“And do you work? Or are you still in school?”
“I work in marketing at The Stone Agency. It’s a full service firm. We specialize in Fashion and Entertainment.”
“Very interesting.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” I shrug with an over the top roll of the eye. I let a small smile form in my cheek and he lets out a laugh.
“It does sound a bit boring. Being a therapist is much more interesting.” He winks, lightening the mood, and it works as my own giggle escapes and the once tight muscles in my shoulders uncoil. When my laughter stops, he repositions himself and straightens his back.
“Ready for a tougher question?” he asks and I nod.
“Let’s discuss your first visit to the hospital. Is that okay?” The blue of his eyes sparkle at me.
“I guess.”
“In order for this to work, you have to trust me. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
“I’m not sure I can, but I’ll try. Well, as you already know I was in a car accident. Obviously, I was brought to the hospital.” I’m too embarrassed to tell him about all the panic attacks at home and the nightmares since then, so I grow silent and try to think of something else to say. In the background, I hear the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Dr. Montgomery reaches across the side table and grabs a pair of glasses and puts them on. He adjusts them until they fall slightly down his nose, and then looks down to the paper in front of him. When he looks back up, I swear my heart stops. The look in his eyes, the sexy way he wears those glasses . . .
He’s almost too perfect.
He rests his hands on the arms of his chair as he studies me. “You okay? What’s going on?”
I will myself to calm, and curse myself for being so blatantly affected by him.
“Um, I’m just nervous. Scared. I’m kind of . . . I don’t know. Lost? I’m not sure what we’re supposed to talk about or how you’ll help me.”
“These are all very common feelings to have toward therapy for the first time,” he assures me.
“Well, that’s good to know. Happy to be somewhat normal,” I retort. There’s nothing normal about my panic when I think of divulging my nightmares and fears to this man. It was so much easier in the hospital when I thought I would never have to see him again.
“Normal is just a definition we use to place ourselves in boxes, Eve. No normal here.” He winks and I’m surprisingly appreciative of the small gesture, because seeing him smile, makes me smile. “So, I think we should start from the beginning. I often find that’s where most problems stem from. No response is singular. It’s a cause and effect process from where it all began.”
“I guess.”
“How about you tell me a little about your family?”
Instantly, my muscles tighten. Anytime Mom is a subject, I get a knot in my stomach. I love her, but being her primary caregiver at my age has been hard. “It’s just my mom and me.” I try to force a smile, but instead my lips tremble, giving me away.
“Where is your father?”
“He died in an accident when I was younger.” I want to melt away. Pretend I’m not here. Recede into the confines of my mind.
“How old were you?” The blue of his eyes is soft and sincere.
“Four,” I answer before I can stop myself.
“That must have been hard for you.”
“To be honest, I don’t even remember him. Most of my memories are of my mother and me. And Richard, of course. I can’t remember if we spoke about him at the hospital. He was my father’s best friend.” I take a deep breath. “He was also my boss.”
“So you knew Richard well?”
“He basically raised me. It was his funeral I was leaving when I got into the accident.” A familiar feeling of dread tugs at my heart. Everything in my body tightens. Soon the back pains will present themselves. My chest will follow shortly. I frantically rub the muscle in my shoulder blade.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. If you don’t mind me asking, how did he pass?”
“He had a heart attack. By the time I . . . I found him . . .” I pull my hand from my back and press it to my mouth to hold back a sob.
“I know this must be hard for you. I want you to take deep breaths. Can you do that?” I shrug. “What happened?”
“I remember calling him but he didn’t answer. I needed to grab something from him for a work meeting. I was at my mom’s. He . . . he lived in the same building as her. When I got there, I found his body. I . . . I remember being in a haze, like my mind faded away and my basic instincts took over. I called nine-one-one. I even went back to my mother’s to tell her the news. I was grieving but I was functioning.”
“So, when did you stop functioning? What happened?”
I take a slow breath and will myself to not start hyperventilating. “When I saw his body again, in the casket. That’s when it happened. I must have been in denial before that moment. Because that’s when it finally hit me. Richard was dead.” My eyes flood with tears and I swipe them away.
He picks up a pen and scribbles on his notepad. “Was this the first time you attended a funeral since your father’s death?” I nod. “I know you were very young when your father died, but do you remember anything?”
“No.” He writes again on the pad and I want to lean over his arm and read what he’s observed. When he lays his pen down, his eyes lift and his gaze meets mine.
“You said he was like a father figure. Was he in a relationship with your mother?”
“Oh, Lord, no. She can barely function enough to brush her teeth. There was no place in her life for a boyfriend.”
“And how is your relationship with her?”
“Strained. Exhausting.”
“Do you want to tell me a little about that?”
“Do I have to tell you today?” Please say no.
“No, you don’t.” Oh, thank God. Hearing I don’t have to divulge anything I don’t want to has all the muscles in my back loosening. “Is there something in particular you would feel comfortable talking about today?”
“I—No. Not really.” I laugh nervously.
“How about we try to talk for a little bit longer? If it gets too much, we can stop.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
As the minutes pass, we talk about nothing in particular. Nothing as daunting as speaking of my mother or as heartbreaking as discussing Richard. We don’t talk of my father. We talk of simple, mundane topics. Topics that make me comfortable. Topics that make me smile. But eventually those topics run out and I notice Dr. Montgomery glance at his watch. Knowing our time is up leaves me with mixed emotions. As happy as I am to be done, a part of me will miss the comfort I felt having someone listen. Someone trained to give me the guidance and advice I so desperately need now that Richard is gone.
This was good. Coming to him was the right decision. A small piece of the weight that has been resting on
my shoulders is lifted.
“You did a great job today. You did really well. The hardest step is coming in. You’ve got this.” He smiles and picks up a black leather journal from the side table. When I lift my hand for it, our fingers touch. The soft skin of his thumb brushes against mine and my cheeks heat as he hands it to me.
“I have a little assignment for you.”
“An assignment?”
“Yes, I want you to keep this notebook. Journal how you’re feeling. If a panic attack starts to form, write down the triggers. No matter what you are thinking or how you feel, I want you to journal it, okay?”
“Are you going to read it?” Please say no. Please!
“I will ask you to tell me what you wrote so we can pinpoint your triggers, but no, I don’t have to read it.”
I can work with that. As long as I know that I can pick and choose what I tell him. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Great. Also, I’ll email you some techniques for when you feel an attack forming.”
I laugh at his suggestion. “I’m just imagining the crazy new age junk you’re going to make me do.”
“No, nothing like that.” His mouth begins to split into a grin, but before it forms he rights himself. Professional mask back on. No matter how small . . . I miss the grin already. “More like breathing techniques and visualization exercises. I’ll also send you information about a few support groups you can attend if you feel up to it. Believe it or not, there are many people who suffer from anxiety and grief. You might find it comforting to speak to others who have gone through it.” He stands and heads over to his desk. I watch as he scribbles on the back of a business card and lifts it up to me to take it. “And if you need me, I’m giving you my direct number. Please feel free to call me.”
Having his number is dangerous. The idea of having him only a phone call away . . . I can never use it. Once I do, I fear I’ll never want to stop. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Dr. Montgomery.”
“You might not now, but the time might come when you will need it.”
I pray he’s never right.
I TRY TEXTING Sydney as soon as I leave, but she doesn’t answer so I head home.
“How was it?” she shouts from the living room as I shut the door.