“Daniel,” I respond, reaching my hand out. His handshake is firm, and lingers a few seconds longer than it should.
“Is that any good?”
I shrug. “I’m still getting used to the coffee here, unless I’m in a Starbucks. Trying to find a good go-to order.”
“I meant the book.”
I laugh, and slowly slide the book over to Jackson. He picks it up and flips lazily through the pages. “It’s a sad one. Deals with mental health and grief.”
“With a title likeGoodbye Days, I think I would have anticipated sad.” He flips the back over, reading the blurb.
“Take it. I have extra copies for my course. You can always drop it back in my office if you finish it.”
“When I finish it,” Jackson corrects me, sliding the book into his bag. “If I could be a bit forward for a moment, I would like to ask you to dinner.”
The barista audibly gasps. Jackson turns his head and throws her a smile, before looking back at me.
I know I’ll regret it before the words come out of my mouth. “I’m flattered, honestly. But I’m a bit of a mess at the moment. Dealing with a bit of my own, umm, grief situation. Actually, I have my first therapy appointment later this afternoon.”
Jackson smiles what I can only describe as a sad smile. “No need to say more. Been there. Have had my own times spilling my guts out to the doc.” He stands from the table, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Promise me two things.”
“Okay.”
He pulls a pen out of his bag, scribbling on my scone crumb covered napkin. “One is that you will not hold back in this appointment or the next. It’s tough opening up to a stranger, but it will help. Having someone not connected to whatever you’re going through…it’s a different experience.”
“And the second thing?”
He slides the napkin over to me. “That you’ll text me for that dinner when you’re ready.”
He’s at the exit when I call out to him. “And not a phone call?”
“Not unless you’re a psychopath,” Jackson says, right before the door closes.
The barista is immediately at the table. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but get to that shrink immediately.”
***
Dr. Chandler’s office appears minimalistic, which I can kinda understand. Having less stuff in the view of the camera provides less distraction for the session.
I tried looking up therapists in the area, but wasn’t sure how insurance would work being outside the country. Dealing with in- and out-of-network providers at home was already a big enough nightmare.
I ultimately reached out to a friend who lives in Boston, who in the past confided in me that they were in therapy. And, as it turns out, still were with Dr. Chandler. And, lucky for me, Dr. Chandler was very open to telehealth.
Dr. Chandler was a Latina woman who appeared to be in her early forties. Or, based on my research into her, a woman pushing sixty who I need to glean a skincare routine from.
“Daniel. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Chandler, as you know. Before we begin, are you in a safe and quiet space.”
I move the laptop around, showing the kitchen. “Things are pretty quiet here. Just me in my apartment.”
“Good. So, would you like to tell me why we’re here today? I purposefully don’t ask a lot of questions upfront, because I want to hear it directly from you.”
“Starting with the tough questions I see.” I pause for a moment, and then find myself diving head first into everything. The years in Old Wethersfield. Alex. The night Michael died and what I was doing instead of being there. The reoccurring nightmares that haunt me almost every night.
“Besides the grief and the nightmares, how are you adjusting to Dublin?”
I pause. “Well, outside of having a bit of a panic attack the other night at the pub, not terribly. I have a friend here, who was also friends with Michael. I actually met him through Michael.”
“Do you know what triggered the panic attack?”
