She paused a moment, enjoying the peace of it before she readied her fingers for maximum impact.
“I’ll tell you one more thing we could do,” she offered with a cheeky edge to her voice, which her children instantly recognised. “More tickle-fests!”
With that, the children took off running and squealing through the house. She chased them down, captured them and carried them upside down into her lair where the real fun began. Their joy-filled laughter was a drug, pulsing through her bloodstream, igniting hope.
“More laughing, and less yelling,” Saffie announced.
“That sounds perfect to me, baby.”
They lay there for a few minutes staring up at the ceiling wrapped in each other's arms before Saffie announced the time, and they all jumped up to gather what they needed for school.
When she returned home after drop-off, she picked up the phone and dialled her friend’s number.
“Jaz?”
“Yeah. Hey, Ingrid, you okay?”
“To be honest, I’m not okay. I was hoping I could get the number of the woman you’re seeing with Stuart?”
“The psychologist?”
“Yeah. You said she was good.”
“She’s great. What’s going on?”
“I’m struggling with work, the kids, being angry and sad all the damn time. I think it’s time I talked to someone about it.”
“That sounds like a good plan, hun. Avery is amazing. Hey, I’m free this morning – how about I pop around for coffee, and I’ll bring her card?”
“That would be perfect; we might be due some real talk.”
“Sweet. I’ll drop the kids off and head straight there – see you in ten.”
Ingrid hung up the phone and leant back in her chair. Maybe being honest about how she was feeling was the first part of beating this thing, whatever it was. She thought back to the moment she’d shared with her children and was overwhelmed with gratitude that they’d managed to find their way back to each other.
How had she lost that? How did she go from being the happy-go-lucky mum – the one at every assembly celebrating every success, the one at every sports event and concert, the one who joined every school trip with gusto – to being resentful at having her day of peace interrupted by their activities, their voices or their very presence in the same room as her? She didn’t even recognise herself.
16
Sally had been redirecting all new clientele to other clinics for months. This was one of the steps on the management plan I’d written up with Dr Pennet, my personal psychologist, to ensure I could both focus on my health and keep practising to a high standard. The only reason I’d found out about Ingrid was because Jasmine had caught me on a good day and had tugged on my heartstrings.
So here we were.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr Bishop. I know Jaz asked you to make an exception for me. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I offered a friendly smile. I could see she was nervous. “Let's start with who you are?”
“I’m Ingrid.”
“And …?” I asked.
“Black. Ingrid Black,” she offered hesitantly.
“Like Bond,” I joked.
She cracked an awkward smile.
“There it is. Nice to meet you, Ingrid Black. I’ll start. Who am I? Okay, I’m Avery Bishop; I’m single, though ‘it’s complicated’ somewhat applies to my love life …”
I watched her tension sink into my couch. “I love the wild and have a love-hate relationship with running. I adore jazz music but despise rap. I have an overactive imagination, especially when I’m trying to avoid something scary, and sometimes I wish I could run away to live in the jungle with the elephants.” I indicated I was finished and motioned towards her. “Your turn.”
She crossed one leg over the other and studied her thoughts before allowing me to hear them. “We’ve already established I’m Ingrid Black, not nearly glamorous or adventurous enough to be like Bond, though.”
“Says who?” I interjected.
She smiled. “I‘m married – have been for twelve years. My husband travels a lot internationally for work, so that’s … a challenge. I have two children, Saffie and Noah. Seven and five. I used to sing, but other than nursery rhymes and whatever my kids are into, I haven’t done it for years. I miss it … actually, now that I say it … I really miss it.”
I drew a microphone on the corner of my notebook and held it up to show her to dispel any fear she may have about what I might be writing about her. It was an issue for some clients. She nodded and continued.
“My husband and I used to dance … before kids, before he – we – got too busy. I loved it; it made me feel so alive. We learned salsa and tango and then became regulars at the casino on Sunday nights when they had live bands.”
“I heard those were good.”
“Our relationship was so physical back then. I had a great physique and couldn’t keep my hands off him.”
“There’s something very sexy about a man who can dance.”
Ingrid nodded. “You’re not wrong there.”
“So, you’re not dancing anymore?” I asked, adding a dancing stick figure couple to the page.
Ingrid shook her head. “That’s one of many things I don’t do anymore, I guess.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“I became a mother.”
“Plenty of singers and dancers have children,” I challenged.
“Yeah … it wasn’t just that – it just kind of disappeared from my life without me realising. Reality took up more space than fun.”
“What does reality look like?”
“It's not fun.”
“Break it down for me,” I said.
“I work part-time in a high-stress, testosterone-fuelled environment where my work and contribution are undervalued, and I’m under constant pressure to do longer hours and take on more clients even though they know I’m basically a single mother when Andy’s away.”
“That’s tough,” I acknowledged. “What about your home life?”
“It’s loud, repetitive, mind-numbing, exhausting. There are bodily fluids everywhere … not the fun type, either. Then sleep deprivation, a few kilos or more, stretch marks, wrinkles and never-ending bills. Then there’s the mess. It's like cleaning up in a hurricane, and it’s soul destroying. Everything I do gets undone, and every inch of real estate in my brain and body gets used up by someone else's voice or hands. There’s nothing of me left for me.”
“There it is,” I said, bringing her attention to her own words.
“What?”
“What was the last thing you said?”
“There is nothing of me left for me.” Her eyes flared, as if she was grasping the depth of her revelation.
I nodded.
“I feel so lost. What happened to me?”
“You lost yourself in the noise.” I paused, allowing her to feel the words. “But you’re still there; we’ve just got to strip back a few layers. You want some help?” I asked.
She nodded, then brushed away her tears.
“What’s the biggest issue you’re facing right now? Just one.”
“I yell at my kids. I know it's wrong, and I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop.”
“Okay, what time do the kids wake up in the morning?”
“Six-thirty, give or take.”
“And you?”
“They normally shake me awake demanding the TV or iPad or breakfast … or just screaming at each other.” Desperation and exhaustion pulled her features taut.
“That sounds like an awful way to start the day. How do you feel about putting an alarm on for 6 am?” I laughed when her face protested my suggestion.
“I hear you, but if you want to see positive change in yourself and your home, you’ll have to be intentional about making changes.”
Ingrid nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Nope. You either will or you won’t. Changing so
mething that’s not working is about commitment.”
“Jaz said you were bossy.” Ingrid laughed. “She also said you’re good … so yes, I’ll set my alarm for six. Then what?”
“Then I want you to spend half an hour in silence.”
“Doing nothing?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t have time for that.”
“So, what you’re saying is that before you came in here, you were doing something important from six to six-thirty in the morning?”
She cringed. “I guess not. I was just thinking about all the jobs I could be doing.”
“Your to-do list is not going away, Ingrid, but it’s also part of the problem. You need some real estate in your brain.”
“Are you using my words against me now?”
“No, I’m using them for you.” I leant in.
“Okay, so what do I do in this quiet time?”
“You find a place in your house that’s peaceful – try not to move around too much. The last thing you need is for the kids to start waking up at six.”
“That’s for sure.”
“For twenty minutes, I want you to embrace the silence. Allow yourself to think, to dream, think positive things … I encourage the use of a gratitude journal – do you know what they are?”
“Yes.”
“At 6.20am, you can have a shower, get dressed, make yourself a drink and prepare to smile when your sleepy children wake and come looking for their mum.”
Ingrid took a deep breath, one that was full of hope.
“There’s another thing I’d like you to do,” I added. “Every time you feel stress rising, raise your hands like this.” I raised my hands in the air above my head palms facing outward. “Close your eyes, and inhale deeply. As you exhale, lower your hands back down to your thighs, as slowly as you can, focusing on the breath. If, when they get down, you’re still feeling worked up, raise them again, inhale, and do it once again.”
“It seems a bit weird. Why do I have to do the hand thing?”
“It’s not so much about the hands – it’s about training your focus. About doing something intentional, something physical to take the power away from your emotional response.”
“Okay … I’ll try.”
“No. Trying won’t cut it.” I shook my head. “Every time you feel stress rising.”
“Every time? That’s pretty much all day.”
“Even more reason to do it, Ingrid. Isn’t this why you came here?” I laid down the challenge.
“I guess, but I just don’t see how this is going to help long-term.”
“Change is a commitment. You’ve identified anger as a weakness. The way you’ve been dealing with your stress has been hurting your relationships. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Look, I get it. I know this stuff can seem like a whole heap of quackery, but it helps. Trust me. It’s about shifting your focus. I’ll give it a go with you, come on.” I raised my hands above my head and waited for her to follow suit.
“Take a deep breath. Now slowly exhale and lower your hands. Focus on your breathing and the lowering of your arms – don’t let your thoughts distract you.”
We repeated it twice more before the session concluded.
“I guarantee that if you commit to this technique, it won’t be long before you’ll train yourself to redirect your focus without the physical cue.”
“One last thing.” I handed her a couple of brochures. “Read these. There are some amazing parenting and anger management courses available. These are specifically for women. If you have any questions, check them out online or give them a call.”
“Okay, I’m not sure if I’m ready for that, but I’ll have a look.” She stood and reached out to shake my hand. “Thank you, Dr Bishop.”
“Call me Avery. I prefer to keep it casual in here.” I placed my other hand over hers. “Listen, you were given Saffie and Noah. You may have your work cut out for you some days, but you're the one cut out to accomplish it. You don’t have to be perfect to be a wonderful mother. You can do this.”
Ingrid’s eyes glistened before she turned and exited my office.
17
The private line in my office startled me from my thoughts.
“What’s up, Sally?”
“I’ve just had a walk-in.”
“I’m not taking on new clients, Sal, and my next appointment is in an hour. I was hoping to get lunch.”
“Your one-thirty rescheduled. They had a family emergency.”
“Even so. I made a commitment to Dr Pennet not to increase my workload.”
“I understand, but I really think you should take this one. It feels important.”
I sighed. I trusted Sally’s intuition, and she knew as well as I did if I turned someone away and then found out they’d hurt themselves or done something terrible, it would haunt me. The last thing I needed was another tragedy on my conscience.
“Okay, just this once. If someone else comes in, please book them an appointment with Dr Aldridge at Pacific – don’t let them wear you down.”
“I will. I’ll give you ten, then send him in.”
I was appropriately speechless when Harry strutted his princely self into my office and claimed his place on my couch. My skin flared with the caress of his presence.
“I see you have my receptionist wrapped around your little finger.”
Harry’s flirtatious expression turned serious. “On the contrary, Dr Bishop. This is an emergency, and that’s exactly what I told her.”
“An emergency? I see. What kind of emergency would that be?” I leapt onto the crazy train – what option did I have? Kick him out of my office? No way. My traitorous body would never allow such words to touch my lips.
“The life and death type.”
Just what the world needs. Another tragic love story. Chaos took the place of celebration inside me.
End it, Avery. Now. “I don’t have time for games, Harry.” The tremor in my voice vanquished the light in his eyes.
“I’m not playing, but it’s starting to feel like you are.” His honesty had sharp edges. I didn’t like it.
“Look, Harry. I’m sorry, but I don’t mix work and pleasure. Are you here for my professional input on something, or is this a personal visit?”
Harry leant back on the arm of the couch in blatant rebellion. “I’m here about a girl.”
I sighed. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”
“No chance.”
“Okay then. Tell me about this mystery woman?” If he was going to pretend to be a client. I was going to treat him like one. An act of futility if ever I saw one.
“Her name is Sandy.”
I shook my head.
“She’s the girl of my dreams …” He leant his head back on the couch.
Oh, for goodness sake! “That's wonderful. Congratulations.” This was not going to end well. I knew it, and yet I didn’t have the will to say the words that would end the charade.
“It could be,” he added without looking up. “She’s fiery, wild, impulsive, confident in her own skin, hilariously funny, sexy as hell, smart and highly respected in her profession. I googled her,” he added, as if in brackets.
I narrowed my eyes, but kept my mouth shut.
“She ticks all the boxes. She even does a kick-arse impression of Olivia Newton-John, hence the name Sandy.”
“She sounds perfect. I don’t see the problem.” I see a problem, Avery Bishop. One big problem starting with c.
Shut up!
The corners of his lips twitched as he observed my internal debate. I dug my nails into my palms when my body responded favourably to his perusal.
“I don’t see the problem either – we’d be perfect together.”
“So, why aren’t you together then?”
“One reason.”
“Which is?”
“She’s hiding something from me.”
I stepped back and leant agains
t the edge of my desk. “What kind of something?”
“Something serious.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way she runs in and out of my life. The way her eyes glisten with both pain and passion.”
Words failed me. He’d seen it all.
“She flings herself into random cartwheels in public places, she says everything that pops into her head as if she doesn’t care about the consequences, she breaks into song with the slightest provocation and is irresistibly flirtatious.”
“She sounds like a blast.”
Harry studied my expression.
“Yes, she has this unique freedom about her, which I find intensely attractive, but then … she says things like, ‘I don’t have the luxury of wants’ – it worries me.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me think that it’s all a charade – a mask she wears to hide the fact that she’s not free.”
My chest tightened. “Or maybe she’s just not into you.”
He swung his legs around and captured my eyes in his. I was powerless to look away, bound by an invisible thread. “Nope, the attraction is undeniable. I’ve seen it, felt it, in her breath, in her pulse. She even knows my smell.”
“Your smell?” I feigned a grimace. “Maybe you have an offensive aroma that anyone would … what are you doing?”
He closed the gap between us in two strides. I didn’t have the will or desire to stop him.
“Do I?”
I couldn’t help filling my lungs with him. One inch – one inch was the distance I had to travel to claim what I wanted. There’d been a coup, a militant takeover, and every cell in my body had been converted to the dark side.
“Do you what?” I asked, breathless … doomed.
“Do I have an offensive aroma?”
Don’t lead him on. Don’t be cruel.
I closed my eyes and raised my hands to his chest. I needed to create distance between us, but my hands wouldn’t obey my command.
“Well?”
“You’ll have to ask Sandy.”
“I’m asking,” he whispered, brushing his stubbled cheek against mine. A newsworthy storm brewed inside me.
He doesn’t deserve the life you have to offer him. You can’t let this happen.
Then She Roars Page 7
