A Visit with the Psychologist (J. Michael Norris - Baton Rouge, LA)

 

Terry Winslow hadn’t visited Caring for You Psychology Clinic for three months, since the week before giving birth to Dillon. She’d driven across the bridge and into Metairie, but wasn’t sure if she wanted to go in. She sat brooding alone in the parking lot, frozen behind the wheel of her brand-new, powder blue Volkswagen Bug, the one Mark had given her to celebrate their baby boy. Typical Mark. Always buying her things, things he’d like for himself.

A car parked beside her, and two people got out. She didn’t look around or notice who they were, just heard the second door slam shut. The blurry ghosts of two figures moved across her windshield. In the rearview mirror, her eyes were nothing but heavy bags, a blackish tiredness that stayed with her ever since the baby. Up at twelve. Up at two. Up at four. Up at six. And Mark? He was useless. Slept right through it.

Her cell phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the drink holder.  

“Damn.”

She was late again. As usual. She’d sat in the parking lot for fifteen minutes already. Terry tossed the phone into her red, oversized purse, pulled her keys from the ignition, and pushed her way out of the car. She checked her distorted reflection in the car’s window, smoothing the front of her grey jacket and fluffing her collar. Maybe she could pull this off.

When she turned to face the small, wooden building with the green shutters that held the psychology center, it seemed to sway and grow, taunting her. A familiar panic pulled down at her feet, cementing her to the ground. Should she go in at all? Couldn’t she just reschedule? Now quit being crazy, Terry, she thought, then willed herself forward. Besides, it was just one hour. And this session was important.

            She pulled open the door to the office and was immediately confronted with the receptionist, Mary Lynn, a talkative young girl from Alabama who had big blond hair and a tendency to say “Ya’ll” and “Ma’am” and other things that were meant to be polite but made her seem stupid. Or fake. Or maybe a bit of both. She always had a saccharine smile on her face, well-practiced and a bit too white and gummy. She was thin, the kind of thin Terry knew she’d never be again, not since having the baby, and her skin was annoyingly clear and smooth. Terry’s eyes began to water when Mary Lynn opened her mouth, so before she could speak Terry interrupted with “Sorry, I’m a bit late. I need to run to the restroom for just one second,” and dashed to the door just to the right of Mary Lynn’s desk.

            “Yes ma’am,” Mary Lynn said.

Terry cringed, shutting the door behind her. Inside the bathroom she was alone again, safe. She flipped on the light and the vent, locked the door, and turned both knobs on the sink, letting the water run loud enough to cover any sounds she might make. She tossed her purse down by the white ceramic toilet and leaned against the cool pedestal sink, trembling.

            My God, what’s wrong with you? Terry closed the lid to the toilet and sat down, her cotton pants sliding beneath her. The whirring from the vent and the rush of the water in the sink pressed into her ears and she felt the room begin to shake. Is it too loud? Is it too loud? She closed her eyes and cocked her head. No, it means they can’t hear.  She pulled her purse onto her lap and opened it, rummaging around as her thoughts raced.

Do you think the nanny is treating Dillon okay? Do you think he’s had enough to eat today? What kind of mother runs off and leaves her three-month-old like that? Other women can do it, why can’t you? And look how fat you’ve gotten. And now you’re becoming an addict, too.

“Shut up,” she said aloud.

She wasn’t becoming an addict, she was just getting a little help. Sometimes everyone needs a little help. At least that’s what Dr. Godeau had said when he’d prescribed the Zoloft. But she’d had to stop taking it once she found out she was pregnant. Now she was taking something else.

She dug an amber-colored bottle out of her purse; the name on the label was her mother’s: Christina Winslow. She’d stolen some valium from the medicine cabinet the last time she’d visited home, for emergencies like this. She knew her mom would never miss them. How could she, really? Her mother had a dozen or so bottles at the time, being the kind of person who would keep filling a prescription whenever it came up, whether she was using it or not, just to be sure. Terry thought this was odd, and confronted her mother a while back, thinking she might be hoarding since her father’s death as a way to cope. Her mother only smiled and said, “You never know what’s ahead, dear.” Perhaps she was right. Terry opened up the bottle and poured three of the blue, diamond-shaped pills into her hand. She swallowed them down with warm water from the tap.

See, you’re becoming an addict. If Mark finds out he’ll leave you and take Dillon. What is wrong with you?

“I said shut up,” she shouted to the ceiling.

Terry looked in her purse and fished out a round, tortoiseshell compact that held some blush, a three-inch brush, and a small mirror. She flipped it open and inspected her face. Somehow her pink lipstick remained intact and her eyes were less red than they deserved to be; she’d learned quickly after Dillon came not to wear mascara. She cried when she fed him. She cried when she put him to bed. She cried when got up in the morning. Hell, she was always crying. Terry swished the soft bristles of the brush in circles against the pink powder, sucked in her cheeks and dusted on a little color. She looked back into the compact’s hazy mirror and inspected her face again. Not too terrible, but you never were that pretty.

Terry clicked the compact closed, dropping it and the small brush separately into her purse. The pills needed time to kick in before she went out. And she certainly didn’t want to make a fool of herself today, not on her first time back after three months. Not for this session—this session was important, she knew that.  No. She needed to calm down and get back to who she is. She needed to let go of all this nonsense. She needed to be okay.

 Terry closed her eyes and began to count back from one hundred, breathing in as deeply as she could, trying to imagine herself in a far-away field of flowers, a green field, with mostly daisies. Those had always been her favorite. Well, those and tulips, but tulips never kept. When she reached sixty she knew she’d silenced the voice she’d been fighting with, and she let herself recline back against the wall, her closed eyes deep-sleep flickering. By the time she reached twenty, she had completely cleared her mind and lazed peacefully in the field, the cool grass between her fingers, the occasional purple tulip interrupting the white and yellow of the daisies. And when she reached zero, she told herself it’s going to be okay, it’s only an hour, opened her eyes, walked to the sink, shut off the water, and opened the door to the bathroom.

Mary Lynn, her eyes wide and that perpetual smile plastered on her face, looked up at Terry as she came out of the bathroom. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Yes, I’m okay Mary Lynn. And please, don’t call me ‘ma’am.’”

Mary Lynn nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I haven’t been feeling well. How late am I?”

“Just seven minutes,” Mary Lynn said.  “She’s in there waiting.”

Terry noticed a woman sitting in the waiting room, an older woman wearing a white, flowered dress with a cheap yellow sweater over her shoulders. A small straw hat sat atop her short gray curls and she had glasses down at the end of her nose. She looked poor to Terry, but well-kept. Someone like her Nana. A rumpled magazine sat in the woman’s lap, but her eyes were fixed on Terry, judging. The woman continued her gaze and asked, “You feeling okay?”

“Yes, just fine. A little stomach bug, maybe.  But I’ll be fine,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be just fine.”

The woman’s face stayed blank. “I hope so.” She dropped her eyes back down to the magazine in her lap. “I sure hope so.”

“Well, I shouldn’t keep her waiting anymore,” Terry said.

She took a deep breath and strode to the door on the other side of the reception desk, carefully turning the knob. She could feel the calm of the Valium washing over her.

            As Terry pushed open the office door; sunlight flooded in from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room. Warmth seemed to bounce from the ochre walls, magnified and intense. The swirling yellow of the office enveloped Terry, like she was moving into the sun,  moving into the light, moving into happiness. Her whole being was shining and singing and she was weightless and she was airy. She was golden. And she felt beautiful.

The door shut behind her as she closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, trying to smell the warmth she felt on her skin, the warmth she could feel as a vibration rippling through her. If only it could always be like this. So peaceful. So wonderful. So amazing. If only it could be like this all the time. She hugged her arms around herself, wanting to cry just a little and maybe giggle.

A small voice broke into her thoughts. “Hi, Doctor Winslow.”

Terry opened her eyes and turned towards the ten-year-old girl sitting on her brown leather couch, legs crossed, and her curly brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She was plain but cute. A bit like how Terry imagined herself as a child. “Hi, Anna,” Terry said, walking to her desk and grabbing up a pen and yellow legal pad. “Is that your grandmother outside?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“She reminds me a bit of my grandmother.” Terry sat down, thumping the pen against the pad, playing out a beat. “How have things been since I last saw you, Anna? I know it’s been a while.”

“Yes ma’am. Mama said you had a baby.”

“Yes, I did. A baby boy.” Terry smiled at the girl’s vacant face. “We named him Dillon.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Well, I sure think so.” Terry folded her hands on her broad wooden desk. She watched Anna’s face contort like she wanted to say something. “Your mother called and said it was important that I see you. Is everything okay Anna?”

The child’s small hands wrung together, and her legs swayed. Her mouth bunched up, but no words came out.

“I’ve missed seeing you,” Terry said, trying to encourage the little girl.

“Me too, Dr. Winslow.” Anna chewed her bottom lip, staring down at the floor. “It’s just that, it’s just that . . . .”

“It’s okay, Anna. You’re safe here. You can tell me what’s wrong.”

Anna rocked back and forth, digging her fists into her lap. “It’s just—it’s just I think things are gonna happen. Bad things.” Anna froze, her eyes swelling with tears. “And sometimes I think it’s my fault. And I just get sad. Real sad.”

Terry swallowed down the ache growing in her throat. No, she couldn’t let it get her.

“Do you ever feel that way, Dr. Winslow? Do you ever get real sad?”

Dr. Terry Winslow straightened in her chair. “Well Anna, of course I do. I think, in fact, we all do, sometimes. But today we’re not going to focus on what makes us sad. Instead, we’re going to figure out what we can do to help you not be so sad anymore. Is that okay?” She smiled, nodding.

The little girl wiped her eyes and nodded back.