This is exactly how I start sessions, minus the errant dog hair. I balance my yellow notepad on my left knee.How’s your week been?
Then I scribble clinical notes as my clients howl and seethe and cry. But it’s different when Emily asks. Like she actually wants to know.
I nearly snort as I consider her question. Well, let’s see. I lean back on the couch, and the leather squeaks as I move my weight. My husband’s cheating on me. I have nonstop, debilitating headaches. I can’t sleep. My house is a nightmare, and I’m worried about my cat.
And Amanda.
“It’s been a tough few months,” I concede, then smile brightly. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
Then why were you crying on the toilet floor?
We both think it, but she’s too polite to point it out. I bounce my knee, and her eyes flicker at it wordlessly. I want to get up and run from the room. I sip the coffee, not even tasting it.
“I’ve been sick a lot lately,” I finally confess.
“How so?”
“Nausea, migraines, dizziness,” I reel them off. “I nearly fainted at home the other week.”
Her mouth makes a little O of surprise. “Bloody hell!” she exclaims heartily. “Sarah, why didn’t you tell me?” she adds with a hint of reproach.
This throws me. She’s not speaking to me like a therapist to a client. She’s speaking to me like a friend. I’m so unused to it that I lean backand say nothing. Emily cradles her mug in her left palm. It’s ceramic with black writing.I’m a vet nurse. What’s your superpower?
I motion to it in an attempt to change the subject. “You were a vet nurse?”
She smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I was,” she says lightly. “The pay’s terrible, so I had to give it up after we had Archie.” I raise an eyebrow, and she smiles. “My hellish second born.
“I’ll get back into it when the kiddos are a bit older,” she says resolutely, a faraway look in her eyes. “I love animals. Been a vegetarian for twenty years now.”
Interesting.
Her eyes drift to mine again. Everything she does is so calm, so slow. It makes me want to speak softer.
“Is it possible you might be pregnant?” she asks gently.
I snort. “My husband’s been sleeping on the couch for months so I doubt it.”
Oh, shit. I freeze. My eyes drift guiltily up to hers, but she’s remarkably impassive. I stare at the bright orange rug.
“That’s hard,” she says softly.
And for the first time, I have to admit to myself that she’s right. Itishard. And it’s more than just sex. I miss having someone to talk to at night. Or someone to talk to at all. I haven’t had a friend since we left our hometown, except for Joe…. And other than him, I’ve never really had a friend.
Except my sister.
How could you? How could you?
“Do youwanthim back in the bedroom?”
Silence. I can’t stop bouncing my damn knee. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know how I feel about anything these days.”
My mouth opens automatically to recite the poem:
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
I wonder if she’ll understand, and for some reason I think she will. But I keep my mouth shut all the same.
