“It is pretty cool,” I conceded, smiling for real like she’dasked.
Suddenly the flirty girl was gone and Casey was peering intensely into my eyes. “All jokes aside, Jake. Do what you have to do. For me. For baby. For you. Just getitdone.”
* * *
Casey tookan impromptu nap shortly after our conversation, but sleep was impossible for me because I kept playing her words over and over again in my head.Do what you have to do.She was right. I had to pull it together. The time for excuses hadexpired.
Taking out my phone, I clicked on my contacts, scrolling through until I found the one I was looking for. He was the last person I wanted to talk to, but the only one I reallycould.
Staring at his number for an agonizingly long while and trying to decide what to do, I finally made my decision. The phone rang a couple of times, and I was planning on just leaving a message until he unexpectedlypickedup.
“Hello?”
“Hey. This is Jake McKallister. I need to talktoyou.”
* * *
We arrivedhome in Los Angeles the following week and I went to see him the same day. He stayed late for me. It had been the same when I’d visited him in the past. And just as I had before, I arrived at the empty office shrouded in a dark hoodie and shifting my eyes for potential spies. Certainly my entrance more closely resembled a drug deal rather than the therapy session I’d actually come for. The reason for my secrecy was simple: I was embarrassed. Seeking help felt like a shameful sign of weakness, not to mention the stigma attached to it all. The fact that I was seeing a therapist wasn’t something I was ready to share with anyone, and if the press caught wind of it, the choice would no longerbemine.
But getting caught wasn’t the only reason for the discomfort I was feeling right now. The last time I’d been in this office, I’d stormed out in a fit of rage. Not only had I never gone back, but I’d also ceased all contact with the man, freezing him out completely. And now, a full year later, I was forced to return to him with my tail betweenmylegs.
Sure, I could have scouted out a new therapist, but that would have required a complete rehashing of all I’d already discussed with this guy. And believe me when I say those were not memories I wanted to relive again. For two months we had painstakingly dissected both the physical and sexual abuse I’d suffered at the hands of my abductor. I’d worked through emotions I never thought possible, and even though those were the toughest conversations I’d ever had in my life, they weren’t the reason for the freak out that had ended my therapysessions.
“Jake,” he said, dipping his head slightly in greeting as he reached out to shakemyhand.
“Hey,James.”
We exchanged an awkward glance, or at least I did. I’d acted like a fool during our last session, and just the fact that he was seeing me now spoke to his level of professionalism. It wasn’t like he’d been purposely torturing me. The guy was a therapist. Getting me to open up about my past was his job. Was it his fault that he’d unintentionally stumbled upon a landmine? Was it mine forexploding?
I still remembered his shocked face when I’d shoved my chair across the room, taking out a standing lamp in the process, before storming out of the office in a stateoffury.
“If you’d allow me, Jake, I’d like to apologize. I tried to contact you after the session to explain to you what happened, but you blocked my calls and I had no way to get in touchwithyou.”
“Sorry aboutthat.I…”
He held his hand up to stop me. “I’m not blaming you. What happened was my fault. I wasn’t regulating our session like I should have. Your reaction was not unusual in the treatment for PTSD. When talking about traumatic memories, some individuals do experience symptom relief, but others can actually become retraumatized by the therapy they’re seeking. It’s my job to monitor your reactions and tailor the intensity of exposure to those traumatic events. I failed to do that in your case. I didn’t read the signs correctly, and for that Iapologize.”
It was the last thing I’d expected to hear from him, and my surprised reaction was not lost onJames.
“If you give me another chance to work with you, I’ll be more mindful of the signs and slow it down if you becomeoverwhelmed.”
“I… that wasn’t what I was expecting. Are you saying my freak-out wasnormal?”
“For trauma therapy, yes, although I would have preferred you didn’t breakmylamp.”
“I’ll pay for that,” I said, failing to mask mysmile.
James waved off my offer. “So what made youcallme?”
There was no time for games. I was here for a reason and time was ticking. “Casey’spregnant.”
Other than a slight arch in his right eyebrow, he barely reacted to the news. And why would he? Women had babies every day. Why would this one be anydifferent?
James watched me with insightful eyes, causing me to shift uncomfortably in place. He was in his mid-fifties, with a tall, lanky frame and floppy brown hair more suited for a Beatles cover band than a head shrink. He had this calming way about him that seemed able to pull things out of me I hadn’t thought I’d ever reveal. Within days of our first session over a year ago, I was describing to him some of the worst memories of my life. Would that happen again? And more importantly, could he really read the signs of an impending explosion? My hands suddenly turned clammy as the need to spill my guts to him becamestronger.
“Well, I suppose congratulations are inorder.”
Although I hadn’t meant to, my mouth morphed into agrimace.
