Off the Clock. Roni Loren
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and Professor Paxton, head of the department, said he wasn’t giving it up until they dragged his cold, dead body out of it. He also joked that Professor Englebreit in the neuropsychology department was plotting his demise to make that happen.
Marin’s office, on the other hand, was tiny and windowless. She didn’t mind it much since she spent most of her time in the university’s library or in one of the bigger labs, but some days she did feel like the walls of that tiny room were closing in on her. She’d been hoping to stay here long enough to get a tenured position at the university so that she could work her way up, maybe teach a few courses in between her research. But she may not have time for that dream to come to fruition. She needed a raise now. Not in three years.
Dr. Pax folded his hands atop his desk. They were good hands, solid ones. During her Ph.D. program and this postdoc, she’d relished those times when his big paw had landed atop her shoulder to congratulate her or to convey how pleased he was with her work. She’d never known her real father, and in a lot of ways, Dr. Pax had filled some idolized version of that role for her. A mentor. A person she’d been able to go to when all the stress of raising Nathan on her own had gotten just a little too heavy to bear. He had a therapist’s soul and a researcher’s mind. She’d learned a lot from him. She’d also learned how to read him.
“There’s no room for a raise, is there?” she asked, getting the hard part out of the way first. “I’m going to need to pick up a second job.”
He frowned. “It’s a little worse than that, I’m afraid.”
Marin tensed, but before she could say anything Dr. Pax’s student worker, Clint, tapped on the door and carried in two cups of coffee. He set one on the desk and handed Marin the other.
The paper cup seared her cold fingers. “Worse, sir?”
He sighed and leaned back in his creaking chair. “When I got your email, I decided to call and check on the grant status. I thought maybe if we had an idea how much we were going to get this year, then I could find some room to adjust your salary. But the news wasn’t good. We landed two smaller grants, but we’re not getting the Filmore this year.”
The words didn’t register in Marin’s head for a second. “Wait, what?”
He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup but didn’t take a sip. “Apparently, they have a new board in charge of the foundation, and they didn’t think your research warranted new funds. They said they are excited about the program you’ve created but that they feel it’s ready to go. Now the challenge will be getting it into schools, not doing more research.”
“But there’s so much still to do, components we haven’t tested and—” Panic was tapping her shoulder, ready to tackle her.
“I know, Marin. I understand where you’re coming from. I always think more research can only lead to a better product. But I see their point, too. You’ve developed an amazing online program for an underserved population. The sooner we get it out there, the better. If we turn over your work to a company that can streamline the program, we can get kids access to it all the sooner. Start helping people now. And if all goes well, you’ll eventually make money on it.”
Eventually. That was the key word. Eventually didn’t help her right now. Plus, she didn’t have it in her to charge some exorbitant price to nonprofits and schools for that kind of program. She sat back in her chair and set her coffee to the side, her heart like thunder in her chest. The grant had fallen through. No more study. “But if I don’t continue that project, what does it mean for me? What am I going to do without that grant?”
Dr. Pax swiped a hand over his mustache and beard, his expression sympathetic. “Marin, without the Filmore grant, we don’t have the funds to keep you on for another year at the salary you’re at. You’d have to take a significant cut in pay, and I know that’s the opposite of what you need right now.”
Her breakfast threatened to come up. No money? There was no money. And that meant no position. She couldn’t work for less than she was already. She’d starve. Nathan would have nothing to live on. She put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, God.”
Dr. Pax leaned forward on his forearms. “Take a breath, Marin. I know this is a shock, and I’m sorry for that. But I’ve been thinking through this over the last day or two, and I may have an option that could work out for you.”
She lifted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I know you’ve expressed that you’re not interested in a clinical career. I get that research is your passion. But the truth of the matter is, you need money and clinical work is where you can find it. If you can get yourself set up in a private practice one day, you won’t ever have to have this type of conversation again.”
She blinked. “Clinical work? Like actually be a sex therapist? I don’t know how to do that. And I can’t do private practice. I’d need to get licensed and that takes at least a year of supervised work, right?”
He gave her a small smile. “You do know how to provide therapy. You’ve done an internship. Your training has given you all the tools you need.”
She shook her head. All she could think about was her disastrous internship at a local mental health center. She’d had to do it as part of her program. But she’d been awful at it—awkward and bumbling, never knowing what was the right or wrong thing to say. What if she said the wrong thing and messed someone up? What if she was as bad as some of the therapists who had failed her mom? Then, in her first week, a client had stormed out mid-session, threatening suicide. Marin had promptly had a panic attack. She’d had to pull the fire alarm to get the staff to catch up with him and stop him. It’d been a goddamned nightmare. After that, she’d asked to transfer to a school position where she’d be able to focus more on educating students on mental health topics rather than actually providing one-on-one therapy.
“I’m good in a lab. I’m not good with people.”
He chuckled. “You’re just fine with people. You work with your research volunteers well, and you’re a good listener. But you’re right, though you have the tools and the smarts, more experience is needed. You would need to work under a supervising psychologist for a year to qualify for your license. But after that, you could do what you want.”
She took in a deep breath and tried to process his words. He was trying to help. She didn’t have a lot of options right now and couldn’t dismiss one out of hand. “I don’t even know where I’d start looking. I can’t imagine those types of positions pay much before you’re licensed.”
“Typically, no. But since your brother will be attending art school in New Orleans and I figured you might be open to moving there with him, I took the liberty of reaching out to Dr. Anala Suri at The Grove, a private institute in Louisiana. She’d called me recently, letting me know that she was down one clinician in their sex therapy department and wondered if I had any recommendations. They’re a very exclusive operation and only grant interviews through direct referrals. I’ve had a couple of students do well there. So I called her yesterday and told her you might be interested.”
“Exclusive? What do you mean?” She shifted in her chair, trying to keep her nerves from showing on her face.
He considered her as he took a sip of coffee. “Expensive. And experimental. Most insurance companies won’t cover the services there because they do some cutting-edge treatments.”
She frowned. “Who can afford treatment with no insurance help?”
“The wealthy. The famous. It’s very private, tucked away right off the bayou, and clients can stay on the grounds when there for treatment or can drop in. It’s off the beaten path, but it’s popular with celebrities because they can avoid the press. Plus, from what Dr. Suri tells me, New Orleans is becoming Hollywood South with so many movies and TV shows filming there now. So there’s a need to have something high-end and private nearby.”
“There’s that high of a demand for sex therapy?”
“They