Jake stood in the doorway of his waiting room looking at nothing in particular. He was listening. Gladys Warbeck had just left after her appointment and should be reaching the staircase soon.
Bang!
He heard the heavy crack of the fire door, which meant Gladys was on her way out. Jake’s third-floor office was one of only four on this top floor, and all were connected by a dark, granite hallway. There was only one way on or off the floor and that was via the large staircase at one end. Without physically watching his patients leave, Jake gauged their departure by the slam of the staircase door.
And in the case of Gladys Warbeck he wanted to make sure she was gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of running into her in the hallway. She’d come to his office about a month earlier on a referral from the Workers’ Compensation Board Return to Work program. Gladys had hurt her lower back on the assembly line at the Hershey’s chocolate factory in Dartmouth. She’d been off work for nearly six months, and although her physical injury was healed, she still complained of debilitating pain.
Jake’s role, paid for by the wcb, was to help Gladys live in spite of her pain. He met with her weekly to review her activity levels, teach cognitive reframing strategies around the pain, and mentally prepare her to get back to full-time employment. Working with Gladys was regimented, straightforward, and boring. Jake hated it.
Now that Gladys was gone, he could make a coffee run before his next appointment. It was still early on Friday morning but he already needed more joe.
He walked slowly down the stairs, not wanting to catch up to his patient. Her chronic back pain made her a fairly slow mover.
He didn’t see her when he exited the Brewery Market and headed west up Salter Street away from the harbor. He normally went to Tim Horton’s on Barrington or, if he was short on time, up the hill to Cabin Coffee on Hollis. Today he was short on time.
He jogged up the street and pushed through the front doors of Cabin Coffee to inhale the rich aroma of fresh coffee. The place was rustic and friendly, full of worn furniture and extra-large coffee tables. Lots of people wasted entire afternoons settled deeply into the leather couches and sipping lattes. Jake had never sat in the place; he’d go in, get a coffee, and be gone. Time was precious. To him, maybe the most precious thing.
He waited at the counter until the server came over. She was an extremely attractive young woman. “What can I do for you?”
He laughed but suppressed the urge to answer with something suggestive. “Just a coffee. Large.”
“House blend?”
“Sure.” She turned, and he let his eyes wander down her back. Between her cropped shirt and low-cut jeans he could see a tattoo on the small of her back. He liked the young woman even more.
“Dr. Tunnel?”
The clerk had distracted him. He turned to find one of his patients standing right next to him. “Harold! What are you doing here?”
“I saw you come in and just wanted to say hi.”
Jake turned to the counter where the server was setting his coffee down. He handed her a two dollar coin and asked for a receipt. Without looking around, he asked, “You aren’t following me, are you, Harold?”
“Oh, no, Dr. Tunnel,” Harold said earnestly. “I just saw you go in here.”
“But our appointment isn’t for another hour.” The barista tried to give him change but Jake accepted only his receipt.
“I don’t want to be late. I always come down early and just walk around.”
Jake nodded. “That’s great. I’ll see you later, then.” He started for the door.
“Yes, Dr. Tunnel. Thank you.”
In the past few days, Harold Grower had been popping up at odd times. He said the encounters were accidental, but Jake wasn’t sure. Harold was a vulnerable man who needed constant reassurance from others — especially Jake. Jake knew that soon they would have to discuss the encounters in therapy. When unhealthy attachments couldn’t be fixed, it often meant terminating the therapy sessions and referring the patient elsewhere. Jake tried to keep a professional distance to avoid feeding into Harold’s dependence.
But the frequency with which he showed up was increasing. Jake and his family would be at Mic Mac Mall and see Harold. They’d have dinner at East Side Mario’s and Harold would be sitting somewhere nearby. Jake thought the guy was becoming a pest — a smiling, enthusiastic, appreciative pest.
As he headed back down Salter Street he pushed Harold out of his mind and focused on his next client, a guy whose treatment-resistant schizophrenia made for some bizarre sessions.
It just never ends, he thought, and rolled his eyes as he pushed open the doors of the Brewery Market.