by Fox Brison
“Fuck,” I whispered, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I don’t know if I can do this.” My phone buzzed but I ignored it; I ignored Julia’s smiling face and I ignored my sweaty hands and racing heartbeat.
I couldn’t ignore the woman smiling at me through the window.
“Georgia Maskel?” she asked. My eyes narrowed and my brow furrowed. When I (grudgingly) agreed to… to… to this… I expected the usual. In fact I craved the usual. The usual meant I was able to deflect and circumvent the text book probing and predictable prodding, ensuring I was never left feeling raw and exposed. I reluctantly rolled Kermit’s window down and the woman smiled, this time in thanks, and she placed a hand on the sill.
I wondered if it was to stop me from closing it on her.
“I believe you’re my four thirty. At least I hope you’re my four thirty and not some random stranger looking for a free head examination.” I plastered a tepid smile on my face. My first instinct was a covert perusal of my potential nemesis and I immediately flushed.
Oh… oh wowser.
My new doctor was a couple of inches taller than my own five foot eleven, even in flat ballerina pumps, and her blonde shoulder length hair owned a slight wave giving it a jaunty bounce. Her burgundy silk shirt clung rather provocatively to her abdomen as the breeze rippled across her firm body.
She could have been an athlete, because she certainly possessed the physique for it.
Dr Myer’s warm brown eyes, like liquid chocolate, were welcoming albeit slightly questioning, and although I may have been expecting it, there wasn’t a hint of judgement in them. “My receptionist doesn’t work Friday afternoons,” she began with a smile, “truth is neither do I usually, but when you made the appointment, Mary, that’s my receptionist, seemed to think it was quite urgent.” Apparently Dr. Myers was not daunted by my reticence, actually by my complete and utter silence, and this impressed me. “I like your van,” she added, her voice the calm to my tempestuous emotions.
I frowned at the incongruous statement. The analysis has already begun, I guess. “Thanks, he’s been part of the family forever.” My voice felt scratchy and sounded, to my ears anyway, like I hadn’t spoken in years. I coughed to clear both my throat and buy a little time.
“It’s a wonderful colour.” Dr Myers stepped back giving it an appreciative stare.
“That’s why we call him Kermit.”
“We?”
“My Dad and I.”
“Appropriate,” Dr Myers said.
You’ve no idea, I thought and gave myself a shake. Having a few minutes to gather my thoughts was one thing, sitting in Kermit like a muppet was totally another.
“Georgia, I’m happy to stand here all afternoon, but quite frankly I’m getting a little chilled. If you’ve changed your mind and wish to cancel your session that decision, just like the one you took to make the appointment, is entirely yours.”
I laughed sardonically. “Look doc, I don’t know where you got your information, but first off no one calls me Georgia, it’s George or Georgy. And secondly, I didn’t make the appointment.”
“No?” Dr Myers’ eyebrows rose. “I feel there’s a story there. Why not come in and tell me about it. And whilst we’re on the whole name thing, yes technically I am a doctor, not a medical one I might add, but I would prefer it if you called me Emma, or even Ms Myers if it would feel more comfortable. I’m not a big fan of formality, but the ball, pardon the pun, is in your court.” Emma turned and walked back to the house, before swinging sharply left towards an annexe attached to the main building. I remained motionless, my left hand gripping the steering wheel, my right poised beside the keys. Then I heard David’s eager voice muttering in my ear and I reluctantly pulled them from the ignition.
“It’s going to be a long hour…”
***
Approaching the clinic door I could already feel sweat trickling down my back, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or nerves. The brass door handle, shiny and new looking, stood out against the yellow wood of the door and I instinctively reached for it.
There’s no turning back now, I scowled to myself.
The clinic décor was as expected, pastel and unoffending, with a few watercolours hanging haphazardly here and there. I heard Emma moving about in the office just beyond an oak panelled door, and in no rush to join her I began to slowly perambulate, circling the small room. Glancing briefly at each painting, my mind sought to blank out the panic which threatened to engulf me. The rush of adrenaline pulsating through my veins was aggressively shoving my survival instincts towards flight not fight, at least not yet, but then the session had yet to begin officially.
It hurt to think.
Some days it hurt to breathe; today was swiftly becoming one of those days.
I completed a full circuit of the small reception area and found myself back at the entrance. “Last chance to make a run for it,” a soft voice stopped my hand from reaching for the door handle. I laughed, I couldn’t help it. In spite of my doubt and reluctance, my first impression was actually quite positive; I liked Dr. Myers.
Emma.
Her name coated my mind like a soft blanket. “I was a bit early, sorry.” I had no idea why I was apologising for being early, but it was a nervous habit held over from childhood. Promptness was one thing my mother instilled in me from birth. She hated to be kept waiting. “That’s why I seemed a little spaced out and was still in the van, erm… psyching myself up.” Fifteen-all in the pun off. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”
Emma regarded me with a knowing smile. Despite the attempt to cover my true feelings, she was probably well aware this was the last place on Earth I wanted to be. “I appreciate good time keeping, George, I’m usually booked solid. If just one of my patients is tardy I’m playing catch up all day. Actually the only reason I could fit you in is because one of my regulars has gone on a sabbatical. May I ask why you don’t like anyone calling you Georgia?”
“My parents are the only ones who call me that.” I curled my fingertips against my palm, and relieved it wasn’t wet and sweaty, shook Emma’s hand warmly. I was startled by the sudden flash of electricity that arced through my body and wondered if she had felt it too. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot.” Stop apologising damn it, you sound like a moron.
“Not at all, not at all. Shall we?” If Emma did feel something, I saw no outward sign of it, and with an out stretched arm she ushered me into her office and indicated I should take a seat in a brown leather chair in front of a pair of French doors looking out onto an immaculately manicured garden. She glanced quickly at the file she’d brought in with her, placed it down on the glass coffee table, and then sat in an identical seat opposite. I quickly averted my eyes as she crossed her legs at her ankles causing her skirt to rise a little, revealing the bottom of smooth firm thighs.
Okay so that raised more than my heartbeat. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Chapter 7
Georgia
“Are you comfortable George?” I nodded in response and Emma smiled confidently. “Good. Would you like something to drink? I have both hot and cold.”
“I’m good thanks. I drank a litre of squash of my way over this afternoon.”
“You’d need it. I can’t believe the weather we’re having.”
Okay. So Emma was favouring Therapy 101: how to put your client at ease. I settled back in my chair, some of my nerves dissipating. This was good. No, this was perfect. Emma was following a text book approach I recognised and I knew how to play that game.
I hated being underprepared for anything.
She took a long draught of water. Removing the bottle of Evian from her lips they glistened with moisture, and the vision now running through my mind was far from typical behaviour for a psychologist’s office. For me at least.
Yeah, I gulped, that was text book alright.
“In normal circumstances,” Emma continued, “I would use this first
session as a kind of meet and greet, get to know each other type of thing.”
“Sounds a bit like a blind date.”
Emma cocked her head. “You know, it kind of is. It’s important to see if we’re going to make a good connection. If we don’t get along then there isn’t a hope of us getting the best out of this process. However, I get the impression you might have been blindsided.”
Intuitive, doc. “Blindsided. Good one. I see what you did there.” I was using humour, bad humour at that, to deflect from my emotions, specifically my anger at having to be here at all. “Yeah I was blindsided. Five hours ago I was playing tennis in Peterborough and now I’m sitting in your office. So yeah, blindsided would be a good choice of word.” I think you made your point, Georgy. You can shut up now before you make an even bigger arse of yourself.
“Therefore, in this case I think the first port of call should be to discuss why your coach decided to make this appointment, and then discover if you truly want to be here.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I’m not sure why David made this appointment,” ha right, liar, liar pants on fire, “I’ve seen psychiatrists in the past and it’s been as much use as chocolate fire guard.”
“And therein lies the difference, George. I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m a psychologist, most specifically a sports psychologist.”
“Potato, potahto. I mean really, what’s the difference?”
“Well the main one is that although I’ve trained in research, assessment, testing, therapy and treatment, just like a psychiatrist, unlike a psychiatrist I haven’t been medically trained, therefore I can’t prescribe any drugs. I use, amongst other things, behavioural intervention to treat my patients.”
“Like a real quack would.” The words were out before I could stop them and I quietly berated myself when Emma stiffened ever so slightly.
“If you would like to see my credentials I’d be more than happy to show them to you. I can guarantee I’m no snake oil salesman.” Emma’s tone of voice didn’t alter and remained calm, relaxed and soothing.
“No, no…” I held up my hands in apology. I wasn’t usually this rude, irrespective of whether I wanted to be somewhere or not, but something was unsettling me. Was it that for once in my life I’d found a therapist who didn’t make me feel like I wanted to chew my own arm off? I breathed deeply, trying to gain a handle on my anxiety. “You’re not what I expected,” I finally blurted out, more for something to say because the silence was beginning to suffocate.
“No? What were you expecting?” I wasn’t expecting Emma’s soft voice to interrupt my thoughts and I jumped a little in my seat. Shit. I was like a cat in a room full of pit bulls.
“Well my last shrink was a crotchety old fu… erm… codger with bits of cornflakes stuck in his beard.” Not only was Dr Payne an arrogant bastard, he was also incredibly lackadaisical when it came to his personal hygiene. “I spent most of my time flinching backwards trying to avoid his bad breath. By the end of my treatment he added nervous ticks to my long list of ailments.”
Emma laughed. “No beard and I’m a religious flosser, so no worries on that score.”
“He also had a really funky odour. I like your smell.” I blushed bright red. What the fuck? “I mean, your perfume… or shampoo… Or lotion….” Christ George shut up, shut up right now! If you continue like this she’s going to think you’re still on drugs.
“I do aim to please. Cleanliness is next to Godliness and all that. Are you happy to go on?” She ignored my blithering idiot impression and raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow in question.
“I guess,” I said unenthusiastically
“Good enough. So, George, what do you hope to get from these consultations?”
Crap we’re back to that. “Errm… well… I guess the main thing is simply to understand why I fail to recreate the form I have in practice when I’m playing competitively.” It was a rote answer, albeit a true one.
“Do you have any personal thoughts on this?” Emma continued her gentle exploration. “Georgia?”
I answered her with an angry tut and frustrated head shake “I said to call me anything but that!” I stood and prowled the room, looking for an escape - or something to smash. Damn. Why did I always react like this? Why was I so on edge? It’s only a name for God’s sake…
“I apologise.” Emma watched me warily. She clearly hadn’t expected such an explosive reaction. “George, do you want to talk about why that should upset you so much?”
“Honestly?” There was more than a hint of bitterness in the one word question, it was saturated in it. “Not particularly.”
“Honestly?” she frowned and looked at that damned folder again, “I can’t see the point of continuing if-”
“That’s fine by me Dr Myers!” I viciously cut across her reasoning, opened the door and stomped out, leaving a flustered psychologist in my wake.
I made it to Kermit before regret slapped me in the face. “Fuck!” I punched the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!” I hit the wheel one more time and then leant back against the headrest. “And now not only is David going to get arsy with me, I’ll have to apologise again,” I muttered, my hand trembling on the keys of my getaway vehicle.
“Oh I think you have enough sorries stored for one day. If you strop off again, however, I’ll expect flowers.” Emma was standing next to the open door.
“Emma-”
“One session, not even a full one. Half an hour. We don’t have to talk about anything that you’re not ready to talk about yet.”
“You won’t force me?” I hated how small and insignificant my voice sounded.
“No forcing, I promise. If this is to work there has to be trust. Trust that I won’t judge, and trust that you’ll do your best to open up so we can get to the root of whatever is causing your problems on court.” My body language was still a touch indecisive; I had one hand on the wheel and the other on my seatbelt, so Emma tried another tack. “Afterwards if you still feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable, I’ll tell your coach it was my decision to stop, that you gave it your best shot but we simply came up short. Deal?” I thought about what Emma said, about trust. Trust ha what a joke. How could I have trust when my whole life was one big lie? And I was sick of making deals, deals that usually ended up biting me in the arse, but I reluctantly shook Emma’s outstretched hand.
After all, her deal was a damn sight better than the one David had offered me, that was for sure.
Chapter 8
Emma
I clicked on my Dictaphone and began speaking. I did this as close to the end of every session as I could, it kept things fresh in my mind. Sometimes some of my verbal prompts unlocked a mental block of my own.
“Client notes Georgia Maskel. Our first session was somewhat of a surprise for both of us. Georgia, no correction, George was nervous, but there was also anger, mostly supressed. Positively, just before she left, there was a touch of hope hiding, almost cowering behind the other turbulent and far more dominant emotions.
She is very controlled, almost too controlled. George had no reaction to hearing two younger players mocking her, but she was very aggrieved that David made this appointment without telling her.
Trust.
Trust will be the hardest thing to build. She seems to find it the hardest thing to grant.
George uses sarcasm as a tool to deflect, not unusual in these cases, and also looked a little baffled when she found herself looking out of the French doors into the garden. She loses herself in her thoughts.
She appears lonely.
There was a slight tremble when she placed her glass back down on the table, the only visible sign of how she was feeling inside.
She has a fair sense of humour, which might make the difficult things easier, as long as she doesn’t use it as a means to avoid the issues. She is obsessed with the past, with avoiding talking about the past. Something happened, something that affected her so much she lost the two most importa
nt things to her.
Control.
Trust.
She has mental toughness, that’s for sure. I honestly didn’t expect her back after she stormed out. That is not a problem in her matches. It’s the finish line that’s the problem.
Why should the finish line cause such difficulties?
She has seen many therapists, probably too many therapists. Some of her answers were too pat. Not honest. She needs to be honest if we are to continue.
She is reluctant to try something that may have failed in the past. Why? I have suggested she think about continuing over the weekend. The decision has to be hers.
End notes.”
The end of the session went better than the beginning and George managed to at least give me some indication of why she was here.
Not that she knew it.
I tapped the Dictaphone against my lips and then pressed on.
Client notes Georgia Maskel. Never mentions mother but clear love when she talks about father.
Could this be significant?
Chapter 9
Georgia
I made it home just after eight fifteen that evening. I should have made it back well before that, but Friday night, Cambridge and trying to get anywhere quick were three phrases that just didn’t go together - ever. Everywhere was snarled up, which gave me time to think of seven excuses for missing my next appointment with Dr Myers on Monday… okay I lie. I had at least twenty one excuses for avoiding her and only one for turning up. I scowled at the most innocuous brown envelope in the world sitting next to me on the passenger seat like it contained anthrax.
“But I’ve promised David…” my mind wandered back to Peterborough earlier that morning when I’d been beaten by an eighteen year old who was third reserve for the county team. I owned some pride, not much, but enough.
So make that two reasons to turn up to my next appointment.
