by Julie James
There was a small, private waiting room adjacent to Dr. Metzel’s office, with a sign on the interior door that said “Please make yourself comfortable.” Thinking that “comfortable” was a bit ambitious—she was here only out of necessity—she took a seat in one of the empty chairs and distracted herself by checking e-mail on her phone.
A few moments after she sat down, the interior door opened. A balding, fortysomething man dressed in a blazer, khakis, and button-down shirt smiled at her.
“Victoria?” He held out his hand as she approached. “Aaron Metzel. Nice to meet you.” He gestured to the adjacent room. “Come on in. Have a seat wherever you like.”
“Thanks.” She looked around curiously as she entered his office. The blinds were pulled down, but angled open, allowing a good amount of natural light to come in. It wasn’t a massive office, but enough to accommodate a desk and bookshelf in front of the windows, a couch along one wall, and two leather armchairs in the center of the room. She chose the armchair closest to the door and took seat. Not sure where to put her purse, she set it on the floor.
She watched as Dr. Metzel—or was she supposed to call him Aaron?—grabbed a notepad and pen from his desk. They made brief small talk—Yes, she’d found the office just fine; No, thanks, she didn’t need anything to drink—before getting down to brass tacks.
Seated across from her, Dr. Metzel crossed one leg, settling into his chair. “Let’s talk about what brings you here. I know from our telephone conversation that you’re having some issues with panic attacks.”
Whoa, whoa. It sounded like somebody was getting a little ahead of himself here. “Actually, there’s been just the one panic attack, the night my home was broken into.” She felt it was important to emphasize this.
He clicked his pen open. “Tell me about that experience.”
“Well, I remember suddenly feeling very light-headed, and hot, and then I guess I just fainted.”
“Has that ever happened to you before? A loss of consciousness?”
“No.”
“What happened when you came to?” he asked.
“There were two police officers hovering over me, asking if I had a medical condition. And it took me a moment to answer them, because at first I didn’t know who or where I was.” She took a deep breath. “But then, after a few seconds, everything came back to me.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable, thinking back to that experience?”
“Of course,” Victoria said, thinking this would be self-evident.
“In what way?” he asked.
“For starters, it was embarrassing, lying there on the floor like that. And scary. Like I said, I’ve never blacked out before. But I understand why it happened. My heart rate was escalated, I had a decreased oxygen intake, and I was under intense emotional stress.”
Dr. Metzel’s lips curved. “Somebody’s been doing some research.”
Heck, yes, she’d done her research. And she’d also quickly learned that looking up symptoms on the Internet was the quickest way to convince herself that she had every medical condition in existence. “Logically, I understand that I fainted during the break-in because of the extreme circumstances.”
He waited. “But . . . ?”
“But ever since that incident, occasionally I’ll find myself in some sort of situation—a normal situation—and I’ll start to worry about having another panic attack.”
Dr. Metzel wrote something on his notepad and then looked up. “Can you give me an example?”
She nodded. “So the first time it happened, I was riding the subway, heading home from work. The subway was packed, and it was warm and stuffy. You know how it gets. And the stuffy air reminded me of that night in my closet when I fainted, and, thinking back to that, I suddenly began to feel . . . off.”
“Off in what way?”
“Nervous. Dizzy. My heart started racing, like the time in the closet.”
“What was going through your head during that moment? Do you remember what you were thinking?”
“I was thinking that there had to be at least twenty people between me and the exit door, and that if I did have another panic attack right there on the train, it was going to cause a huge scene.”
More note taking.
“So what did you do?” Dr. Metzel asked.
Victoria shrugged. “I basically said, ‘Screw it.’ At the next stop, I bulldozed my way to the door, got off the train, and took a cab the rest of the way home.”
“Have you ridden the subway since then?”
She tried to downplay this with a smile. “A nice air-conditioned cab ride home isn’t all that expensive. I figured why bother with the subway while it’s so hot?”
From the way Dr. Metzel furiously scribbled something down on his notepad, she had a feeling she’d failed that question.
Crap.
She shifted uneasily in her chair, not enjoying the feeling of being so . . . scrutinized.
“Any other incidents?” Dr. Metzel asked.
“Well, I also walked out of an exercise class the other day.” She blushed, a little embarrassed to admit these things. Not to toot her own horn or anything, but as a lawyer, she had a reputation for being fearless and tenacious in the courtroom. Heck, she’d been called a “ballbuster” by more than one irritated male opposing counsel. Yet here she sat, admitting she couldn’t ride the subway or take an exercise class.
Dr. Metzel cocked his head. “What happened in the exercise class?”
She shrugged. “Basically the same thing that happened in the subway. About twenty minutes in, I noticed how hot the room was getting and everything just spiraled from there. I kept thinking, ‘Uh-oh, am I feeling a little light-headed?’ And, ‘Oh, crap, what if I faint in the middle of this class, because that’s going to look really weird and cause a scene.’ That kind of thing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you been back to the exercise class since that experience?”
“If I say no, are you going to start scribbling on your notepad again?”
Indeed, apparently he was.
When Dr. Metzel was done writing, he looked at her. “What if you had fainted? Dropped right there in the middle of the class and everyone saw. Would that be such a terrible thing?”
Victoria shuddered at the mere thought. “I don’t think anyone wants to cause a scene like that, do they?”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “Probably not. But I notice that you keep talking about ‘causing a scene’ and looking ‘weird.’ Is that something you consider important, how other people view you?”
Well.
That seemed like a bit of a loaded question.
“Um . . . maybe, I guess,” she said, not sure how this particular line of questioning was relevant.
“Can you expand on that?” Dr. Metzel asked.
Do I have to? “I suppose I try to present myself a certain way in front of other people. But doesn’t everyone do that? The point is, Doctor”—when he didn’t correct her, she assumed it was okay to call him that—“I run a successful law practice and have a professional reputation to maintain. I can’t be running out of the courtroom because I’m suddenly feeling woozy or worried about having another panic attack.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
Good. Now they were getting somewhere. “I fully recognize that these lingering . . . fears”—she hesitated over the word, debating whether it was too extreme—“are obviously all in my head. And I’m sure they’ll go away as more time passes from the burglary. But since they’re kind of, well, annoying, I was hoping you might have some tricks to help speed up the process. You know, breathing techniques, relaxation exercises, things of that nature.” She went for a joke. “Feel free to order me to visit a spa or get weekly massages as part of my treatment.”
Dr. Metzel chuckled. “I’m not sure about the spa part, but certainly both relaxation and imagery techniques can be very helpful in the treatment of panic disorder. Now, one thing I’d—”
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Wait. “Did you say ‘panic disorder’?” she interrupted.
“Yes. Panic disorder.”
She sat back in her chair. But . . . she didn’t have a disorder. She was just having a few small panic issues. Clearly, the good doctor here needed to get with the program.
Then she realized what was going on. “Ah. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned this up front. I’m not fishing around for some kind of diagnosis in order to get insurance coverage. I’m fine paying out of pocket for these sessions.”
“That’s good to know,” he said. “And, admittedly, this is just an initial assessment. But based on what you’re telling me, I’m comfortable diagnosing panic disorder at this time.”
Huh.
Having deposed and cross-examined several psychologists, her lawyerly instincts took over. “If you don’t mind my asking, what, exactly, are you basing that diagnosis on?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dr. Metzel said patiently. “In a nutshell, panic disorder is the fear of having a panic attack. Your fear of causing a scene, or looking ‘weird,’ and the changes you’ve made in your behavior—no longer riding the subway and stopping your exercise class—are all very classic symptoms.”
Completely caught off guard, Victoria tried to process this. “But . . . I don’t have any history of anxiety.” Not that Dr. Metzel would know this—because she hadn’t intended, and still didn’t intend, for these sessions to be an all-access pass into certain things from her past, but she was about as mentally steady as they came. She was the rock. Hell, ever since she was ten years old, she’d made a point of demonstrating just how unflappable she was.
“In your case, the break-in was the catalyst for your initial panic attack,” Dr. Metzel said. “And as you said, that’s not a wholly atypical physiological response, given the extreme stress you were under at the time. But as for why that incident has now brought on your fear of having additional panic attacks . . . well, that’s something we’ll want to explore in therapy.”
Therapy.
Aw, criminy.
Once upon a time, after The Incident, Victoria had gone through therapy at her mother’s insistence. Two years of it, in fact, “just in case” there was anything she wanted to talk about. So she had a pretty good idea what to expect: all the talking, and the dissecting of her every thought and emotion.
Going through that ordeal again sounded about as much fun as stapling her tongue to the carpet.
“Can’t you just patch me up with some breathing techniques and send me on my way?” she asked, trying to charm her way out of this.
Dr. Metzel returned the smile and clicked his pen. “Are weekends better for you? I have an opening for Saturdays at one P.M.”
She took that as a no.
Three
“IT’S ME—YOU know what to do at the beep.”
At the sound of the familiar greeting, Ford grumbled under his breath. Per the promise he’d made to his mother, this was the second time in three days that he’d called to check up on his sister and Zoe. Both times, his call had gone straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Nic. Just checking in to see how everything’s going. I thought I might swing by sometime this weekend—maybe take you and Zoe out to lunch. Call me.” After hanging up, he looked at the phone for a moment, and then turned back to his computer.
A week had passed since his father’s funeral and at times, it felt a little surreal how most things just went back to normal. He’d taken a couple of days off from work to help his mother go through his father’s things, a process that had hit him harder than he’d expected. But he’d buried his emotions down deep and had stayed focused on the tasks at hand—both for his mother’s sake and, admittedly, his own. He felt better when he stayed busy. Doing something, anything, felt good and productive.
Especially when the alternative—sitting around his loft and ruminating—resulted in an eight-inch hole in his bedroom wall.
Not his finest moment.
Fortunately, right then, he had work to distract him. It was a typical Friday afternoon in the Chicago Tribune newsroom, mostly quiet except for the sound of clicking keyboards and occasional conversation as people got up to get coffee. The newsroom was large and open, with no walls separating the desks, and the air pulsed with a feverish beat as everyone raced against the clock to make their deadlines.
Today, he was finishing up a piece that was part of a series in which he’d exposed a multimillion-dollar bribery scheme involving a city transportation official and the company that had won a contract to supply Chicago with its red-light cameras. He’d worked for over a year on this particular series, and the corruption scandal was now the subject of an FBI investigation. He took particular pride in that—like many investigative journalists, he enjoyed seeing that his work had actual impact, and contributed to rectifying a wrongdoing or injustice.
After wrapping up the red-light piece and e-mailing it off, he met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss an idea for a new story he’d been developing over the last couple of weeks.
“The April Johnson murder? You’re a little late to the party, Dixon. We covered that three weeks ago.”
“Not from this angle,” Ford said. Last month, April Johnson, a seventeen-year-old honors student and artist, had been shot and killed by a gang member a block away from her high school grounds. Because the girl had recently visited the White House and met the First Lady as part of her school’s successful participation in the Department of Education’s “Turnaround Arts” program, her killing had been widely covered in all the Chicago media.
Mostly, the press coverage had focused on the victim—rightfully so, given the tragic circumstances. But Ford had done a little digging, and wanted to explore another aspect of the crime. “Everyone’s focused on how Johnson’s death is a symbol of this city’s problem with gang violence, or using it as a platform to discuss gun control. But I’ve been looking into the nineteen-year-old shooter, Darryl Moore. Apparently, a year ago, he’d been arrested and sentenced to two years probation for illegally carrying a firearm. And get this—a criminal records check shows that the guy got arrested three more times after that. Did the probation department even know about the arrests? Did they know, but fail to take any action? I’m thinking somebody dropped the ball there.”
Marty considered this. “Might be worth checking out what’s in the probation department’s records on Moore.”
“Glad you think so.” Ford grinned. “Especially since I requested the file yesterday.”
Marty shook his head. “Of course you did. All right, run with it.”
Ford worked on the new story for the rest of the afternoon, getting lost in his research. He called it quits for the day at five thirty, and then took a cab from the Tribune building to Home Depot, where he picked up the remaining supplies he needed for his weekend project. He planned to patch the hole in his bedroom wall, and also had decided to mount some bookshelves. Working with his hands would hopefully burn off some of the restless energy he’d been feeling since the funeral.
He checked his phone during the cab ride home. His friends clearly were in Check-On-Ford mode—a coordinated effort, he suspected, seeing how Charlie and Tucker wanted to get together tonight, and Brooke for dinner on Saturday. He texted them all back with a yes, appreciating the gesture and the not-so-subtle attempts to keep him company.
When the taxi pulled up in front of Ford’s building, he spotted a large moving truck.
Ah, right. He remembered now that today was the day his temporary next-door neighbor, Victoria the Divorce Lawyer or Something, was moving in. Seeing that she’d reserved the elevator for the movers, he lugged the two bags of supplies he’d bought at Home Depot, along with his messenger bag, up the four flights of stairs.
When he spotted her open front door, he figured he should do the neighborly thing and introduce himself.
“Hello?” Not getting an answer, he stepped inside and found two movers in the dining area of the loft, carefully
lowering a round, expensive-looking table to the floor. “Sorry, I was walking by and thought I’d pop in. I live next door.” Still holding the bags of supplies, he gestured awkwardly in the direction of his place. “Is Victoria around?”
One of the movers shook his head, brushing off his hands after setting down the table. “She just left to make a run back to her old place.”
“I’ll catch her later, then. Thanks.” On his way out, Ford stole a glance around the loft and saw that the rest of his new neighbor’s furniture looked as expensive as the dining table. Judging from the elegant cream sofa with its many accent pillows, her taste was sophisticated and decidedly feminine. And he also immediately concluded that she was single.
No man could ever get comfortable watching Monday Night Football with all those damn throw pillows.
* * *
“SO, I’M THINKING I’ll go with a barn theme for this new project. Instead of chairs, everyone will sit on bales of hay, and we’ll bring in actual livestock—cows, pigs, maybe a few chickens—that can roam free in the restaurant while people eat. You know, really emphasize the farm-to-table aspect of the menu.”
Victoria jerked her eyes open, having just caught what Audrey was saying. “Wait. You want to have chickens walking around the restaurant?”
When both Audrey and Rachel smiled, she caught on. “All right, all right, you got me.” So she’d closed her eyes for just a second. In her defense, she hadn’t slept for more than four hours a night in over a month. Not to mention, the bar they were in was filled with cozy, ambient candlelight that practically invited a girl to curl up in one of these big leather chairs and catch a few quick winks . . .
She sat up straight and gave herself a mental face-slap.
“You’re exhausted, Vic. Maybe we should call it a night,” Rachel suggested.
“Nope, I’m good. I promised you guys drinks in exchange for helping me unpack, so drinks we will have.” Victoria grabbed her cocktail—an old-fashioned, the specialty of the house—and tipped it in gratitude. “And by the way, thank you again for that.”