Giridhari Mattu, Ph.D., had an office on the ground floor of the small professional building that his firm shared with two dentists and a chiropractor. A junior partner like Mattu rated just enough square footage for a rosewood desk and two Eames knockoff chairs. The single blank wall was given over to a framed Rothko print and Mattu’s diplomas. U of O undergrad, U-Dub doctorate. They were positioned behind the desk where a seated patient would always have them in view. I could have drawn them with my eyes closed after the first few visits.
“How much have you been drinking, Van?” he said.
“Not much.”
“Coffee, other stimulants?” He pointed to the travel mug I’d brought with me. In a previous session Mattu had noted that I brought it every time, and we’d gone on a tangent about whether I was a creature of habit, edging into more pointed questions to see if I was showing obsessive tendencies.
“A lot of coffee,” I said. “No meth this week.”
Jokes never got a reaction out of Mattu. I made the jokes anyway. Maybe it was obsessive.
“Do you feel the coffee might be adding to your sleep troubles?” he said.
“No.”
“But you’re still waking in the middle of the night.”
“Less than before. The new dosage is right.”
“Spell out ‘right’ for me.” Mattu had thick bristles of brown hair and a boyish plumpness to his face and body. A casual observer might guess he was still in his twenties. He liked wearing corduroys and high-end hiking boots and sweaters, until the Seattle summer finally warmed up enough to force him to switch to denim shirts. On our first meeting, he had shaken my hand and drawn me in for a hug.
“I wake up once every two or three nights,” I said. “Usually after a dream.”
“A nightmare.”
When I woke I was inevitably drenched, my heart hammering, but strangely calm despite that. I considered that a win.
“I don’t recall the dreams much,” I said. “It’s not the same one on repeat. Not anymore.”
“That’s good. Social engagements? Have you spent time with company?”
“Nothing lately.”
“What about your friend Leo Pak?” He didn’t have to glance at his notes to remember the name.
“He’s at home in Utah. Reconnecting with family.”
“After his inpatient program. Do you feel that program was beneficial for him?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t recommended similar treatment for you.” Leaving the question hanging.
“I don’t need it. Leo’s issues are more severe.”
Mattu nodded and tugged with satisfaction at his denim cuff. Leo was setting a fine example.
“Have you been dating?” he said.
“No.”
“And the rebuilding of your house?”
“It might have to go on hold.”
“Because of your finances. Are you still working security?” What Mattu called bouncing.
“I’m still pulling a couple nights a week. And . . . there might be other work coming. More profitable work.”
My hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Is that good?”
“I’m not sure I want it.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s not the kind of job I want to do,” I said.
“You realize that’s a circular argument.”
“But accurate.”
He ran through the few remaining questions from his greatest hits list, making careful notes as he proceeded. The official form would be turned in to the VA, as confirmation that Mattu’s firm was donating pro bono time toward PTSD treatment. The VA would get their biweekly paperwork, and I’d get my prescriptions refilled.
He glanced over at the brass clock on his desk. Neither of us needed to look at its spidery hands to know we had two minutes left. But it was Mattu’s unconscious way of signaling that time was getting short and he was about to launch into his summation.
“I’m not terribly concerned with the decision you have to make about this job,” he said. “Whether you choose a steady income over your preference of work, either way could be the right path. I am concerned about the large block of time that will be available when you can’t work on your house. That has been a focus for you, Van. Maybe overmuch.”
“You’re saying I need structure.”
“In the military your time was extremely regimented.” Mattu had made a pun, but I wasn’t sure he knew it. “You’ve adjusted to civilian life very well, after so many years and many intense cycles of activity. Your family house has been at the center of your thoughts. Be careful when that center cannot hold.”
We stood up. He shook my one hand in both of his, three pumps. Habit.