The Patient

by Steena Holmes

  For every action, there was a reaction.

  But to be called offensive names . . . that wasn’t right.

  Robin’s chin rested on her chest, her shoulders bowed. Her hands hung at her sides, but even from where I sat, I caught the slight fisting motion.

  My heart lifted at her tiny display of anger.

  “Good for you,” I whispered.

  “You ungrateful little shit, just wait till we get home.”

  I popped to my feet at the same time the storyteller left her mini horde of munchkins and ran to the little girl, reaching her before the mother did. She bent at the waist, looked eye to eye with the child, and offered the bag.

  I couldn’t see, but I imagined the sweetest of smiles gracing both their faces as the child took the offered bag. No doubt she whispered thank you, and her eyes must have shone with happiness, longing, a desire to read, and a wish for a different life.

  I had no idea if any of that happened, but deep down, I hoped it did.

  It was the wish for a different life, whether the child knew it was there or not, that lodged a pinecone-shaped ball in my throat.

  The mother grabbed the bag from the child’s hand and looked inside. “We aren’t paying for this. Take it back.”

  The look of dejection and disappointment on that child’s face as she took the bag back was heart-wrenching.

  I couldn’t hear the young woman’s reply, but the mother’s face went bright red. She grabbed her daughter’s hand and yanked as she marched across the grass to the parking lot.

  If I were that mother, I’d feel humiliated and even ashamed for how I’d acted.

  In her rush to keep up, the child lost her grip on the bag, and items fell, some rolling beneath parked cars. The little girl tried to get her mom to stop.

  I imagined the child’s eyes open wide, tears rolling down her cheeks, and sobs reeling through her tiny frame as she climbed into the car.

  I should have moved.

  I should have run, crawled crablike beneath the vehicles for the items that dropped out of the bag. I should have rushed to hand them to the mother, smiled at the little girl, let her know everything would be okay.

  There are a lot of things I should have done, a lot of things I could have done, but in the end, I didn’t do any of them. I just sat there and watched.

  Thankfully, someone else moved. Someone else ran to pick up those items and return them to the child.

  Someone else was stronger than I.

  There was something I’d learned through my practice. Something I’d realized years ago after seeing countless patients with histories so different from my own.

  Not every woman deserves to be a mother.

  But every child deserves to be loved, to feel loved.

  My goal was to help those children understand that they were loved and could live different lives from what they had been shown growing up.

  But to be honest, I failed way too often.

  Chapter Three

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 4

  I sat at a window table of Sabrina’s tea shop, the Mad Hatter’s Tea House, and stared out at the street as people strolled by, some with bags in hand, others as they chased their toddlers, a few who meandered without a care in the world.

  I watched but didn’t really see. All I could think about was the scene from yesterday and that small girl’s face as her mother yelled, screamed, lost her shit for no reason at all.

  It had bothered me all night.

  A million emotions rolled through me. Anger that someone would treat their child that way, shame that I hadn’t stood up and defended the girl, and a feeling of helplessness.

  I think it was that feeling that surprised me the most.

  I was a trained therapist. My job was supposed to be to help others. So why was I such a failure?

  “Phew. I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to come on over to say hi,” said Sabrina, who plunked herself down in the seat across from me and pushed a plate of freshly baked squares my way.

  “Tell me what you think of these Nanaimo bars.” She took a pot of tea a server handed her, opened the lid, and settled her nose over the steam, inhaling deeply.

  “A new shipment came in, and I’ve been dying to try this mandarin green tea,” she said, continuing to ramble. “That’s not what you’re drinking, though. Yours is special, picked with you in mind. Did they tell you the name of it? Alice’s Dream. Isn’t that perfect?”

  Rather than answer, I lifted my cup to my lips and sipped. “There’s hints of orange, vanilla, and . . .”

  “White chocolate.” Sabrina beamed like a child, finishing my sentence for me.

  “Ah, that’s what I was tasting.” I blew the steam away before I sipped once more. I liked it.

  “What’s going on with you? You’ve sat here, staring out that window and frowning, ever since you walked in.”

  I looked around the room. When I’d first walked in, only a few tables had been available, but now only a few tables were full. Rush hour must have been over.

  “I saw something at the library yesterday that bothered me. I regret not doing anything about it.”

  “What happened?”

  I told Sabrina about the mother and child—the venom in the mother’s voice as she spoke and my frozen state as I just sat there and witnessed it.

  “I always thought if I saw a child being mistreated, I would step up, step in and stop it, but I didn’t. I did nothing.” That was the crux of the issue, my lack of response.

  I couldn’t read the look on Sabrina’s face. Was she disappointed in me too? I’ve always had a hard time reading her. Her hair was up in a messy bun, her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose, and she reminded me of a librarian, how they have that look when they watch you.

  “Verbal abuse is hard to listen to,” Sabrina said as she took off her glasses. “If you know what it’s like to live with that, then it’s understandable if you froze.”

  “I’m a trained therapist, Sabrina. I should have been there, talking to the mom, offering help and support.”

  Sabrina nodded. “True. You probably should have. But it sounds like the librarian stepped up, which was probably better, since you were only a bystander.”

  Despite the truth to her words, I couldn’t let it go. I played with my cup, turning it in circles, leaving tea stains on the napkin beneath it.

  “Stop beating yourself up, girl. Okay, so you messed up by your standards, but learn from it. Realize how not reacting has affected you, and don’t let it happen again, okay?”

  That was one thing I loved about Sabrina. She was no-nonsense all the time.

  “You’re right,” I admitted.

  “Of course I am.” A wide smile spread on her face before she winked. She looked around her café and sighed. “Today was a madhouse. The crowds keep growing each weekend, it seems. I’m afraid of what our annual summer fair is going to be like.”

  “I might escape town for that weekend.” I glanced out the window again as I spoke.

  “You will not.” Sabrina slapped the table with her hand. “I can’t believe you. You should be out there, handing out your business cards so you can grow your clientele. Interact with the community more. You’ve been here two years, and you have only, what . . . three clients?”

  “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.” I tried to keep the smile in my voice, but it had more bite than anything. “My three patients are all I need at the moment. I see them weekly, and not having a large base means I can focus on them more. Don’t compare me to others, please.”

  “Sorry.” Sabrina held up her hands. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just off,” I explained. “I probably overreacted.”

  “Is there something else bothering you, Danielle?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer this.

  “I’m exhausted,” I finally admitted. “I haven’t slept well the past week, so I’m a little more on edge than I should be.”<
br />
  “Have you tried warm baths? Turning off electronics? Chamomile tea? Going for a long walk before bed?” Her suggestions flew at me one after the other before I could comment.

  “Yes on the baths and the walks. No to the tea, but maybe I should lay off my after-dinner coffee.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Coffee? I thought I had you off that crap.”

  I laughed. “Never,” I teased, happy to be on a topic less serious. “I don’t mind the occasional cup of tea, hot or cold, but I will never give up my coffee.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” Sabrina asked.

  Inside, I wanted to groan. Sabrina was forever trying to get me to commit to some committee or group or to meet some people. She thought I didn’t have a life, that I hid at home too much.

  What she didn’t understand was I quite liked my life just fine.

  “Probably crawl into bed early, why?”

  She frowned.

  “I haven’t slept well all week,” I reminded her.

  The frown lifted a little as she poured herself another cup of tea.

  “Fine, I’ll give you that,” she said. “A group of us are starting a walking club in the evenings. It might be good for you to join. Might even help you sleep better at night.”

  I liked the idea of a walking club in theory, but if I joined, it would be purely for social reasons, and I really wasn’t in the mood to be social.

  I was tired, weary to the point of exhaustion, and if I didn’t get a good night’s sleep soon, I wouldn’t be any good to anyone.

  “Or not,” Sabrina said when I didn’t respond. “Just think about it, okay? We’re going to meet at the entrance of the park at eight o’clock.”

  I’d think about it, but I doubted I’d change my mind.

  All I wanted to do was sleep. A nice long rest, after which I’d wake up refreshed and ready for tomorrow’s patient.

  Chapter Four

  MONDAY, AUGUST 5

  PATIENT SESSION: TYLER

  I set the timer on my phone to one minute and worked on my breathing exercises. In through the nose, hold to the count of three, then out through the mouth until all the air disappeared. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Over and over.

  And over again.

  I’d woken up with a massive headache and dark bags under my eyes. I was lucky if I’d gotten three hours of sleep last night. After today’s session, my only goal was to crawl back into bed.

  Tyler was scheduled to sit on my red couch, and while I waited, I looked over my notes, walked through our last session, and read over the red-penned comments that it was time to go deeper.

  There was a timid knock at the door.

  “Come on in.” The smile on my face carried my professional look—warm, caring, interested.

  Some might think Tyler quite handsome. With a friendly face, gentle brown eyes, and a smile that drew you in, he’d probably make most women’s hearts go pitter-patter the moment he focused on them.

  I never let his charm fool me. I saw through his easy smile to the fears deep in his heart.

  “Dr. Rycroft, I’m sorry if I’m late.” Tyler held out a warm, sweaty palm.

  “You’re right on time.”

  I turned to a fresh page in my notebook while Tyler settled in. He hugged a pillow to his chest and stared at the box of tissues on the coffee table in front of him.

  “How are you feeling today?” I was ready with my pen to scribble notes, curious to see which direction we would take.

  “Not good.” He let go of the pillow, setting it to the side, and clasped his hands between his thighs. He sighed, the sound similar to the wind that blew through a haunted forest. Eerie. Heavy. Dreadful.

  I waited for him to continue.

  “I know you said to try meditating, that it would release the war raging inside me, but it’s not working.”

  His big brown eyes pleaded for understanding, for help.

  “Did you try setting a timer for one minute?”

  His head bobbed.

  “Did you do the exercises when all your thoughts struggled for attention?”

  Rather than reply, he looked around the room, taking in every single item.

  “What are you looking for, Tyler?”

  “There was a photo of you on your bookshelf. The one where you were reading in a park. You said it was a favorite memory. What happened to it?”

  I had moved it after noticing Tyler kept looking at it session after session. It made me uncomfortable. Now there were no personal photos in the room.

  “I’ve been wanting to change things up a little.” I shrugged, pretending his attentiveness wasn’t an issue for me.

  “I focused on my breathing,” he said, returning the conversation to his meditations. “Just like you told me to. But the thoughts were louder. You told me they wouldn’t be.”

  I leaned forward, my arms crisscrossed over my knees, and covered the pad of paper in my lap. “I believe my words were that eventually they wouldn’t be.” I looked him straight in the eye, daring him to lie but silently hoping he’d tell me the truth.

  “What are the thoughts?”

  He shifted in his seat.

  His head moved side to side. “I repeat your words over and over as I go for walks by myself. I notice things too.”

  Interesting. I made a few notes about his avoidance of my question before I gave him a gentle smile, one I hoped he’d take as encouragement to continue.

  “What do you notice?”

  His eyes brightened with the question, and excitement radiated from him.

  “I keep a journal with me, just like you suggested.” He was so pliable, like a puppy. “I walk around town and see things most ignore. Who moves in or moves out, who likes to go for walks and when, who has pets, who has no concept of personal space, and those who air their business for everyone to hear and don’t care. I see the homeless, the sluts on the corners, the weak men who give in for a quick rut against a dirty alley wall . . .”

  I held up my hand to stop him.

  “I brought it. Do you want to read it?” His need for approval was obvious as he pulled the notebook from his back pocket.

  It was small, and when he opened the pages for me to see, the scribbling was barely legible. I took it to appease him, looked through the last few pages, able to read only a few words.

  What I read was focused solely on her.

  I sighed heavily, the sound coming from deep inside me. I didn’t bother to even hide it from him.

  There was nothing in there about conversations, something we’d discussed in the past. “Have you had coffee at the shop close to your home yet?”

  The crease between his eyes deepened as a flash of irritation passed through his gaze.

  “No. Why would I? People look down on me—you know that. I can hear their whisperings.” He rubbed his hands together, leaving white marks on his skin from the pressure of his fingers.

  “What are they whispering?”

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Tyler?” I didn’t need to prod. I could go back through my past notes and read what he believed people he’d never talked to thought.

  He was weak.

  He was worthless.

  He didn’t deserve to be loved.

  “Sometimes I don’t think they even see me.” He pushed himself to his feet, and his long frame towered over me.

  “You feel invisible?” Tyler had sat on my couch for more than eighteen months now. In all our sessions, that aspect of his paranoia had never come up. Why today?

  Tyler’s silhouette cast a shadow that arched over my couch as he stood in front of the window, his hands jammed into his pant pockets, his shoulders slouched as his body gave off an air of dejection.

  “Do you like living here? In front of the park, I mean?” he asked.

  Avoidance. I underlined that word since it seemed to be a constant theme.

  “I do.” I hesitated to admit that as I rarely shared much of my life with Tyler. He
was the type who could become easily . . . attached . . . and that wouldn’t be healthy.

  The park across the street was what I loved most about my house. I loved to walk around the paths in the early mornings and later in the evening as the sun set. There was one park bench I liked in particular. It was off in a corner of trees, sheltered from the sun and noise of any nearby traffic.

  “Have you ever thought how ants feel surrounded by so many humans? We don’t notice them, step on them with little thought, careless in our actions. We destroy so many lives, and yet we never even think about that.”

  “You are not an ant.”

  He shook his head, his shoulders slouched even further. “No one sees me. I’m right there, in their faces, and they don’t recognize me.”

  Depression covered him like a dark haze of buzzing flies.

  “I stand in her shadow, you know? But no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach her.”

  He had never once said her name to me. I’d asked multiple times, but he clammed up each time, almost to the point of being skittish, and changed the subject to something abstract and insignificant. So I’d stopped asking. One day, when he was ready, he would tell me.

  Due to his paranoid delusions, the thought that he overexaggerated his issues with her was always there, in the back of my mind.

  He returned to his seat, hands clasped tightly around his knees.

  “Have you tried to talk to her about how you feel?” It was a simplistic approach, but it always amazed me how many patients believed simply talking to someone was out of the question.

  “It wouldn’t make a difference.” His voice dropped an octave, and the pain behind his words tugged at my heartstrings.

  “You might be surprised.”

  “It won’t make a difference,” he repeated, but this time, I heard a questionable hope in his voice.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Avoidance. I underlined that again.

  “I have a role,” he muttered. “We’re all here for a reason—we’ve discussed that. My role is to support her. But talking to her, trying to get her to change her mind or look at other options . . . she gets angry.” He balled his hand into a fist.