usic drifted through speakers placed throughout the Zona Rosa outdoor mall. Despite the threat of rain, cars lined the street, and shoppers lugging bags or pushing strollers streamed the walk. Ahead of Ainsley, a large family dressed in tourist attire gathered in front of the 52nd Street Grill, posing for a picture.
“I’m glad we did this.” Grinning, Gina looped her arm through Ainsley’s. “I’ve missed you. Between your work, church stuff, and Richard, I feel like we never hang out anymore.”
“Sorry.”
Gina shrugged.
“That’ll change. Things are slowing down.” Minus the plethora of reading material her boss continued to assign. Then came wedding preparations.
“Uh-huh. Because you’ll have way more time to hang out with me once you’re married with a bunch of little Ainsleys underfoot.”
“I’ll make time.”
Gina studied her.
“What?”
“I’m worried about you. About you and Richard.”
“Yes, I know, Gina. You’ve made it quite clear; you don’t like him.”
“Nor him me, but that’s beside the point.” She stopped and faced Ainsley front on.
“He’s so . . . controlling, and more and more so lately.”
Ainsley shook her head. “He’s just stressed.”
Although Gina continued to hold her gaze for a moment longer, she didn’t say more. Which was good, because Ainsley wasn’t sure how to respond. True, Richard had been acting like a bear, and he could be very particular on things. Most of the time that wasn’t a huge deal. But what about when it was? Would he listen to her, or would he be like his mother, bulldozing his will into a situation?
They continued in silence, past a coffee shop and restaurant and through the grassy area stretched in front of the outdoor stage. Ainsley glanced at a vacant bench seat, feeling a sudden urge to sit. If only she could put the world on hold. She felt completely overwhelmed by all the pressures weighing down on her. She wanted desperately to do something significant, if not for that boy and his mother, then for some other hurting family. She wanted to find a better, less stressful career but didn’t have the time or money for more schooling. Then there were all the wedding details: colors, guest lists, where to host the reception, what to serve.
Why did everything have to be so incredibly complicated?
Richard sat at his desk, his gaze shifting between the clock and his opened door. He frowned and crossed his arms, leaning back. Heather McGahana was late. As usual. She was probably checking and rechecking all her household locks and appliances. And yet, she still refused to take her medication.
Why was he wasting his Saturday mornings on this woman?
As long as he was here, he may as well work on book edits, which were extensive. With a sigh, he swiveled to face his computer. But the moment he pulled up the file, the front door clanged open, and Mrs. McGahana’s voice shattered the silence.
“I’m so very sorry I’m late. I thought for sure I’d left the burner on, though I also knew I’d checked it numerous times. And then I noticed my tank was only half full, which of course, caused me great concern. With all the, well, never mind. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.”
“Mr. Hollis is waiting to see you, ma’am.” Mrs. Ellis’s voice was calm, as usual.
A moment later, Mrs. McGahana rapped on Richard’s door and poked her head inside. “I’m sorry I’m late. I thought—”
Richard rose. “Yes, I heard.” Crossing the room, he extended his hand, suppressing a grimace with a smile. “Please.” He motioned for his client to sit, which she did. After grabbing his leather portfolio containing his pen and notepad, he moved to an armchair across from her. “How have things been? Have you been keeping a journal?”
“To document my feelings, you mean?”
“Yes, but more than that. To begin noticing the circumstances around and potential triggers of your anxiety attacks.”
She inhaled, her entire torso lifting and caving on the exhale. “I need to. I really need to. It’s just, I’m so overwhelmed with life in general . . .” She shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “This disorder steals enough of my time as it is.”
“Yes, well, perhaps if you follow the treatment plan, your obsessions will become more . . . manageable, and your time will be freed.”
“I don’t know. Most days I feel like it’s hopeless, you know? It’s terrible!” She shifted, tugging first at the back edge of her shirt then at the front. “Some days I feel as if I’m not getting better at all.” She went on to list her usual complaints; the same symptoms but different scenarios. “I feel as if I’m a prisoner in my own house. No one understands. Last week, my brother had a birthday party. Of course I was invited, out of spite, I’m sure. Or to give them something to talk about when I didn’t show.” Her voice hitched. “‘Poor, crazy Heather couldn’t come again.’ and of course, the sane members of my family—as if any of them are—would have to come up with a plan as to how they were going to rescue crazy old me.”
“Have you talked with them about your condition? Perhaps if they unders—”
“Oh no! I couldn’t do that. I’d never hear the end of it.” She went on to tell of a time, two years back, when well-intentioned family members took it upon themselves to “fix” her. Needless to say, it didn’t end well.
“Last we talked, I wrote you a new prescription. Have you tried the medication we discussed?”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she moved from ferociously rubbing her wrist to picking at her cuticles. More accurately, to picking at the sores where once her cuticles grew. “I researched them online.”
But of course, as she had her condition and every other possible ailment in the diagnostic and statistical manual of psychological disorders. “As I told you when we last met, you cannot believe everything you read online. Similarly, just because one person has an adverse reaction doesn’t mean you will as well.” Why was he wasting his breath? This woman clearly had no intention of listening. Rather, she wanted someone’s undivided attention for an hour.
Fifty minutes, actually. With thirty-seven still to go.
Though he feigned interest, nodding at appropriate intervals, asking vague questions at the rare pauses, he let his mind wander to his book.
His editor had concerns regarding a few of his research points and was asking Richard to use alternative sources. As if this wasn’t frustrating enough, she also wanted him to delete an entire chapter, calling it repetitious, while adding two others.
“Dr. Hollis, are you listening?”
Richard jerked back to attention, nearly dropping his pen. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“And what would you suggest?”
He flipped through blank pages on his tablet to buy for time, then closed the portfolio and set it on the table. Rubbing his hands together, he stared at her, as if deep in thought. “I have an idea, Heather. One I believe will help you tremendously.”
“You do?” She scooted to the edge of her seat.
“I do.” He moved to his desk and began rummaging through hanging files in his bottom right drawer. Inside were numerous documents printed off the Internet or received during professional lunches and mental health conferences. Most of them were highly technical; technical enough to keep Heather on Google for some time. If she were occupied by something productive, perhaps she wouldn’t feel the need to act out a compulsion.
Regardless, in her current noncompliant state, there was nothing more he could do to help her.
“Here.” He handed her a booklet on central dopamine receptors and their involvement in obsessive compulsive disorder. The literature was quite detailed, and as such, should keep her occupied for some time.
Accepting the material, she stared at the title and blinked, looked at Richard, then the title again. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, our session has concluded.”
“It has?”
He nodded, moving toward the door. “I hope you find that information helpful.”
“Yes, I’m . . .” She reached for her purse, still casting frequent glances from him to the document. “I’m sure I will.”
He opened the door wider. “Good day and good health.”