impressive stomping.
She doesn't seem to notice this, though, for the pacing continues throughout the duration of our following conversation.
"Won't you have a seat, Detective?" I ask, quite mildly considering the raging headache pounding between my temples.
She ignores this. "Castle!" she finally hisses, seemingly incapable of further speech.
I wait.
"He—" she splutters into incoherent silence.
The pacing is starting to annoy.
"Please have a seat," I won't deny the slightly whining edge to my voice.
She sits down, and the next words from her mouth are laced with such foul language that I've taken the liberty of editing her speech for the purposes of this document. You never know, a child might somehow get a hold of this.
So, roughly translated, her comments could be transcribed as such: "Richard Castle is an incredibly annoying individual. Thanks to his careless disregard for my wishes, I have severed all ties with him and do not intend to reestablish them."
Actually, I gotta admit, her phrases were so much more poetic… In a rather rustic kind of way.
Still, she got the point across in a remarkably short amount of time.
Regardless of my admiration for her more than adequate grasp of the various swear words in the English and Russian languages (my uncle married a Belorussian woman, so I learned all the interesting Russian words from a young age… Needless to say, my mother wasn't pleased), I do have certain professional standards to maintain.
"Detective…" I say warningly.
She calms down. Sometime in between her ranting and my musing over her word choice, she has popped back up and is now pacing the room in earnest for the second time.
"I'm not a mind reader," I say, attempting a soothing tone and achieving a sort of pacifying bleat, "so please elaborate on the day's events."
"Castle." she grits out through clenched teeth, "Has. Been. LYING. to ME!"
And you've been lying to him. So isn't it even? But whatever, that's not a can of worms I'm willing to open at the moment.
She calms down enough to speak coherent sentences and then continues without me prompting her, "Before Montgomery died, he apparently sent some information" she puts a bitter twist on the word, "to somebody. I don't know who. Apparently, this individual" the bitterness is again accentuated, "called my former partner and informed him that I needed to stop looking into my mother's case. So Castle, instead of informing me about this new lead, saw fit to hide this information from me so that I would back off the case.
"It's my choice. He should never have kept it from me!" And she continues on and on and on and on, about how she never should have trusted him, how much she loathes the very sight of him, how she should have dismissed him before when she had the opportunity, how she never wants to see or hear from him—much less work with him—ever again.
Interesting. You know, therapists have a tendency to see the side of an individual that no one else sees. We see the broken confusion of a seemingly perfect individual. We see the doubts of an over-confident, raging ego-maniac. And sometimes, we get to see the unchecked anger of a typically calm and rational NYPD detective.
She keeps going. For someone who could barely talk at first, she isn't shutting up. I wonder how she is getting enough oxygen at this rate.
I just don't see how she misses the similarities of her lie and Castle's. The hypocrisy is blatant here. I'm really tempted to call her out on it. I can feel the throbbing in my skull throughout the rest of my body. I think of that sheaf of official papers sitting in top drawer of my desk. I think of the thousands of dollars that my husband and I are in debt. I think of my son in the local correctional center, and something snaps.
She has no right not to be happy! She has everything she possibly could want, and only her stubbornness and stupidity stands between her and happily ever after.
I interrupt her right in the middle of a tirade about Castle's childishness and utter inadequacy.
"You're completely in love with him, aren't you?" I ask, callously.
Beckett's jaw freezes between one word and the next and she gapes at me. In the next moment, she recovers herself, "Excuse me?"
"No, that's not it, is it?" The question is rhetorical. "You don't love him. Obviously you don't love him at all. No one could treat someone they love like you treat Castle. So I guess I'm wrong. Some therapist I am, huh?" I smile sarcastically.
I can't believe I just did that.
The word "therapist" seems to remind her why she is here and who I am. "You know what?" she snaps, instantly shutting down her facial expressions into an icy mask, "I agree. Frankly, I have no idea why I'm here. This hasn't helped in the slightest. I believe I'll be leaving now."
She stands up and prepares to sweep away in a dignified manner.
What was I thinking?
Uh-oh…
Somehow, I don't think she'll tell on me though. If I'm investigated for professional standards or she complains, her testimony will have to be given, and Kate Beckett is not the type to air her dirty laundry in public. So what do I have to lose?
"I think it's because you don't like yourself," I muse aloud. She stops only a few feet from the door, as I knew she would. She's curious. "Honestly, I think you dislike your own self so much that his love confuses and embarrasses you, because you don't understand it." I can't seem to stop talking! Literally, it's like I'm on some kind of auto-pilot.
She pivots slowly around, fixing her cold glare on my uncaring face. "You have no right to—"
I cut her off. I'm good at that. "Of course I have no right to say this to you! Duh!" Duh? Have I reverted to kindergarten? "I'm a therapist. But you, you don't need a therapist. What you need is a good kick in the pants."
She's furious. And I… well, to tell the truth, have thoroughly doomed myself already. But there just might be a way to save this yet…
She's getting ready to walk out the door, and I need to stall. "Leave if you must," I say calmly as she turns away, knowing the abrupt change in voice will surprise her. It always works, "Or stay and get the truth for once in your life."
Completely ignoring me, she reaches for the door handle. "Or," I continue, "Go back out to the world where everyone lies to your face."
Wow. Cheesy much? Yet now I have her. I can see it in the way her grip on the door handle is raising the tendons in the backs of her hands. She absolutely has to know what I know that she doesn't.
She turns around to face me. Suddenly, I'm exhausted and the pounding in my head, temporarily forgotten, is now renewed. "Just sit," I sigh, waving a hand at her chair when she doesn't move, "sit and I'll finish this up and you never have to come back again. I'll even call the insurance company and see that I'm not paid for this last session if you wish."
She sits. I think curiosity is passed through DNA. Her mother's life-long desire to find the truth has passed to her daughter. It's destroying her, but it might be the one thing that can save her as well.
"You lied to Castle, before. About the shooting and his confession of love," I add when she doesn't seem to remember.
"That's different," she says flatly. Her face is flushed.
"How?"
"He knows how important…" she trails off as I raise my eyebrows, "It's central... For years I've been searching…" she flounders each time, realizing my argument. I drill the point home anyway.
"You know how important loving you is to him. It's central to his life. For years he's been showing you this." I shake my head, "You forget how much you've told me, how much the papers have told me, and how long I've been doing this psychology thing."
She doesn't say a word.
"So you've both lied to each other. Now, I'm not saying two wrongs make a right, but don't you think they cancel each other out?"
She crosses a leg over the other and stares at some point over my shoulder. Fine.
"You know, it's just crazy how different you are. Different social, economic, familial, educational, personal, and even moral backgrounds in a way. From what you've told me, over the years you've known each other, you've altered one another. I would almost say you're becoming compatible."
She's finally looking directly at me. I think I'm starting to see the woman that she truly is, when not broken or uncharacteristically angry. I can see how Richard Castle might have fallen in love with her. She's proud and passionate and determined, and has a deep capacity to love others.
Which is what makes my next words all the more cutting.
"What I have noticed, though, is that you and Castle have the same priorities. All he cares about is that you are safe, comfortable and happy." She glances away as I say this, then back up at me. "And so do you."
Total burn.
Yes, I have noticed that I seem to have reverted to my childhood with my word choice today. Don't bring it up again.
She freezes, stunned, as she understands. Her face flushes red and she stands up and walks away.
I don't stop her.
This was a terrible idea. I don't know what came over me. I stare at the closed door, wondering what the ramifications of my verbal attack will be.
Ironically, my headache is gone now.
Yippee.
What have I done?