I pull up the equine therapy center’s website, and sure enough, there’s an online form for requesting a session. I type in my maternal grandfather’s name, which coincidentally is Abrahán, Spanish for Abraham, and I list my nickname as Abe. I hint at some big-T trauma, which I know is Bram’s specialty, and ask for help as soon as possible.
Within the hour, I get a response.
This is no automatedThank you for your email. We’ll get back to you soonresponse.
It’s a direct message from Bram himself.
Dear Abe,
Thank you for reaching out. I’m sorry to hear things have been so difficult for you, and I am happy to help you. I have a cancellation in my schedule for tomorrow evening at 7:30. I’m going to pencil you in. Please let me know if you will be able to make that time.
In the interim, if you feel you may harm yourself or others, please call my office directly or call 911. Your health and safety are very important to me.
Sincerely,
Dr. Abraham Barlowe, PsyD, NCC
I respond right away with a confirmation, which he follows up with instructions for finding the ranch and his office, along with a series of attachments I have no intention of filling out.
It’s funny, his professional voice. He’s not at all bossy or pushy. Actually, he sounds warm. Concerned. I’m a little jealous that his patients get to see that side of him.
* * *
I dropoff Ant the next day, then circle around to the back of the therapy barn. I’m careful as I enter the building, avoiding Levy and everyone else. In fact, it’s so late in the evening that Bram and I may be the only two people in here.
I’m a little early as I walk into the welcoming therapy area. The waiting room is full of comfortable chairs and up-to-date magazines, and there’s even a flat-screen playing an old eighties movie on mute.
The setup is interesting. Rather than being closed off from the rest of the barn, it’s open to the equine therapy…arena, I guess you’d call it. Though the riding area is surrounded by horse stalls instead of risers. People in the waiting room can watch the horses while they wait. It’s sorta peaceful, almost like a church.
The door with his name on it is closed, but the window blinds are partially open, and I peek inside. It’s a larger office than I anticipated, with a desk off to the side, a small couch against the back wall with a TV above it, and a pair of chairs in front.
He’s at his desk, facing away from me, focused on the monitor in front of him, a pair of glasses I’ve never seen before pushed to the top of his head. I tend to think of him as stern and authoritarian in our conversations, but here, at the end of a long day, I see a man with a creased shirt and hair slightly out of place, his head tilted as though reading through something important.
His office has pretty abstract art on the walls and gorgeous bookshelves interspersed with books, plants, and small sculptures. Not that I’ve ever been to college, but it reminds me of a professor’s office, and I enjoy that way too much.
“Dr. Barlowe?” I ask, pushing open the door.
“Abe, welcome. I’ll be right with—”
The second his eyes meet mine, they narrow, and he tilts his head to the side.
“Nacho? I’ve got a patient coming.”
“I know. I’m your patient.”
He covers his eyes with a shaky hand. “No. Nacho, I can’t…not after…”
He can’t seem to finish any of his sentences or even admit what we’ve done.This is a solid start.
Ignoring his discomfort, I step into his office and close the door behind me, locking it.
His brow rises. “Why are you locking my door?”
“I want some privacy,” I say, closing the blinds.
“Nacho, not in my place of work.Please,” he begs, his eyes filled with conflicting emotions.
Fine.
