Tuesday, 6 May 2014
9:13 A.M.
Despite his hurry, Lucas Keaton knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave the house knowing that the photo frame was hanging askew. Even if he tried, he’d only end up turning back five minutes down the road and making himself later still. The rapping on the front door continued as he walked over to the picture and very gently raised it up on one side. He made a valiant effort not to focus on the memory entombed behind the glass . . . but his will was as weak as ever—the countless hours he had lost to this wall, immersing himself in a past bathed a rose-tinted shade of perfect.
He could no longer even hear the sound of the urgent knocking as he gazed at the snapshot: surrounded by his wife and two sons, all cheesily sporting Universal Studios–branded attire.
Lucas focused on his past self. He’d adopted a thick beard back then, the beginnings of middle-aged spread already starting to show beneath the tacky gift-shop T-shirt, unattractive wiry hair covering far more of his balding head than it managed to now. He was wearing his well-practiced photo face, the same disingenuous impersonation of happiness normally reserved for his press and publicity obligations.
He might have been there with them in person, but his mind was elsewhere, on more important matters, and he despised himself for that.
The person at the door reverted to the shrill doorbell, excusing Lucas from his self-loathing. He hurried up the stairs, checking his tie as he passed the large mirror in the entrance hall.
“I’m so sorry to pester you, Mr. Keaton, but we’re going to be late,” apologized his driver the moment he opened the door.
“No need to apologize, Henry. I wouldn’t make it anywhere on time without you pestering me. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” He smiled.
Henry climbed straight into the front seat, having chauffeured his multimillionaire passenger enough times to know that he hated having doors opened for him.
“Somewhere different this morning,” stated Henry conversationally as he started them on their journey.
Lucas failed to answer immediately. All he wanted was to sit in silence:
“I’ll be all right making my own way back afterwards.”
“You’re sure?” asked Henry, leaning forward in his seat to glance skyward. “Looks as though it might rain.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lucas assured him. “But I expect you to bill me for the return journey and go get yourself a nice lunch somewhere instead.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.”
“Henry, I hate to be unsociable but I’ve got a few emails to catch up on before I get to this . . . meeting.”
“Say no more. Just let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Satisfied that he hadn’t upset the man, Lucas took out his phone and stared down at a blank screen for the remainder of the journey.
In his time, Lucas had met more celebrities, captains of industry, and world leaders than he could count, yet sat in the minimalist waiting room of Alexei Green’s practice, he had never felt so nervous. While filling out the form handed to him on arrival, his foot had shaken constantly. He had found it difficult to hold the pen in his clammy hand, and he’d managed to bite his thumbnail so short that it was now outlined with bright red blood.
He stopped breathing altogether when the receptionist’s phone went off.
Seconds later, the door across from him opened and an unusually handsome man stepped out. Perhaps because he’d been analyzing a photograph of his own thinning hair, Lucas found himself unable to take his eyes off Green’s, which he wore in the slicked-back style that all the movie stars were currently sporting—he looked like one of them.
“Lucas, I’m Alexei,” Green greeted him, shaking his hand with the sincerity of an old friend. “Please, come in, come in. Is there anything I can get you? A tea? Coffee perhaps? A glass of water?”
Lucas shook his head.
“No? Well, come and take a seat.” Green smiled, closing the door softly behind them.
Lucas hadn’t said a word in over twenty minutes. He fiddled with the zip of his jacket while Green watched him patiently. When Lucas glanced up at him, the two men briefly made eye contact before he quickly reverted his gaze to the jacket in his lap. Moments later, he burst into tears, sobbing into his hands, and still Green did not say a word.
Almost five minutes passed.
Lucas wiped his red eyes and exhaled deeply:
“Sorry,” he apologized, nearly setting himself off again.
“Don’t be,” Green said soothingly.
“It’s just . . . you . . . No one can understand what I’ve been through. I am never going to be OK again. If you love someone, I mean truly love someone, and you lose them . . . you shouldn’t be OK, should you?”
Green leaned forward to address the troubled man, passing him a handful of the “man-sized” tissues he kept on his desk.
“There’s a big difference between being OK and accepting that something was completely out of your control,” Green said kindly. “Look at me, Lucas.”
He tentatively met the psychiatrist’s eye once more.
“I genuinely believe that I can help you,” Green said.
Smiling as he dabbed his eyes, Lucas nodded:
“Yes . . . Yes. I think you might be able to as well.”