by MJ Howson
“I . . . I suppose.” Dawn forced a smile, although she did suddenly feel a bit self-conscious about her outfit. She looked around and noticed most other people in the area were in colorful shorts and shirts. “I’ve never really been one for color.”
“You look graceful with whatever you wear.”
“Thanks.” Dawn blushed and turned to stare at the Vessel. The honeycomb-shaped public architectural wonder, standing one-hundred and fifty feet tall, had opened earlier this year and served as the centerpiece to Hudson Yard’s outdoor garden. The curved copper walls and glass panels reflected the sun and surrounding buildings. She said, “It’s such a beautiful piece of work.”
“Have you ever been inside?”
“Me? No. I hate heights. My verandas are bad enough, but at least at home, I have the safety of my apartment a few feet away.” Dawn pointed at the Vessel. “Those walkways seem so narrow. I can’t imagine walking up all those stairs. How many are there?”
“Stairs?” Joe scratched his chin as he studied the structure. “Too many for these old bones.”
“Hmmm.” Dawn cupped her eyes as she scanned the interconnected stairways linking the Vessel’s multiple levels. “Look how low those railings are.” She shook her head and sighed. “Not me.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“I’ll just have to take your word.” Dawn collected her pastry bag and coffee. “I need to get going, Joe. I have my fourth session with my therapist soon.”
“Four already? Are they helping?”
“To be honest, I . . . I don’t feel I’m getting much from them.” Dawn frowned and gently bit her lip. “He makes me nervous—the doctor. So many questions, you know? I . . . I like my privacy.”
“If you aren’t happy with him, maybe you can try a different one?”
“Oh, no. He came highly recommended. He’s supposed to be the best.” Dawn paused and reflected on her past sessions. “You wouldn’t know it from his dumpy office. I . . . I guess it just takes time.”
“If he’s the best, then you should stick with him.”
“Thanks, Joe. I plan to. I’m doing it for my Jacob. We’re in this together. It was good to chat.”
“You take care, Miss Easton.”
Dawn made her way back to the High Line. Her coffee had cooled enough that she could enjoy a few small sips. More importantly, the cup was no longer uncomfortable to hold. Dawn smiled as she headed south. The lush plants scattered along the pathway transformed the High Line into a world very different from the dingy streets down below. Soon, the Spire cast a shadow across the walkway as Dawn continued past her building.
Although her doctor’s office was located on 23rd Street, Dawn’s morning routine included a long walk down to the 10th Avenue bleachers located at 17th Street. She kept her paper bag closed, saving her pastry until she reached the bleachers. Along the way, she passed a few moms pushing strollers. Dawn couldn’t help but take a peek at the babies squirming or sleeping inside.
The sunken bleachers were positioned in front of an expansive set of windows overlooking the traffic down below. Dawn preferred to enjoy her breakfast at one of the benches beneath the trees on the upper deck instead of sitting down in the exposed stadium-style bleachers.
Dawn paused to watch the mix of tourists and residents spread out in the overlook. She then took a seat at one of the benches, placing her pastry bag and coffee by her side. She popped the lid from the coffee and took a long sip. The twenty-minute walk from Hudson Yards allowed the coffee to cool to a comfortable level. She then retrieved her miguelito and took a bite of the puffy pastry, doing her best to keep the sweet cream filling from spilling down her face. Dawn ran her tongue across her upper lip, collecting the powdered sugar left behind.
A young woman pushing a stroller stopped at the bench across from Dawn. She nodded toward Dawn before reaching into the buggy and retrieving her baby. The young infant girl immediately began to cry and squirm in her pink cotton blanket. The woman sat and began to gently bounce the baby on her knee.
Dawn tried not to watch as the mother unbuttoned her blouse and began to breastfeed her child. The woman never looked over at Dawn. Instead, she stared at her daughter, gently rocking and caressing her. Dawn’s unease became replaced by fascination, and she soon found it difficult to look away.
Watching this mother bond with her newborn child only made Dawn realize how much she wanted a daughter of her own. She quickly devoured the rest of her pastry and wiped her lips clean. Envy began to brew within her. Joe’s wife produced four kids after two miscarriages. Why couldn’t that be her?
“Do you have any children?” the young mother asked.
“Me? Oh.” Dawn was thoroughly embarrassed. Had the woman noticed her staring? Was she just being polite? Curious? “No. No, I don’t. Not . . . not yet.”
“They’re God’s miracle.”
Dawn smiled and took another sip of her coffee, enjoying the nutty caramel scent. Her feelings of jealousy softened. She suddenly felt that it was only a matter of time before she’d be the one sitting on this park bench during a beautiful day, breastfeeding her daughter. She looked into her coffee and felt hope wash over her. Jacob. Jacob was the key. Dawn reached for the sapphire pendant around her neck and gently took it into her hand. She closed her eyes and told herself Jacob was her path to another miracle.
Dawn looked at her watch and realized she was running late. She grabbed her empty bag and coffee and waved politely to the young mother. Dawn turned north on the High Line and found herself looking forward to her therapy session.
Seven
Therapy
Dr. Winston Cole leaned back in his office chair, causing the springs and hinges to squeak. At sixty years old, he’d spent decades building up his psychiatric practice. The stocky heavyset African-American was proud of what he’d achieved. A Detroit native, he met his wife while getting his undergraduate at Columbia University, and the pair got married in 1986. They fell in love with one another and also New York City. He never regretted building a practice in Manhattan, although lately, he found himself tiring of the long cold winters.
Dawn Easton’s folder sat open in front of Dr. Cole. A nearby notepad had the current session information scrawled across the top - Easton-D 8/2/19. He always liked to review the notes from his last session right before a patient’s next meeting. He adjusted his reading glasses, stroked his close-cropped silver beard, and began to flip through her history. Dawn’s case fascinated him. She was suffering from postpartum depression due to her fifth miscarriage. Her aversion to discussing her past worried him. But he was more concerned about her recurring nightmare of her unborn child calling for her. Dr. Cole had Dawn on Prozac to help with her anxiety.
The doctor opened a drawer in his desk and removed a small digital audio recorder. Dr. Cole frowned when he noticed the split in the attached power cord. He checked the battery compartment, only to find it stuffed with bubbling, corroded batteries. Dr. Cole sighed and looked across the office through the open door.
“Flo?” Dr. Cole called out.
A few moments passed before his wife appeared in the doorway. Similar in size to her husband, Flo’s shockingly colorful striped dress popped, especially against her deep cacao skin. She stepped into his office, looked at her husband, and raised an eyebrow.
“The recorder’s busted,” Dr. Cole said. He waved the broken device back and forth, allowing the frayed cord to brush against the papers on his desk. “I think Luna got to it.”
“Are you going to start recording your sessions?” Flo asked.
Dr. Cole stood up and went to the back of his office. He said, “Yes. With her permission.”
“You haven’t done that in a while.”
“Her case might be book-worthy.”
“Oh, Winston.” Flo rolled her eyes. “Are you still planning on writing that book when you retire?”
Dr. Cole opened the bottom drawer in one of the cabinets. A smile spread across his face. Resting ato
p a pile of blank cassette tapes sat his dad’s old Panasonic recorder. A thin film of dust covered the tape deck. Dr. Cole reached inside and carried it back to his desk, along with a blank tape.
“I’ve never had a postpartum case like Dawn’s,” Dr. Cole said. “I want to start documenting our sessions.”
“Will that old thing work?” Flo asked. She crossed her arms as she slowly approached her husband’s desk. “It looks like it belongs in a museum.”
“Please. They built these things to last.”
“Just use your phone to record it.”
Dr. Cole shoved the digital recorder aside and set the Panasonic near the edge of his desk. He plugged the power cord in, inserted a tape, and hit play. The motor whirred to life. Dr. Cole looked at his wife and smiled. He said, “I like to keep my phones quiet and out of the way.”
“Phones? What–”
The entrance to the waiting room opened, and Dawn stepped inside. Dr. Cole hit the stop button.
“She’s here,” Flo said.
As his wife left his office, Dr. Cole quickly tried to tidy up his desk. His messy desktop included a few open folders, a blank writing pad, a computer monitor, a box of tissues, and several knick-knacks. He grabbed a blue-cased smartphone and shoved it into the top drawer.
Flo and Dawn’s muffled chit-chat was drowned out by the window air conditioner’s hum and a ticking wall clock. The AC unit’s dirty brittle filter resulted in the air being especially stale smelling. Just as Dr. Cole sat down, a tabby cat bolted into the room. The American Bobtail clawed her way across the worn Persian hand-knotted rug covering the floor. She scurried beneath a couch, emerged from the other side, and jumped onto Dr. Cole’s desk. The cat’s tail brushed against a five-by-seven wooden plaque with the words Trust is a two way street carved into the front. The cheerful message fell over as the cat searched for a comfortable place to relax.
“Luna!” Flo ran into the room, shaking her head. She scooped the cat from the desk and tucked her beneath her arm. After setting the plaque upright, Flo aimed the cat at the digital recorder. “Bad kitty. Bad.” She looked at her husband and asked, “Are you ready?”
A clock hanging over the door showed the time as 11:06 a.m. The clock’s position allowed Dr. Cole to innocently glance above a patient’s head to check on the time. He said, “You can send her in.”
Flo returned to the waiting room. Dawn strolled into the office, still wearing her oversized sunglasses. The room contained an imposing embroidered couch and two matching chairs near his desk. During their initial meeting, Dr. Cole had asked Dawn her seating preference. As with some of his patients, Dawn requested the doctor stay behind his desk during their session. The physical barrier and distance brought her a bit of comfort. Dawn took a seat in one of the chairs and began to tug at her scarf.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Flo said as she closed the door.
Dr. Cole waited until he felt Dawn was settled into her chair. He always wanted his patients to feel at ease before the session began. He spent a few moments trying to organize his cluttered desk.
“How are you feeling today?” Dr. Cole asked. He placed his reading glasses on his desk. “Did you have a nice walk here?”
“I’m . . . I’m okay.” Dawn slid her sunglasses off and pulled her scarf from her neck, scrunching it into a ball in her hands. “The stroll down the High Line was as lovely as always. There are days I wish your office was all the way down in Greenwich Village so I’d have more time to enjoy myself.” Dawn’s eyes settled on the tape recorder. “What’s that for?”
Dr. Cole smiled and shifted about, causing his chair to squeak. He drummed his fingers across his stomach as he made himself comfortable. He said, “I was hoping to record our sessions. With your approval, naturally.”
“Record them?” Dawn bit her lip and frowned. “Why?”
“For research. I . . . I find your case quite fascinating, Dawn. I told you I plan to retire at the end of the year.”
“Yes. You told me I was your last new patient.”
“Well, Flo and I plan to move to Florida. During retirement, I want to write a book. Maybe several.”
“About me?”
“I have many patients that I’ve recorded. With their consent, of course. It helps with my research.”
“Oh. I . . . I don’t know. I’m a private person.”
“Oh, I won’t name you. Everyone in my book will be anonymous. What happens in this office stays in this office.”
“Doctor, patient, confidentiality, right?”
“Exactly.” Dr. Cole waited a few moments for Dawn to continue, but she sat there with a blank look on her face. “So, do I have your permission?”
“Um, sure. Okay.” Dawn stared at the recorder and grinned. “That’s an old one, isn’t it?”
“It was my dad’s.” Dr. Cole hit the record button. The motor on the old tape recorder whirred to life. He leaned close to the mic and said, “This is session number four with Dawn Easton. Today’s date is Friday, August second, twenty nineteen.”
Dr. Cole glanced at the notepad in front of him. During his sessions, he liked to write down key points he either needed to remember or follow up on later. He preferred to write as little as possible so that he could focus entirely on his patient.
“Tell me, Dawn, how are you sleeping?”
“Um. Fine.” Dawn tugged at her crumpled scarf. “Better, I guess.”
“And the dreams?”
“They, uh, they still come and go.”
“Are they the same?”
“Yes.” Dawn began to fold and crease her scarf. “I . . . I know you think I’m crazy for believing it’s the voice of my daughter I lost.”
“We never use that word here, Dawn.”
“Oh. Right.” Dawn leaned forward slightly, allowing her shoulders to droop. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. You’ve had five miscarriages. How can it not haunt you?” Dr. Cole leaned back in his leather tufted chair, causing the hinges to creak. The air conditioner in the window hummed and rattled as it blasted cooling air into the room. He glanced down at his notes and said, “We were about to talk about your mother when the last session ended. Would you like to start there?”
“My mother?” Dawn became visibly frustrated. Her eyes darted around the room as if she were looking for an exit. She pointed at the doctor’s hands clasped in front of him. “I . . . I like your cufflinks. Are they turquoise?”
“What?” Dr. Cole’s wardrobe selection was limited. He typically wore a pair of gray wool slacks and whatever striped button-down shirt Flo picked out for him. He’d forgotten about the cufflinks. “Oh, yes. My wife got them for my birthday.”
“Is it your birthstone?”
“Yes.” Dr. Cole took a moment to smooth out his sleeves.
“December?”
“Why, yes. The fifteenth.”
“Sagittarius.” Dawn smiled, looking relaxed for the first time since entering the office. “One year, my mother did an entire collection based on zodiac stones. Did you know that your birthstone is different from your zodiac stone?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Topaz.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s your zodiac stone. The color would look good on you.”
“That’s good to know.” Dr. Cole smiled and scratched his beard. “Did you want to talk about your mother?”
“Can we talk about Jacob?” Dawn slid the sapphire pendant from beneath her neckline and twirled the platinum chain around her fingers. “He’s important to me.”
“If you’d like. But, we talked about him last time.” Dr. Cole leaned forward and gently clasped his fingers together. “Tell me, Dawn, why do you avoid talking about your mother?”
“I . . . I just don’t see why it’s necessary. I told you Jacob’s the one. I never thought I could get pregnant again.”
“I know. It’s important we understand why it’s so important for you to be a m
other. You’ve had so many setbacks. One’s childhood can impact their parenting.” Dr. Cole placed his readers back on, dampened his fingertips, and methodically began to flip through the patient folder on his desk. “Let’s talk about your father. You lost him when you were twenty-two, correct?”
“Yes.” Dawn lowered her head and tucked the pendant away. “Like I said, it was an accident.”
“Were you close?”
“No. He . . . he wasn’t nice to my mom.”
“No?”
“For someone with a pressed shirt and cufflinks, you really aren’t up on the fashion world, are you?”
Dr. Cole smiled but didn’t respond. He was glad Dawn was speaking at ease and about her family. The stale air caused his nose to become itchy, forcing him to grab a tissue to wipe his nostrils. He glanced at the AC, looking forward to cooler days when he could open the window.
“My parents were a, uh, volatile couple.” Dawn tossed her scarf across her chair’s armrest. “Not a month went by when you couldn’t find them on page six of the Post. They fought all the time.”
Dawn watched with concern as Dr. Cole’s piercing glare remained fixed on her. He asked, “Did those fights ever involve you?”
“No.” Dawn bit her upper lip as she stared past Dr. Cole, lost in her thoughts. “I don’t know. Maybe there were times. Many of their fights were about work. My . . . my dad may have built a fashion empire, but the company would never have succeeded without my mom’s designs. She was the talent. Without her, he would’ve been nothing.”
“And what was your dad’s role in the business?”
“He had the money and the skills to build the company from the ground up.”
“You said they fought about work. What else?”
“He was, well, he was . . . a cheat.”
“Oh.”
“It started as love. I guess. They had mutual goals, you know?” Dawn lowered her head and sighed. “But at some point, it became a marriage of convenience.”
“Do you worry that your relationship with Jacob will be like your parents’ marriage?”
“What?” Dawn sat there looking stunned. “Jacob would never cheat on me. He’s not like that!”