by Alexa Riley
MY CHIN CHATTERS from the frigid air as I stand on the corner and wait for the light to change. Cars rush by, but I see no empty cabs. I look down the street and then at my watch. There’s no time to wait, so I decide to walk the ten blocks.
With every step I take, I feel the nervous energy within me build. Usually walking calms me, but today it doesn’t help at all. As I hurry up Park Avenue, I get lost in thought. My brain can’t wrap itself around the reason these nightmares have started, and I’m not even sure what’s triggering my recent panic attacks. I assume it has something to do with Richard, but at the same time I’m not sure. Scary thought. But as frightened as I am to find out, I’m more frightened to keep on living like this.
I can’t become my mom.
I can’t let my fear turn me into a woman who’s too scared to live her life.
After ten minutes, I arrive at the address on the card. The building itself is intimidating and harsh. It towers high into the sky, the sun gleaming off the walls of tinted glass. With timid steps, I walk inside and immediately notice a broad Lucite desk in the center of the lobby. I head over and smile at the security guard for the building seated behind the surface, thankful he can’t see my hands shaking at my sides.
I brighten my smile to hide my nerves. “I have an appointment with Dr. Montgomery.”
“And you are?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Eve Hamilton.”
“Look toward the camera, please.” He motions to a small lens protruding from the desk. After the camera flashes once, I turn my attention back to him and he looks down at a screen built into his desktop and starts to type.
“Please proceed to the elevator on the right-hand side of the lobby and press the button for the eighteenth floor,” he directs as he hands me my visitor pass.
“Thank you.”
I proceed to the elevator and press the button to Dr. Montgomery’s floor. Cheesy elevator music echoes through the air. As the elevator climbs, a pulsating knot forms in my belly. The idea of sitting across from this man and airing my dirty laundry is making me feel ill. I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this, but since I’ve come this far already, I decide to take the plunge. My lungs expand with oxygen to calm myself. When the elevator reaches his floor, I step out and search for his office. Once inside, a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk greets me.
“I’m Eve Hamilton. I have an appointment with Dr. Montgomery.”
“Yes, please take a seat. He should be with you in a few minutes. I’ll need to see a copy of your insurance card. Also, I have a few forms for you to fill out while you wait.” Her voice is monotone, as if she’s reciting a speech she has repeated countless times.
I grab my wallet and hand her the card. Once she returns it, I take the stack of forms and sit down in an empty chair. I pull out my phone to text Sydney.
Me: Hey, Syd. I’m here and everything’s fine so far. I’ll text you when I’m headed over to the restaurant.
Syd: Good luck.
Me: Thanks, I’ll need it.
My eyes scan the paper in front of me. Seven pages. Seven freaking pages of questions. Starting off with the most mundane information, leading up to . . .
I look a little farther down the form and I get to family history. My heart thuds in my chest. Can’t he just leave me in my denial and, you know, not make me answer these questions? I feel as though I’ll turn the page and there will be ink splat drawings for me to identify.
Describe your personal strengths? What is this? Am I applying for a job?
What are your coping styles? Should I write down drinking?
Do you experience difficulty sleeping? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
I peer farther down the list . . .
Check.
Check.
Check.
What isn’t my problem? Lord, I’m a mess.
Do you belong to a particular religion or spiritual group? With that, I rise from my seat.
I’m out of here.
This is ridiculous.
Just as I move toward the door, I hear a creak. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes widen as my gaze trails up the man standing in front of me.
How is it that every time I see him he takes my breath away? I’ve never seen a more beautiful man. He is magnificent. But even that word doesn’t do him any justice. He’s tall. His strong, lean body towers over my frail one. This man, his presence . . .
It’s imposing. As if he alone can make the world shift on its axis.
Dr. Montgomery narrows his eyes as he continues to stare. It’s unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. But with a shake of his head, the moment is lost. He pulls his shoulders back and walks toward me.
“Hello, Eve.” My name rolls off his tongue like a smooth melody. One only the perfect baritone of his voice can sing.
“Hi, Doctor,” I say faintly. His hand reaches out taking mine in his.
“It’s good to see you again. But please, I know I’m your doctor, but you can call me Preston.” He pauses, almost as if he’s unsure. “If that makes you feel more comfortable.”
What was I thinking, coming to see this man? I’m desperate to figure out my shit, but this guy . . . No. He’s too gorgeous. I need to see someone older—much, much, older. Maybe a man in his seventies who wears tiny wire-rimmed glasses.
He gives me a little smile and I swear one thousand butterflies take flight in my belly. “If you would please follow me into my office.” His other arm stretches out toward the door adjacent to where we stand. It’s cracked open and pitch black inside. Ominous.
“Um, okay.” My hand feels heavy still encased in his.
My body won’t move, though. I’m cemented in place. Ready to dash. To bury my head in the sand and pretend I don’t need to be here. I look toward the exit and then back up at him and meet his gaze again.
His full lips turn up into a comforting smile. “It will be okay. It doesn’t have to be awkward,” he whispers, but not one part of my shaking body believes him.
Peering back to the door, I contemplate my options: walk away and let the fear take over, or follow this man.
Our bodies are close for the few steps it takes to reach his office. He stops abruptly and I almost crash into him as he switches on the light. With wide eyes I look around the office and then at him. His presence fills the small space. He’s overpowering and my walls start to close in. How can I speak to someone who has me so unhinged at the mere sight of him? He sucks all the oxygen from the air just by standing here.
My breathing becomes ragged as I cross farther into the room. With shallow pulls of air, I try to clear my head. I need to do this. I need to stop the nightmares and this is my only option, so I need to block out my want for this man.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the couch?” he says as he walks over to the desk that sits along the far wall and grabs a notepad. I sit on the red velvet couch and look up to see him watching me as I settle myself. His eyes trail my every move as he gets comfortable in the chair across from the coffee table.
Placing the pad on his lap, he reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he says as if he’s collecting his thoughts.
My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for him to speak. With an audible sigh, I breathe through the panic that coils in my stomach, but my face grows hot and a sweat breaks out against my brow.
“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “This will be easy. I promise. I’ll ask you some very simple questions at first, and take notes about what you say so I can keep it fresh in my memory. Is that all right?”
I bite my lip. “Yes, it’s okay.”
“Oh, and please feel free to interrupt me at any time, and if you need to stop, we can do that, too.” I swallow hard and then nod. “So, let’s start off by talking a little bit about when your anxiety began, what brought you to the hospital, and a little about what brings you here today.”
“Can’t we talk about something simpler?” A nervou
s laugh escapes me and the right side of his lips turns up at my answer.
A small dimple forms in his cheek. “We could, but what fun would that be for our first appointment?” he jokes and my shoulders relax. “So, how are you today?” I tilt my head and I consider how to answer.
“I’m okay. Tired. Didn’t sleep well,” I admit on a sigh.
He nods. “I can understand that. Nervous about today?”
“Yeah. A bit, I guess.”
“Was there something else that kept you up?”
My upper teeth bite my lower lip and I gnaw on the skin to the point of pain. He picks up his pen and jots a note on the pad of paper. His gaze lifts to mine.
“Simpler?” He smiles.
I nod.
“Have you always lived in New York City?”
“Um, yeah. I mean, I wasn’t born in the city, but we moved here when I was young,” I stumble out.
“Oh, so then, where were you born?” He leans forward, laying his notebook down and studying me intently.
“I’m from Long Island, originally.”
“And do you work? Or are you still in school?”
“I work in marketing at The Stone Agency. It’s a full service firm. We specialize in Fashion and Entertainment.”
“Very interesting.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” I shrug with an over the top roll of the eye. I let a small smile form in my cheek and he lets out a laugh.
“It does sound a bit boring. Being a therapist is much more interesting.” He winks, lightening the mood, and it works as my own giggle escapes and the once tight muscles in my shoulders uncoil. When my laughter stops, he repositions himself and straightens his back.
“Ready for a tougher question?” he asks and I nod.
“Let’s discuss your first visit to the hospital. Is that okay?” The blue of his eyes sparkle at me.
“I guess.”
“In order for this to work, you have to trust me. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
“I’m not sure I can, but I’ll try. Well, as you already know I was in a car accident. Obviously, I was brought to the hospital.” I’m too embarrassed to tell him about all the panic attacks at home and the nightmares since then, so I grow silent and try to think of something else to say. In the background, I hear the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Dr. Montgomery reaches across the side table and grabs a pair of glasses and puts them on. He adjusts them until they fall slightly down his nose, and then looks down to the paper in front of him. When he looks back up, I swear my heart stops. The look in his eyes, the sexy way he wears those glasses . . .
He’s almost too perfect.
He rests his hands on the arms of his chair as he studies me. “You okay? What’s going on?”
I will myself to calm, and curse myself for being so blatantly affected by him.
“Um, I’m just nervous. Scared. I’m kind of . . . I don’t know. Lost? I’m not sure what we’re supposed to talk about or how you’ll help me.”
“These are all very common feelings to have toward therapy for the first time,” he assures me.
“Well, that’s good to know. Happy to be somewhat normal,” I retort. There’s nothing normal about my panic when I think of divulging my nightmares and fears to this man. It was so much easier in the hospital when I thought I would never have to see him again.
“Normal is just a definition we use to place ourselves in boxes, Eve. No normal here.” He winks and I’m surprisingly appreciative of the small gesture, because seeing him smile, makes me smile. “So, I think we should start from the beginning. I often find that’s where most problems stem from. No response is singular. It’s a cause and effect process from where it all began.”
“I guess.”
“How about you tell me a little about your family?”
Instantly, my muscles tighten. Anytime Mom is a subject, I get a knot in my stomach. I love her, but being her primary caregiver at my age has been hard. “It’s just my mom and me.” I try to force a smile, but instead my lips tremble, giving me away.
“Where is your father?”
“He died in an accident when I was younger.” I want to melt away. Pretend I’m not here. Recede into the confines of my mind.
“How old were you?” The blue of his eyes is soft and sincere.
“Four,” I answer before I can stop myself.
“That must have been hard for you.”
“To be honest, I don’t even remember him. Most of my memories are of my mother and me. And Richard, of course. I can’t remember if we spoke about him at the hospital. He was my father’s best friend.” I take a deep breath. “He was also my boss.”
“So you knew Richard well?”
“He basically raised me. It was his funeral I was leaving when I got into the accident.” A familiar feeling of dread tugs at my heart. Everything in my body tightens. Soon the back pains will present themselves. My chest will follow shortly. I frantically rub the muscle in my shoulder blade.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. If you don’t mind me asking, how did he pass?”
“He had a heart attack. By the time I . . . I found him . . .” I pull my hand from my back and press it to my mouth to hold back a sob.
“I know this must be hard for you. I want you to take deep breaths. Can you do that?” I shrug. “What happened?”
“I remember calling him but he didn’t answer. I needed to grab something from him for a work meeting. I was at my mom’s. He . . . he lived in the same building as her. When I got there, I found his body. I . . . I remember being in a haze, like my mind faded away and my basic instincts took over. I called nine-one-one. I even went back to my mother’s to tell her the news. I was grieving but I was functioning.”
“So, when did you stop functioning? What happened?”
I take a slow breath and will myself to not start hyperventilating. “When I saw his body again, in the casket. That’s when it happened. I must have been in denial before that moment. Because that’s when it finally hit me. Richard was dead.” My eyes flood with tears and I swipe them away.
He picks up a pen and scribbles on his notepad. “Was this the first time you attended a funeral since your father’s death?” I nod. “I know you were very young when your father died, but do you remember anything?”
“No.” He writes again on the pad and I want to lean over his arm and read what he’s observed. When he lays his pen down, his eyes lift and his gaze meets mine.
“You said he was like a father figure. Was he in a relationship with your mother?”
“Oh, Lord, no. She can barely function enough to brush her teeth. There was no place in her life for a boyfriend.”
“And how is your relationship with her?”
“Strained. Exhausting.”
“Do you want to tell me a little about that?”
“Do I have to tell you today?” Please say no.
“No, you don’t.” Oh, thank God. Hearing I don’t have to divulge anything I don’t want to has all the muscles in my back loosening. “Is there something in particular you would feel comfortable talking about today?”
“I—No. Not really.” I laugh nervously.
“How about we try to talk for a little bit longer? If it gets too much, we can stop.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
As the minutes pass, we talk about nothing in particular. Nothing as daunting as speaking of my mother or as heartbreaking as discussing Richard. We don’t talk of my father. We talk of simple, mundane topics. Topics that make me comfortable. Topics that make me smile. But eventually those topics run out and I notice Dr. Montgomery glance at his watch. Knowing our time is up leaves me with mixed emotions. As happy as I am to be done, a part of me will miss the comfort I felt having someone listen. Someone trained to give me the guidance and advice I so desperately need now that Richard is gone.
This was good. Coming to him was the right decision. A small piece of the weight that has been resting on
my shoulders is lifted.
“You did a great job today. You did really well. The hardest step is coming in. You’ve got this.” He smiles and picks up a black leather journal from the side table. When I lift my hand for it, our fingers touch. The soft skin of his thumb brushes against mine and my cheeks heat as he hands it to me.
“I have a little assignment for you.”
“An assignment?”
“Yes, I want you to keep this notebook. Journal how you’re feeling. If a panic attack starts to form, write down the triggers. No matter what you are thinking or how you feel, I want you to journal it, okay?”
“Are you going to read it?” Please say no. Please!
“I will ask you to tell me what you wrote so we can pinpoint your triggers, but no, I don’t have to read it.”
I can work with that. As long as I know that I can pick and choose what I tell him. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Great. Also, I’ll email you some techniques for when you feel an attack forming.”
I laugh at his suggestion. “I’m just imagining the crazy new age junk you’re going to make me do.”
“No, nothing like that.” His mouth begins to split into a grin, but before it forms he rights himself. Professional mask back on. No matter how small . . . I miss the grin already. “More like breathing techniques and visualization exercises. I’ll also send you information about a few support groups you can attend if you feel up to it. Believe it or not, there are many people who suffer from anxiety and grief. You might find it comforting to speak to others who have gone through it.” He stands and heads over to his desk. I watch as he scribbles on the back of a business card and lifts it up to me to take it. “And if you need me, I’m giving you my direct number. Please feel free to call me.”
Having his number is dangerous. The idea of having him only a phone call away . . . I can never use it. Once I do, I fear I’ll never want to stop. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Dr. Montgomery.”
“You might not now, but the time might come when you will need it.”
I pray he’s never right.
I TRY TEXTING Sydney as soon as I leave, but she doesn’t answer so I head home.
“How was it?” she shouts from the living room as I shut the door.
