by Abbi Cook
"It'll be fine. Give me a half hour and I'll be here with some money. It won't be a lot, but I think I can take enough to get you through at least this session."
After I thank her, I silently wonder what will happen when I have a second session with this doctor. And a third. I don't know much about seeing a therapist, but I can't imagine whatever's going on with me is going to be cured in a handful of appointments.
I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. In the meantime, at least I can go to this first session.
Claire stands in her all-white kitchen smiling like I haven't seen her do in far too long. Before I can say a word, she sticks her hand out toward me with a stack of bills and a ring. "I got you five hundred dollars. I wanted to take more, but I think this should be good for at least today."
I take the money and the ring, confused what it's for. "Why are you giving me this too?"
"Because it's worth thousands of dollars. You can't just have one session with a therapist. Haven't you ever watched TV? People are in therapy for years. I don't know how much you can get for it, but I've heard from a few people that there's a jeweler on M Street who pays good money for good jewelry. I think this cost Albert at least three thousand dollars, so don't let the guy give you just a few hundred, okay?"
Overcome with emotion from her gesture of sisterly love, I pull her into my arms and hug her to me. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Thank you so much, Claire."
I gently push her back to look into her eyes. "I promise I'll pay you back."
She smiles in that sweet way that makes her even more beautiful than usual. "Just get better. I can't stand the idea of losing you too. If you're gone, that leaves only me and Tess, and well, you know how that is."
Claire doesn't have to explain how she feels about our other sister. I feel the same way. If it wasn't for sharing a mother and a last name, Tess would be considered more a stranger than most people I see on the street.
Glancing at the clock on her stove, I see I only have a half hour to get to the appointment. "I better go. Call me when you can talk and I'll tell you how it went, okay?"
She eagerly nods, her eyes wide with anticipation. "I will. I'll be curious to know what it's like telling a perfect stranger about things. Maybe if it works for you, I'll start going to see him too."
I kiss her goodbye and hurry down to my car parked on the street. If this therapist does nothing else, at least it gave Claire something to be happy about. I just hope that's not all I get from this.
The waiting room at Dr. Trevino's office looks like every other waiting room at every other doctor's office I've ever visited. Just knowing this puts me at ease as the glass entrance door closes behind me. If the place had been all new age crystals and incense, I might have turned right around and driven home.
Not that I'd thought that's how it would be. Honestly, I didn't know what to expect, but the bland beige colored walls and black hard plastic chairs so common to doctors' offices makes me think everything's going to be okay.
More than once I'd nearly talked myself out of coming here today. Adam would be furious if he knew. Both he and my mother loathe anything to do with mental health. Whether it be psychology or psychiatry, they think it's utter nonsense for anyone to spend their time telling a stranger their deepest, darkest secrets. The one time I brought up visiting a counselor after getting the news that we weren't pregnant, both of them lectured me for days on how useless that would be. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised my husband reacted the way he did when I mentioned seeing a doctor about my nightmares.
Behind a sliding window, a plain woman with dirty blond hair sits talking on the phone. I wait for a few moments until she's finished with her call and then tap on the glass to get her attention. She looks up at me and smiles as she slides the window open.
"Do you have an appointment?"
I nod and clear my throat. "Yes. Lauren Tarrigan. I have a one o'clock appointment."
"Okay. I need your ID and for you to fill out these forms. When you're done, bring them up to me. Just answer the questions to the best of your knowledge and ability. The doctor will go over them with you in your session."
My stomach does a somersault and my hands shake as I reach into my purse to get my sister’s ID. We look similar enough that she probably won’t say anything, but this whole thing could come to a screeching halt right now if she doesn’t believe that’s me.
I hand it to her and watch her scan it, all the while wishing she’d say something to ease my anxiety. Does she question if that’s me? It doesn’t say Lauren’s age or give her birthdate, but I don’t look like a college student. Oh, God! At any moment she’s going to look up at me and this will all end before I even get a chance to see the doctor.
“I don’t have a driver’s license. I don’t drive,” I say in a trembling voice, desperate for this part of the appointment to be over.
The woman doesn’t react to my statement, and without a word, she hands me the ID card and a clipboard with a stack of papers that looks like it will take an hour to fill out. Now my heart begins beating wildly at what kind of questions they might be. Will I have to put down on paper things I want to keep private?
Quickly, before she can close the window, I ask, "How much is each session? I don't have insurance, so I'll be paying cash."
I watch the woman's reaction closely to see if she believes my lie, but the question doesn't seem odd to her at all. She answers in a flat tone, like it's one she's asked all the time, "The doctor's fee is two hundred dollars per session."
"Okay. Thank you," I say, relieved to hear the price is so reasonable compared to what I'd imagined.
The jeweler liked Claire's ring enough to give me twenty-five hundred dollars for it. Added to the five hundred in cash she gave me, I have enough money for quite a few sessions, thankfully. I just hope the jeweler doesn't tell anyone I was there. I lied and told him my name was Tess Childers, my younger sister's married name. He didn't ask for any ID, so I think I'm safe. Still, I'm not used to lying so much.
Ten minutes later, I've filled the form out to the best of my ability, complete with lying about my name, age, and preferred method of contact. I rarely check my old email I used before getting married, but on the form I claim it's the best way to reach me.
So many lies. I hope therapy turns out to be worth it.
I return to the receptionist's window and hand the clipboard with the completed forms back to her as I nervously say, "The best way to contact me is through email. Please don't use my phone number you have because I often can't answer it."
Once more, I watch the woman's expression to see if she believes my lie, but my request doesn't affect her one way or the other. She simply makes a note on the form—USE EMAIL FOR CONTACT—and tells me the doctor will be out in a few minutes before closing the window.
Turning around to return to my seat, I notice a heavy-set older woman with salt and pepper hair sitting in a chair across the room and reading a magazine. I'd been so nervous since walking in that I didn't even notice I wasn't alone. She appears engrossed in whatever she's reading, and I lean forward to see it's some celebrity magazine with a picture of the redheaded English royal prince and his wife on the cover.
I should read a magazine too. It might calm me down. I don't know why I'm so nervous. I didn't check off many of those ailments on that sheet of paper the receptionist had me fill out, so things can't be that bad with me. Maybe that's not what's making me so anxious.
The lying is the problem. I don't like to lie. I'm not good at it. I get nervous and can't remember what I said in the past. Since that's one of the most important parts of lying, I pretty much avoid it. Not that I have much to lie about. I consider what I say to people at the Preservation Society and the country club more exaggeration than lying. They seem to think Adam and I are far wealthier than we actually are and far happier, I suspect by some of the members' comments. I merely choose not to correct them when they make the mistake of
thinking those things. That's not really lying.
Or maybe it is. Maybe my entire life is a lie. I mean, I'd love to say my husband and I are truly happy, but it feels like in the past few months, that's not been anywhere close to true. Between the attack and my sister's disappearance, to say nothing of the disappointment of not being able to get pregnant even before those things happened, it's been a rough six months or so. We were happy before, though. At least I want to think we were.
And then there’s Alexei. What happened with him only made matters worse.
God, I don't know what to think. Hopefully, that's what this therapist can help me figure out. That's what they do, right? I honestly don't know. All I know is I can't go on thinking my mind is cracking into pieces while I continue to pretend everything is fine, and I can’t keep thinking about a man who isn’t my husband.
"Lauren Tarrigan," a female voice calls out, but I don't react as my brain takes a little while to register what she said and I don't remember I'm pretending that's me.
"Lauren Tarrigan?"
Oh, God! She's talking to me!
I quickly stand up and hurry over to where she stands in a doorway next to the receptionist's desk. "That's me. Lauren."
"Follow me."
A few seconds later, I'm alone in a room that reminds me of what a professor's office at a university looks like. At least what I've seen they look like in movies. The walls are painted a sand color, slightly lighter than the color used on the walls in the waiting room. A large, cherry wood desk sits on the far wall next to a window, and the chair I sit in is a light grey upholstered chair, far nicer than the black plastic ones in the waiting room. The window is nearly the height of the wall and looks out onto a courtyard with concrete seating around a large fountain. As I wait for the doctor to come in, I watch the water tumble from the top down into a basin and then overflow into a bigger one and then an even bigger one on the bottom. The effect is nothing short of mesmerizing, so much so that I don't even hear the office door open.
"Lauren Tarrigan, I'm Dr. Jacob Trevino," I hear a man's voice say, and I turn to see a tall man with dark hair and wire-frame glasses standing next to me.
Extending my hand, I shake his. "Hello."
I wonder if I should have said more right there. He probably thinks I don't have any manners. It's polite to at least give the perfunctory how do you do. Instantly, I wish I'd asked him that.
By the time I finish chastising myself, he's already seated behind his enormous wood desk and smiling at me. Did I miss something that he said that may have been funny?
"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
The doctor shakes his head. "No. Not yet, at least."
The playful lilt in his voice puts me at ease, so I don't mind that the next words out of my mouth are practically a confession. "I'm sorry. I'm a little nervous. I've never been to a therapist before."
He nods like this is a statement he hears often. "It's okay. You're here now. I've taken a look at the forms you filled out, so I thought we'd go over what you answered on them before we begin discussing why you're here. Does that sound okay?"
I'm struck by his question. I'm not used to people asking me if it's okay for them to do something involving me. I don't know how to answer, so I simply nod my head.
"Okay. So I see you indicated that you've had a head injury. Is this recently?"
"Yes. A few months ago."
"It would help me if I could see the records regarding that injury. What hospital did you go to?"
My mind frantically tries to come up with a believable lie to tell him. He can't see my records or he'll know my name isn't Lauren Tarrigan! As he sits there waiting for me to answer, I blurt out, "It wasn't around here. I don't think I can get those records. I hope that won't be a problem."
Oh, God! More lies. I'm never going to be able to keep all these lies straight.
He looks at me with suspicion in his eyes. Rightfully so, of course. The man is used to dealing with people with mental problems. He can probably detect a lie from a mile away. He probably thinks I'm a liar.
Already this isn't going well.
After what feels like an eternity, he shakes his head and smiles before jotting something down on the papers in front of him. "No, it won't be a problem. I'm just going to need you to be as candid as possible with me about the injury. If you aren't, then it might hinder our work together."
I want to show him I'm here to do that work together with him, so I quickly nod. "Oh, I promise to be as candid as you need me to be. I remember everything about it. Well, everything other than who hit me. That we never found out."
Dr. Trevino's eyebrows furrow, and two worry lines form between them to make the number eleven above his very straight nose. "Someone attacked you?"
"Yes. One night as I was walking to my car in a dimly lit parking lot, someone came up behind me and hit me on the head. I was found by a passerby and taken to the hospital. I remained unconscious for nearly half an hour before I came to."
His eyes widen in surprise. "Oh. Okay. How long ago was that exactly?"
"A little over three months ago."
He writes my answer down on the sheet of paper and nods his head before looking up at me. "Okay. Other than that, I don't see that you listed many other ailments. Headaches, but I guess that's not surprising, and nightmares, which I guess are also not surprising."
"The headaches have stopped, pretty much, but the nightmares continue. They're actually the reason I'm here. The nightmares."
I don’t mention anything about nearly cheating on my husband with a man I barely know but can’t stop thinking about. It doesn’t seem like the right time, although I’m not sure when the right time will be.
As this all races through my brain, I wait to hear him respond to my mention of nightmares, hoping he'll react more positively than Adam. If a therapist acts like they're nothing of consequence, I don't know what I'll do.
Thankfully, the doctor doesn't dismiss them. Standing from behind his desk, he walks around to where I sit and motions toward the other side of the office where a tan upholstered couch and two brown wingback chairs are positioned. "Let's move over here and we can talk about those nightmares, among other things."
Never before in all my life that I can remember have I felt as relieved as I do at this moment. I don't know what he's going to ask, but it doesn't matter as much as knowing he wants to hear about my nightmares.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Natalie
I sit down in the chair even nicer than the one I just left and notice this one has far less give. I can't help but wonder if most people never make it to this one. Why? The doctor seems nice enough, so that couldn't be the reason. Perhaps they change their minds about wanting to talk about what's rolling around in their heads.
Not me. I can't wait to tell him about everything my mind's been up to. I can only hope he’ll tell me I'm not crazy or defective. The idea that I'm broken has occurred to me more than once.
Dr. Trevino crosses his right leg over his left knee and settles his notepad against his thigh. "Lauren, why don't you tell me about yourself?"
"What would you like to know?" I ask, acutely aware that I don't want to unnecessarily add more lies to the lies I've already told him.
A warm smile spreads across his lips. "Well, you can start wherever you'd like. If you want to tell me about your life now, that's fine. If you want to go further back to your childhood, that's fine too. I just like to get to know patients before we begin the real work of therapy."
Once again, he uses the word work to describe what we'll be doing. I like that. Work implies that things will be accomplished.
Feeling a little more relaxed, I think for a moment about what I'd like to tell him about me and then begin. "My father died when I was only a baby. I don't remember anything about him really. Well, at least I don't think I do. I get confused sometimes on that."
"Okay. So you were brought up by your mother? Did she remarry?" he a
sks before jotting something down on his notepad.
"Yes, my mother brought me up, along with my sisters, but she never remarried after my father died. I've never gotten the feeling she even considered it since she never dated even once that I can remember."
"How many sisters do you have?" he asks, immediately sending me into a silent panic.
I don't want to talk about my sisters. Impersonating one is bad enough, but talking about myself as if I'm not Natalie makes my stomach churn.
"Three."
He waits for me to continue, but I have nothing else to say about that subject. When I don't say anything else, he asks, "Okay, so you and your sisters were brought up by a single mother. That must have been tough."
His characterization of our lives as tough makes me smile. "Not really. We had money enough for a private tutor for all of us, so I wouldn't say tough would be the correct word for it."
Nodding, he says, "Okay, but growing up without a father must have been difficult. I mean, for you and your sisters and your mother too. Not having a male parent around makes a difference in a child's life, and your mother had to be both parents."
It takes me a moment, but I realize I've never thought about it that way. My mother was always such a strong presence that I never thought about how hard it must have been for her to be both mother and father. As for not having our father around, I don't know if it affected me.
"I guess we all just adapted. I have to admit I never considered any of that. Our lives were just that way, so we didn't know anything else."
Dr. Trevino nods his understanding, and although I expect him to write a note about what I said, he doesn't. Instead, he continues with his questions. "How would you characterize your life growing up?"
Tilting my head right and then left, I sigh. "I don't know. That's one of the things I'm hoping to figure out by coming here."
My answer seems to confuse him. He probably expected me to say it was idyllic or fun, but in truth, I don't know what it was.