by Ava Harrison
“Go shower. You smell.” I laugh.
Once she’s gone, I settle back into the couch and my thoughts drift back to my therapy session. God, I hope it helps.
Reaching into my purse, I pull out the notebook and squint my eyes at it. Here goes nothing.
Journal Entry
I hate that I have to do this. Not sure what it will actually accomplish. Well, I haven’t had a panic attack since I received this journal a few hours ago. So instead, I’ll write about my first time. Oh, shit, that didn’t sound good. Thank God, Dr. Montgomery doesn’t have to read this.
First attack. I had my first anxiety attack at Richard’s funeral. I have no idea where it came from. One minute I was there and the next I hyperventilated to the point of making myself crash. I remember little things.
I remember my rapid heartbeat.
I remember the cool sweat breaking out against my brow.
I remember being lost in my thoughts.
Then I remember nothing.
Laying my notebook down, I look over the words I wrote. Jotting down my feelings is somewhat comforting. Like I own the feelings. They don’t own me. Dr. Montgomery is obviously more than just a pretty face. He knows what he’s talking about.
Maybe weekly sessions with the doc won’t be so bad after all.
What the fuck am I doing? I shouldn’t be speaking to this girl, let alone treating her. I knew it was coming; I tried to prepare myself but nothing could prepare me for how it felt when she sat across the room from me.
It was as if all the oxygen from my lungs was drained. I knew right then and there that this wasn’t fucking normal. The very second our gazes met, I knew I needed to tell her to leave. To go and never come back. She looked too much like Sloane and yet she was nothing like her. Every second she spoke, it became more apparent how different they were. Sloane was weak, but this girl . . . Eve Hamilton . . . She might not see it, but she is one of the strongest people I have ever met.
Looking toward the window, it appears snow is collecting on the surface. Bleak and depressing. Although I can see the outside, it feels as if the walls of my office are closing in. Familiar weaknesses are resurfacing. I grit my teeth. These are the feelings this girl brings out in me. She makes me remember. She reminds me of all my failures, shortcomings, and faults, but most of all her simple presence reminds me of all I lost.
The phone ringing on my desk pulls me from my inner turmoil. The Caller ID shows it’s my older brother. I wonder what he wants at this time of day. Usually he’s too busy to talk when he’s working. I pick up the phone but don’t even have time to speak before he utters one sentence that lands a punch in my gut.
“I need you.” Fuck.
“Why?” I answer. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, God, nothing like that.” He laughs through the line. “It’s our anniversary and I’ve been so busy at work, and, well, I forgot.”
“Wow, you forgot your anniversary? That’s pretty low, even for you.”
“You don’t need to remind me what a fuck up I am. But the good news is she’ll never know. I’ve been working all day to plan something. I just need your help.”
“So what can I help you with?”
“I’m surprising her with a trip next month.”
“And?”
“I need you to watch the kids. Can you?” He lets out a long sigh.
“Whatever you need. You know that.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Pres.”
Hanging up the phone, all I can do is shake my head. I’m shocked that he forgot. That wasn’t like him at all, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face knowing how hard he worked to right his wrong. Since Sloane, there’s been no one to make me feel that way. No one worth risking my heart for. Again. This kind of love gives me faith that maybe one day I’ll find someone worth risking it all for.
Journal Entry
Everything felt wrong. My heart was beating erratically in my chest. I had no control over it. No power over my body. My heart was seizing. I felt tears welling in my eyes.
By the time I made it to the bathroom, my breathing had become shallow. Every time I imagined what I would say if I bumped into someone, I lost my words. My fear dried my mouth . . . cemented my tongue. All I could do was wait for the lingering effects of the attack to pass.
I sit in the waiting area after a stressful day of work, watching the door for a sign of life. Will this ever get easier? It’s been one week. One week since I found the strength to walk into this building and figure out what is going on with me. One week since I welcomed Dr. Montgomery into my life. Unloaded my burdens and began to purge my soul. As the seconds pass and my thoughts continue to drift, I can’t help but wonder about my new psychologist. Who is this man? What makes him tick? When the familiar knots start to form, I shake the thoughts away. Just thinking of him and the beginning of our session ties me in knots.
“Ms. Hamilton, the doctor will see you now.” I peer up at her and she points in the direction of his office. “He said to show yourself back.”
With one hand tucked into my coat pocket, I make my way to Dr. Montgomery’s door and push it open. He’s just finishing up a call and motions to me to take a seat on the couch.
“Okay, sweetie. Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He has a smile on his face—one that doesn’t only touch his eyes, but also touches his soul. “Love you too.” Hearing those words leave his mouth has me feeling the strangest sort of feeling. Almost like jealousy, but it can’t be that. I don’t know this man well enough to be jealous.
No, what I’m jealous of is that feeling. To have someone love you, to belong to someone, to have your soul attached to someone else’s.
As he hangs up the phone, his eyes are still filled with a look I miss.
Unconditional love.
“Sorry about that. It’s my niece’s birthday today. Her party is this weekend.” His niece. The oxygen I didn’t know I was holding expels from my lungs.
“Lucky girl to have an uncle like you.”
“I’m the lucky one.” The warmth of his smile echoes in his voice, and at that moment I see a different side of him. It makes me trust him further. It makes me like him even more. “So, how are you today?”
“I’m okay. Work has been rough. Things with my mom have been tough. I guess everything has been hard,” I admit with a sigh.
“How so?”
I proceed to give him an update of everything that has happened since I was last here. For some reason, I leave out the nightmares. I’m just not ready to tackles those yet when I have so many other issues going on. He listens with undivided attention. Once I’m done, he sets his notebook down and peers up at me.
“Let’s talk about Richard. Can you do that? Or do you need a minute?”
I consider what he’s asking of me. “I can do it.”
He lets out the breath he must have been holding as he waited for my answer, and then leans forward.
“You said Richard was your father’s best friend. Was he always a part of your life?”
“As far back as I can remember, it was Richard.” My heart thuds in my chest, but every time I feel myself falling, I concentrate on Dr. Montgomery’s broad shoulders that move slightly as he breathes and it anchors me.
“How so?”
“My mom . . . Well, let’s just say she didn’t handle Dad’s death well. Richard stepped up to help with me.” My voice is low.
He cocked his head. “I’m going to need you to elaborate on your mother a bit.”
A flash of grief rips through me. My mouth trembles as I speak. “She lost it. But this is the only way I know her. She’s always been this way to me. Does that make sense?”
“It does. What was your mom like? Before your dad’s accident.”
“People don’t really talk about that, but I saw pictures of my parents from before I was born and she looks like a totally different person. Her eyes were bright and she always had a smile. S
he was young, pretty. She looked carefree and in love.”
“And that’s not the mother you know?”
“Oh, God, no.” I shake my head vehemently. My mom has never been that mom to me. The tears I’ve been holding back force their way out at the thought.
Dr. Montgomery’s hand reaches out. When he speaks, his hand encases mine. “Tell me about the mom you know.” He gives my palm a squeeze and I look down at our connected hands. His grasp is strong. It comforts me. It gives me the reassurance I need.
Dr. Montgomery pulls away, and my body grows cold with the loss. I peer up at him and find his brow furrowed. “You can do it,” he encourages, while reclining back in his chair. With the new distance between us, I shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, I feel awkward.
“My mom . . . My mom is a hypochondriac. For as long as I can remember, she’s been popping pills for some imaginary ailment. She barely makes it out of bed half the time. She’s always ill. She doesn’t do anything for herself.” I let out a deep breath, my whole body shaking as I purge the memories from my mind.
“She gave up driving because she wouldn’t get in a car. She wouldn’t leave our house, so we never went anywhere. That’s why we moved to the city. When Richard found out, he made us give up our house and move to the vacant apartment near his.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
“Maybe. As I said before, I don’t remember much from my childhood.” Sometimes I thank God for that.
“What was she like once you moved to the city?”
“Richard hired us a full-time caregiver who also cleaned the house. She took care of me, and she took care of Mom.”
“What was her name?”
“Sonia.” My throat feels as if it’s closing up. I loved Sonia. She cared for me. Loved me. She was a mom to me.
“How long was Sonia with you?”
Not long enough. “Almost ten years, and then one day she wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
She left me. “She had to go back to Brazil because her mother got sick. It was a little shy of my thirteenth birthday.”
I still feel the pain from when she left. Sadness courses through my veins at the memory, like a caged animal threatening to break loose. A glossy sheen coats my skin. Every muscle feels tight, as if I’m cemented in place.
“It’s okay. Breathe.”
In. Out.
In. Out.
“She left right before my birthday. I remember because Mom was too “sick” to do anything special, but I could always count on Richard.”
“What did he do?”
“What didn’t he do? He was there for everything. As I said, Dad was his best friend. They grew up together. They were supposedly as close as brothers. When my father died, I became Richard’s surrogate daughter. Although he had been previously married, his wife never wanted children, and once they divorced he had no interest in remarrying, so mom and I were, for all intents and purpose, his family. He was the one with me when I broke my arm and had to go to the hospital, the one who came to the school for parent teacher meetings. He was the one who brought me medicine when I was sick, not Mom. She was too scared she’d catch something, so she stayed in the apartment, and if I was there she stayed in her room.” I clamp my lips together, but the sob breaks out anyway.
“I’m so sorry.” The blue of his gaze glistens with emotion, so sharp it sears me.
“It was exhausting. It is exhausting.”
“Do you need a minute?”
I shake my head. I need to get this over with. To tell him everything, expel it. Then it will be done.
“What is your relationship with her like now?”
“She needs me all the time. My phone rings all day, every day. A new ailment. A new diagnosis. A new second opinion.”
“So, basically you have become the mother?”
“Yes.”
“And who takes care of you?”
“Richard did.”
And with that, I let go. I let it all go. Every tear pours out with strangled breaths and a broken heart.
The tears of a child who grew up too fast.
The tears of an adult who lost too much.
She’s broken, and all I want to do is mend her.
Each tear she sheds rips a little bit more of my already tattered soul. Hearing about her childhood is almost too much to bear. She’s lost, wandering alone in this world. I try to open my mouth to comfort her, but I remind myself I’m here to listen. Not to take her in my arms and hold her. But I want to. I want to tell her it will all be okay. That every bad thing that happened turned her into the amazing woman she is today. I don’t know her well, but I can already tell. She’s so much more than she lets on. So much more than she gives herself credit for. She’s strong and loyal, and she’s beautiful. Inside and out. I shouldn’t think these things. I shouldn’t look at her in this light, but I can’t help it.
As she tells me her story, foreign feelings invade my bloodstream. What type of mother would abandon her child like that? What kind of mother forces her child to be the parent? Sadness, outrage, and disapproval flows through me. Judgment clouds all reason, making me a completely biased voice. I’m judging this woman I don’t even know. Condemning her.
God, my head’s a mess. I can’t think things like this. I need to be impartial. But I’m so angry for her. I’m not objective and I shouldn’t continue to treat her. Hell, I’m not even sure I should be in the same room with her.
It takes every bit of my energy to not reach out for her. Not to grab her in my arms, pull her into me and never let her go. To tell her she’ll be okay and I would protect her. But instead, I straighten my back and tighten my jaw. She might think I’m cold. I might seem stiff, but it’s the only way I know. It’s the only thing I can do to not comfort her.
I’m freaking tired.
So tired I can barely make out the words I’m typing on my keyboard.
Needing a pick-me-up, I head to the coffee room. Surprisingly, no one is in here, but I welcome the silence. As much I’ve always enjoyed the energy coursing through the office, my heart isn’t here anymore. These last few weeks, I’ve been coasting. Basically pretending to work as I attempt to keep my mind and emotions at bay. Thank God no one has asked what I’ve been up to because the answer would be nothing. I haven’t contacted any new leads. I haven’t called any of my clients. I’ve done nothing.
As the Keurig roars to life and steam from the machine fills the air, a presence looms behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Barry standing close. I narrow my eyes at him.
“Can I help you?”
“Nope. Just grabbing coffee.”
The heat of his body tells me he’s standing too close. “Barry? Do you mind giving me some space?” He shuffles a step, but he’s still too close.
“So . . .” He leans in to speak and the closer he gets, the more I feel as if I’m being suffocated. “Did Richard ever tell you his partner’s name? Or better yet, has the lawyer for his estate contacted you?”
Even though I do know, I’m hesitant to tell anyone. It was bad enough for me to be Richard’s favorite, but if the staff knew my mom was the silent owner, it would make working here even more complicated. I don’t owe Barry an answer. The silent partner is a non-entity. Apart from providing capital, she has no interest in becoming involved.
“No, Barry. I don’t,” I manage, but the more we talk of Richard, the more my heartrate accelerates. Without saying another word, I jet down the hall and into the bathroom.
Once there, I throw myself into a stall and dry heave into the toilet. This is bad. So fucking bad. I swear I’m dying. This can’t be normal. It can’t. Pulse racing. Heart pounding. Sweat and dry heaves.
I’m having a heart attack. No. It’s just panic.
Inhale. One. Two. Three.
Exhale. One. Two. Three.
I can get through this. Think of the breathing techniques.
It takes me sitting on the bathroom floor for an
hour before I have the strength to get up and pretend to function.
But eventually I get through.
This will be my sixth session seeing Preston Montgomery as a patient. I can’t believe six weeks have passed since the first time I sat in his waiting room.
The creak of wood causes my back to straighten.
“Hi. Sorry, I’m running late today. How are you? It’s good to see you again.” He seems so relaxed and carefree.
“I’m good.” I smile tightly, but I don’t think he senses my unease. He turns to his previous patient and says his good-bye before returning his attention to me.
“Would you please see yourself to my office? I need to check my messages.”
“Of course, no problem.”
As he peers at me, something inside me stirs. A feeling I haven’t felt for a while—comfort. He sees me and understands me. It’s amazing. It’s all encompassing. His eyes blink rapidly and the moment is lost. Shaking my head, I make an effort to no longer gawk at him and head straight into his office.
When he walks in a few minutes later, our eyes meet and a strange feeling lingers in the room. I find myself anxious as I wait for him to speak from across the coffee table.
“Hi.”
“Hey, Doc,” I say and he shakes his head at my moniker.
“You seem in good sorts today.”
“I am now, but I wasn’t before.”
And it’s true. For weeks I’ve been off, but being here—it’s like sunshine after a stormy day. I want to bask in its rays. Feel the warmth on my face.
“What happened?”
“I had an awful panic attack at the office. But I’ve just been off in general. Like my chest is heavy all the time.” Except when you’re around. “Does that make sense?”
“It does. Have you been practicing the breathing techniques?”
“Here and there.” I look down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with him. I know he will see I haven’t been following his numerous suggestions. Only the ones about breathing.
“That’s really good.” He either doesn’t notice how evasive I am or he’s giving me a pass. “And how has that been working for you?” He smiles and I know it’s the latter.