One Hot Daddy

Rachel comes on and we chat a little. I promise to drive up to Santa Monica during the weekend. Park comes back on.

“I bet you can’t wait to see Serenity,” Park says when he comes back on the phone.

Serenity is the sailboat that I left in his care. He and Rachel run a sailing tour company in Santa Monica Bay.

To be honest, I’ve been too caught up with planning for my future that I haven’t given much thought to anything else. The mention of the sailboat, however, makes me long to be out in the water.

“Yeah,” I say. “And all of you.”

“Have you heard anything about your father?” Park says.

My stomach tightens. “No.” I cut off all communication with my family when I left two years ago.

“He had a mild stroke,” Park says. “He’s recovered well.”

I try to imagine my robust father ill and fail. Conflicting emotions come over me, but sadness overrides them all. Sadness that we don’t have the relationship that fathers and sons should have.

I clear my throat. “How did the mother cope?”

“Your mother is a strong woman. She’s fine,” Park says. Our mothers are good friends and like us, they met in high school.

We arrange that I’ll go visit them the weekend after this one. After I disconnect the phone, the feelings of contentment I had earlier are a thing of the past. I feel restless and without roots as if a gust of wind could lift me and carry me with it.

I already ran in the morning, but I feel too restless for anything else. I change into a pair of shorts and go out. It’s a little late to be running and I pass through some pretty dark places but I’m okay. I’m ready for any fool who decides to mug me.

Chapter 5

Ace

It’s not an option, it’s a necessity. I repeat the words like a mantra as I ride the elevator to the therapist’s office on the sixth floor. I did my research and Jerome Anderson sounds like he knows his stuff. His credentials, which are listed on psychology.com, mean that he’s qualified to sort out my issues.

I’m nervous as hell as but if I’m to keep my job, I know I have to do this. The elevator reaches the sixth floor too soon. The doors slide open and I inhale a deep breath before forcing one foot in front of the other. When I made an appointment yesterday, his assistant sent me forms which I filled and sent back.

He already knows my issues. It should make it easier. It doesn’t.

Going to see a therapist goes against everything I learned as a soldier. I’m a man. Nightmares are for children. I feel like a weakling as I walk down the hallway to the last office. My legs feel heavier with every step I take and I’m a beat away from turning around.

But then I remember the look on the Chief’s face, and I know he’ll not always be sympathetic. He expects me to sort out my issues and pull my weight at work. I intend to.

If I lose my job, what will I have? Nothing! I have to do whatever is humanly possible to sort out my mental problems. I cringe at that word which I’ve never used even in my private thoughts. I hate to think of myself as having mental problems.

It makes me sound insane. I’m not crazy. Just traumatized and a sissy. I never heard anyone else in my platoon with my kind of flashbacks. What is the matter with me? I inhale deeply. That’s why I’m here. I don’t even care why it’s happening to me. I just want to be better.

A brown-haired lady behind the reception desk smiles at me encouragingly as if she knows how close I am to bolting. She doesn’t look at me as if I’m a failure for being there.

“You must be Mr. Carter,” she says.

“Yes.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

There are no other people in the reception area and am glad. I can’t handle someone staring at me and wondering what my issues are. It’s bad enough that I’m here without having a witness.

“The doctor is waiting for you,” she says and stands. I follow her to a door that leads to an inner office. She opens it and I step in.

Jerome Anderson is a bespectacled man, a lot younger than I thought. He grins and stands up when he sees me. “Mr. Carter, welcome. I’ve been looking forward to your appointment.”

I feel as if I’ve mixed up my appointments. He pumps my hand hard, clearly honest when he said he was looking forward to my appointment. As if it’s a long-awaited reunion rather than a therapy session.

“Have a seat,” he says and returns to his side of the desk.

I was expecting a recliner. Somewhere where I can lay back, close my eyes, and pretend that I’m talking to myself. Sitting opposite the man is a little nerve-wracking.