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The morning sun painted Crestwood in strokes of golden light as I drove to the outskirts of town to see Dr. Philip Grant. He was my mentor, my former professor, and if anyone could offer some clarity, it was him.
For a little while, many years ago, Dr. Grant dated my mother but the two quietly broke up after a presumably fun-filled summer together. I’d been disappointed by that turn of events, but we were all grown-ups and this was truly none of my business. But I was curious. One day, I might have the courage to ask.
His home was situated on the outskirts of town, an old colonial beauty with ivy creeping up its brick walls. Philip had retired years ago, but remained a touchstone of reason in my life. Visiting him always felt like walking into a safe space, a sanctuary of rational thought. He was an inspirational figure for many people in my field.
Before I could knock, Philip opened the door with a welcoming smile. "Emily, my dear! How fortuitous. I was just thinking of calling you. Come inside. It’s always good to have someone to share tea with."
I followed him to his study. It was as I remembered it – a haven of books, photos, and knowledge. We sat on opposite sides of his mahogany desk, which unlike mine was cluttered with papers, pens, and old books. He poured tea from a Ming reproduction pot and then asked gently, "What brings you here today?"
Taking a deep breath, I told him everything. Perhaps a bit recklessly, I recounted Sarah’s confession, without sharing her name, the shared experiences of other Crestwood residents who were my patients, my dream, and the ominous note.
As I spoke, Philip's face remained thoughtful, his eyes sharp. When I finished, he looked at me for a long moment. "Emily," he began slowly, "our profession is built on evidence and rationality. I've always admired your commitment to your patients, but chasing after the supernatural... It's not the scientist’s way. This sounds like the making of a Spielberg movie."
"But Philip," I countered, "I'm not chasing ghosts—I am a scientist. Surely, I don’t have to prove that to you. I think a support group could help them and give people a platform. Isn’t it our duty to help, even if the issues seem... out of the ordinary?"
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It’s not that I doubt the sincerity of your patients, or even your own experiences, but you have to be careful. The world of the supernatural is a maze, and it's easy to get lost. I am not sure this topic is suitable for a support group."
I opened my mouth to argue with him, but he waved me to silence. “Hear me out, Emily. Alcoholics. Drug users. Sex addicts. They have something in common. People that believe in the paranormal or claim to have paranormal a—that’s not the same thing. What if one thinks she can fly, but the other one thinks he can time travel? How are those similar? Really, Emily. Have you thought this through?”
Feeling frustrated I answered as patiently as I could, "I wouldn’t let that happen. It’s a support group, not a free for fall. I'm not planning to do anything unorthodox—I swear. I just want to understand, to help them. I have six in my practice, Philip. Six people that think they have psychic abilities. How can I ignore that?"
Philip looked at me with that mentor-like fondness I'd always cherished. "Your heart has always been your guiding light, Emily. If you believe this is the right path, I won’t stand in your way. I’ll even fend off some shots, they’re bound to come your way. Just remember, not every mystery needs solving. And sometimes, the answers aren’t what we expect. I agree six is a high number for a practice your size, but it’s not unheard of.”
Whether Philip agreed or not, I was resolved. The support group was happening. If there were answers to be found, we'd seek them out together.
As I rose to leave, Philip hesitated, a shadow crossing his usually confident face.
“Emily," he began, "If this is about you, about that summer, you know you can always talk to me. I would be happy to be your confidante, again. Just because your mother and I...”
I sat back down and studied my mentor’s face. I blinked, taken aback. "What are you talking about, Philip?”
He paused and studied me. “I apologize if I am speaking out of turn, my dear girl. If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
A strange pain struck my heart. I felt such a heaviness, but I couldn’t identify it and everything inside me screamed a warning.
Don’t look. Don’t think about it.
"I'll tread carefully, I promise," I replied, giving Philip's hand a reassuring squeeze.
With a final nod, I stepped out of his house, my resolve only strengthened by his support.
Driving back my mind buzzed with the possibilities for the support group. A soft rock tune soothed me, their harmony acting as a backdrop to my whirlwind of thoughts. Every twist and turn on the road mirrored the undulating trail of ideas my brain trod on.
I imagined the first session—perhaps starting with a round of introductions, allowing everyone to share a little of their story if they felt comfortable. A shared trust could be the bedrock of this group, setting up a safe space where judgments were left at the door.
I mentally reviewed my patient list. Kim would be the first to get an invite, of course. Then there was Ben, a young man who claimed to read folks minds. Linda, the florist, who felt emotions that weren’t hers when she touched certain objects. And then, Jake, a schoolteacher who said he saw auras around people. Lola, who believed she could communicate with animals, and Clara, who was weighed down with unwanted visions.
Each one of them had their unique stories, their distinct struggles. Together, maybe they'd find solace and understanding.
But the group shouldn't be exclusive; it needed to be open, and accessible. I decided it would be best to allow others to join, even if they weren't my patients.
Crestwood was a small town, and word of mouth traveled faster than wildfire. Surely there were more people with stories to tell, more souls in search of answers.
Suddenly inspired, I pulled over and rummaged in my glove compartment for my mini tape recorder. Hitting the record button, I began dictating ideas for how the meetings would be structured, topics of discussion, and potential guest speakers or therapists who could provide insights.
Ten minutes later, I felt lighter. As the recorder clicked off, I picked up my car phone and dialed Barbara from the community center. A few rings later, her cheery voice greeted me.
"Hey, Barb, it’s Emily. Listen, I had an idea, and I’m wondering if the center has a room available for weekly meetings, say around seven in the evening?"
By the time I hung up, I had the room booked for every Wednesday evening, starting next week. The support group was no longer just a concept; it was a reality.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I drove home.
The road ahead seemed clearer, not just the asphalt stretching before me, but the path I was forging for my patients, and perhaps, for Crestwood.
The journey had only just begun.
