by Nicky James
“I have a client,” I lied, unsure how else to describe Rory’s and my connection any clearer since I was more baffled by the day. “He suffers from Heliophobia.”
Her smile broadened. I knew it was from general interest because of her field of study and not out of disrespect for Rory. “Fear of sunlight.”
“Yes. His has developed into a much broader form. Artificial light has become an issue as well but with slightly differing symptoms. I have reason to believe there is a concrete incident that led to his phobia, but he has yet to divulge that information.
“After reading your journal and doing a lot of research on my own, I think I’d like to suggest having him referred for immersion therapy. His symptoms don’t exactly fall within the realm of acute panic attacks, so I don’t feel medical intervention would be effective in his case.”
“What are his symptoms,” she asked, her sea-green eyes fully attentive.
“Feeling like his skin is on fire. Burning, tingling, sweating. Paralysis.”
Her forehead creased, and her thoughts turned inward. It looked like she was thinking, so I left her to it and waited.
“Did he express if he has difficulty breathing.”
“No. He said his heart will race, which is quite a common symptom of an anxiety attack, but no shortness of breath.”
She nodded slowly, and her gaze refocused. “There are generally two reasons a person might suffer from anxiety related paralysis. One, hyperventilating because the excess intake of carbon dioxide will force the body to slow down blood flow which in turn will make it seem like our muscles aren’t working right. Two, is a miscommunication in the brain. Walking and moving around are generally automatic actions our brain processes on a subconscious level. They happen without conscious thought. But in a severe moment of panic, our mind will be more focused on how we are feeling and controlling those acute symptoms rather than on performing those tasks. Therefore, it requires our brain to process those acts on a conscious level, one at a time, which can be extremely difficult or give the feeling of it being not possible. Does this happen when he is submerged in artificial light?”
“No. His symptoms are lesser. More of a severe discomfort. Itchy skin. A need to flee or hide.”
Her rosy lips puckered, and she drummed her fingers on the desk between us. I could read the curiosity behind her eyes. The woman was an expert when it came to phobias, and I could tell Rory’s case was of huge intrigue. Because I knew she’d never cross lines, knowing Rory was my patient, I thought I’d throw bait on the off chance it might get me somewhere.
“I’d love to refer him to you because I feel you could offer him far more help than I can, but with his limitations, he’s struggled to find a psychiatrist who can work with his limitations.”
She didn’t seem to initially follow, but all it took was for me to motion to the overhead lights for it to dawn on her. If I could get her to consider Rory’s case and its rarity, I hoped she’d be willing to accommodate his needs somehow. He wasn’t my patient anymore, and he needed help beyond a shadow of a doubt. From the look on Dr. Kelby’s face, I thought it might be harder to convince Rory than it would be her.
“Can you tell me if immersion therapy would be the immediate practice for someone with this phobia?” I asked.
“Not yet. Immersion therapy requires a lot more trust from a client. It’s an extremely delicate form of therapy which can backfire very easily. I wouldn’t even consider beginning such a thing until I’d met with the person for a significant length of time and worked to form a solid bond and understanding on what we hoped to achieve. This man has yet to share a lot of his story with you by the sound of it, so that tells me his sense of trust isn’t quite developed enough yet.”
“Okay. That makes sense.”
“But, down the line, that would probably be the avenue I would take. Every case is different, and every client will respond differently as well. It will take a strong support system and complete willingness from your client to be effective.
“Let me give you an example. I have a client with Somniphobia. Part of his therapy included creating a concrete set of rules for him to follow in his daily life. A routine as such. The idea was to help train his brain into a recognizable pattern to assist relaxation at night which would help toward teaching his body to rest. Any and all attempts we made to move him forward with this plan were thwarted when my client refused to follow through with our agreed goals. Only when he became an active and willing participant in his therapy did we begin to see any results.”
I had the feeling she was talking about the man from her journal. His case was interesting, and I’d read his treatment plan and the regression he’d undergone when it wasn’t followed.
We talked a little longer about how I might know when Rory was ready to move forward, and once we were done, I felt like I’d lost the game before I’d even begun. As much as Rory needed help, I was in an awkward position to be the one to provide it.
Dr. Kelby’s time was wrapping up, and I didn’t want to keep her any longer than our scheduled appointment since she’d been kind enough to meet with me, but I had to ask one more thing.
“What are the chances that you have room on your client list and are willing to make accommodations for someone with Heliophobia?”
“Are you asking me if I’d be willing to find time outside office hours to take on a patient whose condition falls within the realm of my most passionate field of study?”
“It would require house calls.” And Rory’s cooperation, which I couldn’t guarantee until I spoke with him.
“I think I could definitely work something out. I’m in the process of putting together a conference in Alberta a couple years from now where I’ll be discussing phobias and the rarer cases I’ve had over the years including therapy and long-term results. If he’d be willing to partake in my study, I’d be able to move him up on my extensive waiting list and schedule him in immediately. It would require disclosure on his part. I have four people on my current caseload who are involved, all with as equally unique phobias as your client’s.”
That bubbled my interest, but I wasn’t sure how it would sit with Rory. He had a hard enough time sharing with me but allowing his name and case to be openly discussed and part of a study was a lot to ask. All I could do was pass the information along. It sounded like an incredible opportunity.
“I’ll speak with him.”
“Here’s my card.” She pulled a business card from a small holder on her desk and slid it across to me. “He can call me direct, or we can bridge the gap for him until he feels more comfortable.”
I accepted the card with thanks and fit it in my pocket. We said our goodbyes, and I headed back home for a few hours before I had to get to work. At some point, I’d need to call Rory and see if we could meet.
* * *
Saturday night when the sun went down, I left the house and headed to Rory’s complex by the water. Two weeks of silence was enough. He’d probably decided I wasn’t worth spilling his guts to, but he’d gone that far, and I wasn’t letting him quit there. Maybe he needed a nudge.
It was just shy of ten when I arrived at his building. I hadn’t called him and hoped he wouldn’t be too put out by me simply showing up. It was morning for Rory, so I’d grabbed two coffees from a coffee house on my way past, hoping it would help settle the shock of my sudden appearance. I didn’t know what he took in his coffee, so I’d asked for a baggie of creamers and sugar on the side.
I rode the elevator to his floor, my once calm nerves ravaging my insides. If he could suddenly appear at my house, why couldn’t I do the same? At his door, I knocked. While I waited for him to answer, I adjusted my glasses as I peered down at myself to inspect my clothes. It had taken me longer than usual to dress that evening. My urgent need to impress Rory hadn’t died off with his rejection a few weeks back, it had only escalated.
All my clothes were proper and professional. My parents always saw fit to ensure I didn�
��t dress like normal kids my age might dress. That control hadn’t changed when I’d moved out either. Before that day, I hadn’t cared much. With Rory, I wanted to make an impression, so I’d worn the only pair of jeans I owned and paired them with a striped polo. Maybe I’d take some money and get some new clothes. Clothes that didn’t scream psychology student nerd. My parents didn’t have to know.
The door flew open while I still examined myself, and my head shot up. I flinched when I realized I was face to face with Rory who was dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.
His look of surprise didn’t seem to have anything to do with his state of undress. With the door held open, we spent a solid minute in a silent stare off. It took every ounce of strength not to drop my gaze to his half-naked body. Even denying myself the view, my body embarrassingly responded to the sight.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was gruff like he’d just woken up.
“You can show up at random at my place, but I can’t show up at yours?”
He had no come back for that. I presented the coffee in hopes of distracting him from my growing issue below.
“I brought coffee. Can I come in?”
He threaded fingers through his fiery hair and moved aside, inviting me into his dark apartment. “Sure. I just woke up. Give me a minute.”
He closed the door, engulfing us in deep shadows, and disappeared down the hall to the bathroom. While he was gone, I fumbled through the dark and put the coffees on the coffee table before searching the room for Samson. He usually ran over to greet me, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Samson?” I called down the hall.
Rory returned a minute later wearing torn jeans and a black AC/DC T-shirt. He clicked on the soft light beside the couch which I knew was only for my benefit. It was a kind gesture considering I knew he didn’t like it.
“Krew took him home finally.”
“Oh.” The disappointment must have been evident in my tone because Rory chuckled as he helped himself to one of the coffees I’d brought.
“He liked you.”
“I liked him. We aren’t allowed to have animals in student housing. I kinda miss having a cat around. It was nice seeing Samson sometimes.”
Rory’s gaze lifted and met mine as he added two creamers to his cup. It wasn’t often I was able to make out the color of Rory’s eyes. They were a grey-green color that was easily washed out in the low light. As he looked up at me with the hint of a smile creasing his mouth, their green shimmered and showed through with more vibrance than ever.
Then, he lowered his head to his coffee, and the stolen glimpse I’d received was gone again.
“How are you?” I asked, hoping to nudge him into casual conversation.
I still didn’t know why he’d shed so much light into his past for me, but it left me hungry for more. Not that his story had been easy to hear, but it was Rory’s story, and I wanted to know him more than I could admit.
“Same problems, different day. You?”
I shrugged and sipped my coffee, avoiding his eyes. He stood, and I wanted to look up because I felt the penetration of his gaze, but I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Come on.”
When he moved to the balcony door, I was on my feet and going after him without thought. He didn’t sit, and he didn’t smoke right away. He simply leaned on the railing and looked out across the river.
There was no moon in the sky or at least one that could be seen. Everything was hidden by a blanket of clouds that night, so the streetlights and randomly lit buildings were the only things chasing away the darkness. Ten stories up, that intensity was lesser.
I chose to stand post beside him, leaning so our elbows were less than an inch apart. We’d kissed, we had a minor make-out session, we’d touched a few times since, but there was too big of a wall preventing me from believing there was anything really happening between us.
“Why did you reject me?” I asked out of the blue.
He didn’t answer, his gaze remained fixed in the distance. Defeat filled me, so I followed his gaze and considered why I’d really gone to his house. When he pulled out his pack of smokes, he turned them over in his hand before throwing them on the lounger behind us with a forced exhale.
“I fucking hate smoking in front of you. Ever since that first day we met and I put you into an asthma attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” he snapped. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m sorry. I get overwhelmed with stress and don’t have any other outlet.” He turned to face me, his forehead creased, and lips pinched tight. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I stayed quiet and focused more intently on the traffic below.
“I didn’t reject you.”
His fingers brushed along my jaw before he cupped my chin. An explosion of butterflies flew frantically around my belly as Rory turned my face to look at him. The searing heat reflecting in his eyes burned with shocking intensity, straight to my core.
“When I said it’s not you, it’s me, I wasn’t using a line on you, I meant it.” He moved closer, our bodies almost touching as his thumb feathered my bottom lip. “I’m not sure I’m capable of giving you what you need. What you deserve. I want to tell you things. Everything. So you can understand me. So you can see why I’m struggling.”
We were practically breathing the same air. Rory brushed his nose along my jaw and hovered over my mouth with the promise of a kiss, but he didn’t move closer. I yearned for the connection, wishing he could hear my begging thoughts as they swirled inside my head. It was making it hard to think. Rory was fighting to reach out and share his past. He wanted me to see him and understand him.
I fought my building needs and took his hand in mine, squeezing it and offering strength. “I’m listening, Rory. Help me understand.”
I thought he’d pull back, but our lips connected, and I closed my eyes as he drew me in and kissed me. There was a softness and tenderness that time that there hadn’t been the first time we’d kissed. It was something he swore he couldn’t give me, but there it was. My skin came alive, oversensitive to his every touch. Our tongues met only once with a hesitance on both our parts.
It ended too soon. Rory withdrew and studied my face. The dark clutter of his thoughts sat on the surface again, fear lingering in the shadows, so I didn’t release his hand.
“I’m listening,” I said again, knowing he needed the encouragement.
His eyes went out of focus as he drew up memories from his past, seeing things I knew he struggled to share. Things I didn’t realize until right then, I feared knowing.
“How far did I get last time?” he asked.
“College. You were accepted into a few and took the farthest from home.”
He nodded and released my hand, turning to face the water again while he shared.
“Right. So, college proved to be much calmer than high school. At first. No one cared I was gay. No one cared I was still the scrawny redhead. I studied and limited my interactions with people because I feared everything going to shit. It was so much easier flying under the radar in college. I relaxed. First mistake.
“In my second year, I’d become familiar with a few of the guys in my program. We weren’t friends, but I knew them because we shared all the same classes. They all lived in residence, and I lived off campus in a small apartment. Just before Christmas break, a bunch of them planned a huge party and extended the invitation to most of the guys in our program. I was shocked when this guy, Jerry, asked me if I wanted to go. No one had ever invited me to anything like that before, but I kept telling myself it wasn’t high school, and things were different. So, I went.”
I scrambled through every scenario that could have caused Rory’s Heliophobia, but parties happened at night, so it didn’t make sense.
He twisted his fingers together, fidgeting as he spoke. “It was a great party. A handful of the guys—Jerry, Tom, Br
ady, and Cody—invited me into their group. We talked, drank, and laughed all night. I couldn’t remember a single day since grade one with Nolan that I’d had so much fun. It was addictive. Wanting to fit in. Wanting to belong.
“So that ended my days of hiding in the corner. I sought their friendship after that. Invited myself into their group. Pushed a little too hard in retrospect. Because they’d been nice at the party, I instantly trusted them. Mistake number two.
“They’d tease me, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, and I was certain it was done in jest. I was in, and all I wanted to do was prove myself. They started daring me to do all kinds of stupid shit, and I did it. I didn’t care if they laughed at my expense because they let me hang out with them, and that was everything to me. They called me fearless once, and I took it as a huge compliment. I didn’t see what was happening. I had blinders on, but with four more friends than I’d had in my entire life, I didn’t care.”
He paused, his agitation clearly escalating with his story. When he dashed a look over his shoulder to where his smokes sat on the lounger, I touched his arm.
“It’s okay. I really don’t mind.”
He breathed through his nose and stared longingly at the pack but shook his head and turned back to the water. “No. It’s a nasty habit, and I need to fucking quit, or at least not do that shit around you.”
I didn’t argue with him.
“Spring break came, and a bunch of guys from their dorm were planning a trip to the Dominican. A week of nothing but drinking, sex, and parties on the beach. They told me I should come along. I was so excited.” He paused and shook his head at the memory. “And so fucking stupid. Growing up poor, I’d never been anywhere in my life. I wanted to go more than anything, but I didn’t have the money. They gave me a few weeks to come up with it, and I did.”
His jaw ticked, and when he didn’t elaborate how he’d got the money, I didn’t ask, because I got the sense I didn’t want to know.