by Gina Kincade
***
There were many things Pam Mason did that she didn’t want to, and standing outside the heavy wooden door bearing the name of the doctor Kate referred her to, she knew this appointment would be one more.
But Kate offered to help her, again, and she couldn’t refuse her any longer. Not just because she was starting to warm up to Kate’s ‘New Year, New Pam Initiative’, but because she truly felt ready for it. Ready to try someone else’s approach.
With a deep inhale, she lifted a hand to the gold doorknob, a match to the rectangular plaque with the name, Mike Thorpe, PsyD, etched into the golden surface.
Twisting the knob, she pushed the door open into an open concept waiting room. Several feet ahead, a blonde receptionist, hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail was seated behind a large black desk. As Pam approached, she lifted her gaze from the magazine in hand, threw her a million dollar smile.
“Welcome. Do you have an appointment, Miss?”
“Yes. For one-thirty. Pam Mason.”
“Perfect, just have a seat, Miss Mason. The doctor is with a patient right now, he shouldn’t be too long.”
Pam did as instructed, lowering herself into an overly plush, black leather armchair that felt more like a bear hug then a chair. Around the room, three more identical ones and two loveseats hugged the walls. In between each, sleek black end tables sat with perfectly straight stacks of magazines atop.
On the walls, splatter paintings in various colors caught her eye. Each one as unique as the next, begging the viewer to look deep, feel that of the artist who created it.
From a corridor to the right of the receptionist, a tall, leggy blonde walked out into the waiting room, continued to the door. Behind her, a man emerged, stopped in the archway, turned to the receptionist. Speaking in a tone Pam could not hear, the receptionist nodded in her direction vindicating her earlier unease as they spoke.
Pulling her gaze from them to the paintings, she wrung her hands in her lap, inhaled deep.
She couldn’t run, she had to stay. If not for Kate, then for Mark’s memory. And her sanity.
“Miss Mason,” a deep voice called out, jolting her.
“Yes.” She jumped up out of the chair, ran damp palms on her jeans.
Standing but several feet from her, his facial expression blasé, he motioned towards the hallway he emerged from earlier. “If you’ll follow me.”
Turning his back to her, he walked away, confirming that his intention wasn’t to ask, but to order.
His actions left a bad taste in her mouth, had her teeth grind. But she pushed her initial reaction back, straightened her shoulders, and followed. After all, she wasn’t here for pleasantries, she was here to complete the second phase.
And she would complete it because Kate was right. Even though she went to widow’s meetings, listened to their tears, their grief, spoke of her own, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the full release needed to move through and on.
With purpose in her step, she turned down the hallway Doctor Thorpe disappeared down, caught sight of him standing before an open door.
As she closed in, she noticed things she hadn’t when she first set sight on him. He was tall, close to six feet with wide shoulders, a thick head of dusty blond hair, and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky.
She stopped before him, tilted her chin to meet his gaze.
Clearing his throat, the doctor motioned towards the open door. “After you.”
Pam swallowed the lump in her throat, hesitated briefly before stepping past him, over the threshold, and into a room that took her breath away.
Sandstone grey walls flanked the elongated room. Blue rectangles, in varying sizes, hung at differing heights. Within each one, painting after painting displayed an array of colors, each as unique and breathtaking as the other.
“So, let’s begin,” Doctor Thorpe’s deep voice called to her as he closed the door, sealing them inside.
***
“When he died,” her voice cracked at the memory, lying prone on one white settee. “It was instant, they said. He felt nothing. Not his chest smashing off the coffee table, his body dropping to the floor. Nothing.” She paused, unsure how much she wanted to divulge, how much she could utter aloud as her fists curled at her sides.
Telling her story was not new to her, but laying on a psychiatrist's couch, staring at a white ceiling while a soft click, click, click sounded in the background was.
That sound no longer brought solace as it once had after Mark’s passing, instead it stirred a suffocating gnaw in her chest.
With a deep breath, she continued forward on the path Kate led her on.
She never promised it would be easy, but she did promise it would bring her closer to living again, to making memories filled with laughter instead of pain. And Pam would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to how great the first phase felt, the instant release.
“When I found him, he was facing a clock hanging on the wall, one he loved, one he lived by.” She squeezed her eyes shut, fought back the mental picture that was now a part of her life. “It stopped the second he died. Right on the minute.”
Pam swiped the back of her hand at the tears welling in her eyes.
“Do you still have the clock?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “When the paramedics, police, and coroner finally left, taking him with them, that absent tick reminded me of Mark’s wide eyes no longer blinking, his heart no longer beating.”
“Why not throw it away?”
She paused, searched for the answer. Why had she opted to replace the battery instead of tearing it off the wall, throwing it from a window? Had she believed by keeping it, she was keeping him with her? That as long as it ticked away the seconds, she was hearing his pulse?
“I understand, it was traumatic.”
The frustration at his sedate tone, as if he asked the question because he had to, but didn’t care to hear the answer combined with her own exhaustion at baring her soul for close to an hour shot a wave of fury through her.
How dare he be cold, heartless, while she lay there vulnerable, recalling a memory that has haunted her for years.
Pam forced herself up from her prone position to face him, her brows narrowed, eyes thinned on him.
“How dare you!” she spat. “You understand?”
Her fists curled at her sides, dug into leather.
“You don’t understand a damn thing. You’ve barely uttered a syllable this whole time. I bring up the clock and that’s what you go with?” She threw her hands in the air in frustration, pushed herself up onto shaking legs, stared him down.
“Have you ever walked into a room, caught sight of the one person that meant the world to you, grey, lifeless? Have you ever been there, your heart caught in your throat, fear biting at your soul as you lunge for him, pulling his cold body into your arms?” She paused to swipe at tears she refused to shed. “If you had then you’d know it’s a hell of a lot more than traumatizing.”
Doctor Thorpe raised his hands in defense, his facial expression unchanged as if he’d listened to many a client break down in front of him.
His complete nonchalance in response to her rant raised her blood pressure that much farther, sent her fists to her hips.
“What kinda damn doctor are you? You don’t give a shit about your patients. It’s sickening. You know there are people that need the help you could provide.”
Pam huffed, reached for her jacket and purse, and stomped towards the office door. With her fingers wrapped tight around the gold knob, she turned to him.
“Do you think your life is so damn perfect, that having to listen to us lowly peoples’ problems is such an inconvenience?”
With that, she turned the knob, ripped the door open, and left his office, slamming the door in her wake. Stomping down the hallway, she growled at the blonde receptionist and her fake smile before slamming the outer office door behind her.
As she exited the red brick building that housed Do
ctor Thorpe’s office, one hand rummaged in her purse for her cell, ripped it out, and speed dialed Kate.
“How’d it go?” Her voice came over the line after only one ring.
“That doctor was horrible,” she huffed as she ripped her car door open, jumped inside. “The bedside manner of a troll.”
She pushed her keys into the ignition, cranked the motor over, the heat on full blast slowly defrosted the windshield.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry.”
Pam took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest, legs vibrating against the floorboards.
She thought of her rage at the doctor, that was dissipating the longer she was out of the building, no longer vulnerable. Could she have been mistaken with the tone of his remarks? Was it possible that her rage with him wasn’t truly about him, but herself, her need to hold on?
“Don’t apologize. I talked, I vented, and I cried.” She paused to re-center her thoughts, unwilling to focus on whether or not her verbal assault had actually been warranted or not.
Whether the great weight lifted from her soul was based on her eruption, or the realization of her unhealthy obsession with Mark’s clock remained to be seen at the moment.
Pam dropped her head back on the seat, exhaled her breath on a sigh that fogged the windshield. “I do feel better, so maybe the session didn’t go as bad as I thought.”
“That’s so great, Pam,” Kate squealed in excitement. “I guess that means you’re ready for the final phase, then.”
Pam closed her eyes, accepting what was to come. She suspected Kate’s final move early on, she’d gone through all the motions, even allowing herself to fully embrace the path Kate was bringing her on. And she’d be a damn fool if she didn’t admit, even if just to herself, how good she did feel since Kate started her whole ‘New year, New You’ campaign.
On a deep exhale, Pam opened her eyes onto the empty parking lot that was becoming visible through her thawing windshield.
“Yeah,” she nodded, as she shifted the car into drive and applied pressure to the gas. “There’s no point stopping now.”
***
“Okay, hit me with the details. I know you’re just dying to tell me about this final phase,” Pam started as she lifted a steaming, gooey piece of pepperoni pizza from the box on the kitchen table and took a big bite.
Several hours passed since the girls sat with their feet submerged in warm water, ankles swallowed up by bubble gum scented bubbles. Outside her warm home, darkness fell, littered with bright white snowflakes that fluttered down from the sky.
Kate’s grin widened as she too reached for a piece. “Oh yes. The Soul Phase.”
“You’ve gone insane,” she rolled her eyes. “Body, Mind, and Soul? That was your plan all along?”
“Hell yeah,” she replied. “What better way to lead the way into your ‘New year, New You’, than cleansing your entire being through the mind, body, and soul.”
“And pizza?” Pam lifted her half-eaten piece and laughed. The feeling of release just as exhilarant at that moment as it had been earlier in the day in a room full of squealing and giggling five-year-olds.
“Pizza should be a part of any cleansing, if you ask me,” Kate replied, reaching for a slice herself.
“And where does dating fall into the ‘soul’ aspect?”
Pam cocked a brow in Kate’s direction, replied with a lifted finger, her mouth full of pepperoni and cheese. When she could catch a breath, she replied. “You’re a heterosexual woman, Pam. You have needs.”
Pam laughed. “Please, Kate, this is the twenty-first century, there are plenty of ways to deal with those needs.”
Nodding, Kate took another bite. “True, however everyone needs human touch, and nothing you may have brought home with you during a shopping excursion will give you that.”
Pam had to agree with Kate, she had a point.
“I know you voiced your displeasure with the Tinder thing,” Kate added once her slice was gone.
“Yes, please, let’s take a step back from Tinder.”
“I do know a few guys, good guys,” she shrugged. “I could set you up with one of them.”
Pam tried not to choke on her pizza as she swallowed the last bite. “You also knew and trusted Doctor Thorpe and look where that got me.”
“Hey,” she interjected. “You said it helped.”
Pam nodded, reached for another slice. “Yes, it did, but if he’s the type of man you plan to set me up with, please don’t. Tinder actually sounds less painful.”
Kate laughed. “Mike’s not that bad. He’s just been going through some things lately.” She waved a hand in the air to dismiss the thought. “Either way, I didn’t send you to him hoping to hook you two up. I did it for Phase Two.”
“Right,” Pam snorted. “It’s all about the process.”
Kate’s blue eyes widened. “Yes. But back to the conversation at hand. You’re not doing Tinder. If anything you’ll just find washed-up divorcees, or sex-starved twenty-year-olds. Nope,” she shook her head. “Leave it to me.”
Pam did feel better having Kate on the job. Just the thought of having to put herself out there again, looking, taking chances, made her sick to her stomach. She was forty, so far away from the dating life than any one person could be. But she was starting to feel alone sitting in her house by herself, avoiding life and living.
What could it hurt to go out on a date? It wasn’t like she had to marry the guy. It was just a meal, possibly some good laughs between two people.
While Pam mulled over Kate’s suggestion, Kate watched her intently without speaking a word until she could hold back no longer.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll set up a double date. That way Brad and I will be there in case things get awkward.”
Pam cringed at the thought. “A blind double date is probably just as awkward, if not more so.” But she did contemplate it, for only seconds, then responded. “I mean, I wouldn’t be against you guys having a meal, in the same restaurant, at the same time as this ‘setup’.”
Kate winked. “You got it.”
Chapter Four
Mike sat in stunned silence after Pam Mason stormed out of his office, slamming the door in her wake. And there he sat until the sun went down on the day, replaying the scene like a movie on continuous loop. A movie where he was the villain, deserving the wrath of the heroine.
Recalling the look of hatred that oozed from her narrowed brown eyes when she jumped up off the couch, hands fisted on slender hips as she laid into him, confirmed as much.
He admitted that he hadn’t seen the woman she was, only the ‘client’, and even then he failed her in more ways than he could even count. Of course, he watched her reactions throughout the session, noted the many times she wrung her fingers, the way her legs were board-stiff across the couch, ankles crossed. He listened to her replies to his questions, each syllable forced as if being pushed through a constricted throat, and he replied in his usual cool tone, one he used with all his clients.
But she wasn’t like his usual clients, she truly was troubled. Something he should have picked up on right away. Her distress signals were clear, ones he was trained to catch on first sight. Instead, he didn’t and she’d erupted before him.
Mike sighed, lifted himself from his chair. His body was stiff, joints hollered back at him as he worked to straighten his legs and back. After several steps, his body limbered, yet his guilt still held tight.
At his desk, he lowered his head, his gaze falling on Pam Mason’s file and the notes he’d written during their session.
“Damn it, Mike,” he cursed himself.
Had Becky truly gotten to him that much that he no longer was the doctor he’d worked so hard to be? Had the wringer she dragged him through, that he thought he’d come out on top of, actually been a farce?
Reaching behind his desk, he opened the top drawer revealing a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal and two tumblers. Withdrawing one glass and the bottle, he
pushed it closed, poured two knuckles, tilted it back, and downed the amber liquid. The trail of warmth slid down his throat.
The soft click, click, click of the Newton’s Cradle on his desk caught his attention, brought him back to their session and her lack of answer to his question as to why she hadn’t thrown the clock away.
That was when he recalled the tension that filled the room, suffocating him seconds before Pam Mason laid into him. The words she spewed, the passion behind each one strummed a nerve inside him. The anger that burned in those dark eyes snapped something in the deep recesses of his soul.
Was she right? Had he become heartless? Had the struggles he’d been through to save his practice, to survive after Becky tore his life apart, made him cold?
Mike poured two more knuckles, tilted the glass and swallowed it in one gulp. Lowering the glass to his desk, he looked over his office, his life’s work with a sigh. Stacks upon stacks of client files were lined up alphabetically behind his desk, each one a summarized rendition of the person behind the contact information, next of kin, and his own notes. Notes he no longer believed in.
How long had he actually been practicing with careless abandon? Were there others who came to him once, leaving just as distressed, never to come back again?
Mike poured two more knuckles, downed the liquid, and clinked the glass back onto the desktop.
What if someone had come to harm themselves because of him? Because they came to him and he hadn’t cared enough to look past all that went wrong in his life, to help those he once promised to?
Mike groaned.
Had he even helped any of his clients as of late?
Sure, Pam Mason felt the need, the strength to call him out. But she hadn’t ‘said’ the words, she snapped and drained her emotions…on him. Because he was supposed to be there listening, guiding, helping.
And he’d failed her.
He began to pace his office, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes thinned on the path he walked, mind running on autopilot. So much so, that he never heard his office door open, the footsteps enter, stop, and the door being closed softly behind them.