Chapter 21 In Session
In Session
Catherine
Catherine had been sitting on the bench opposite the brownstone for ten minutes. Six of which she'd spent seriously considering leaving. Maybe seven.
She’d gotten there early. At the time, she told herself it was about being prepared, controlling the first impression, seeing the space before anyone could see her in it. But sitting here now, she could admit that wasn’t quite true. It was just avoidance with better posture.
The building was respectable enough. Sun-warmed stone, black iron railings, window boxes with fall flowers that someone actually remembered to water. Dr. Hardin's practice was on the second floor, marked by nothing more than a small brass sign catching the afternoon light.
Catherine looked at it for a long moment. Then she thought about her bathroom. About the sticky note dissolving in the basin. About Mary's hand over hers and the way she'd said ‘she still asks’ like it was something Catherine was allowed to hold onto.
She stood up before she had time to think and crossed the street.
At the door, she caught her reflection in the glass. Hair up into a neat chignon, lavender blouse, gray slacks, slightly heavier makeup than usual covering the circles under her eyes. She looked composed. Controlled. Exactly like someone who didn't need therapy.
It was almost a convincing performance.
Inside was quiet. Just her footsteps on the carpet as she followed the signs up to the second floor and a single door with a plaque.
Dr. Florence Hardin, Ph.D.
Licensed Clinical Psychologist
Her hand closed around the doorknob, and she stood there for a moment, the urge to turn around and go home rising with more force than she'd expected.
But she'd gotten this far. She'd researched the woman, made the call, and sat on the bench outside for ten minutes, working up the nerve.
She had good insurance for this, after all.
Plus, Liv would ask how it went. And if she left now, she'd have to walk back past that damn bench.
She was still trying to convince herself when the door opened.
The woman on the other side looked to be in her late sixties.
Tall, dark skin, silver-threaded locs pulled back from her face.
Simple black slacks, an orange sweater, and small gold earrings.
The overall effect was someone who had put careful thought into how to be warm and professional at the same time without overdoing either.
Catherine recognized that as its own kind of skill. She respected it.
“Miss Matthews?” Dr. Hardin’s voice carried an easy calm. “I’m Dr. Hardin. Or, Florence, if you prefer. Please, come in.”
Well. There went her chance to escape.
Catherine stepped inside and took the room in without meaning to.
Pale oak floors, mid-century chairs. No family photos, no framed credentials.
Just a few geometric sculptures and some ceramic bowls that looked handmade and precious.
The desk sat beneath a bay window, the afternoon light coming through bright and still, and beside it a wall of books with color-coded spines that reminded her of Theodora's bookcase, the one that mixed medical textbooks with sapphic romance novels Catherine had teased her about and then secretly downloaded herself.
The thought faded as she turned her attention back to the office. There was no curated comfort here, no obvious attempt to put her at ease, and Catherine appreciated that.
"Sit wherever you like," Florence said, settling into the chair closest to the window and crossing her ankles.
Catherine chose the chair with the better view of the books.
She sat with her knees together, hands folded in her lap, and met Florence's gaze directly.
She wanted to establish, from the beginning, that she was here by choice.
That she was capable and clear-eyed and simply being thorough.
That she was not, in any meaningful sense, someone who needed to be here.
Could a single look convey all of that? She wasn't sure, but she was giving it her best attempt.
Florence met her gaze evenly, and from the faint lift of her chin, Catherine guessed the effort hadn’t worked.
"Before we start," Florence said, "would you prefer Catherine or Miss Matthews?"
"Catherine is fine."
“Wonderful. Is there anything you'd like to ask me before we begin? About how I work, or the process?"
Catherine shook her head, though what she actually wanted was a structure.
An agenda. Ideally, a syllabus. The open-endedness of the room, of the question, of the whole situation made her want to reach for something to organize.
But saying that would tell Florence more than she was ready to give away in the first thirty seconds.
"Alright." Florence gave her a small, disarming smile. "I should mention that everything you tell me in this room stays in this room. The only exception would be if I had serious concerns about your safety, or someone else's."
Catherine nodded. It was the sort of thing therapists said in films, usually just before the protagonist had their breakthrough and wept attractively into a throw pillow. She doubted the reality would be quite so cinematic.
"You can tell me as much or as little as you like," Florence continued. "But the more we talk, the more I can help." She looked at Catherine directly. "And I do want to help you."
Florence hadn't moved, hadn't leaned forward or softened her voice into something coaxing.
She'd said it plainly, and somehow that was worse. Catherine had come prepared to manage surface-level questions about sleep and medication and how she was “really doing”. She hadn’t come prepared for someone who appeared to have already seen through that entirely.
"Okay," Catherine said as she straightened in her chair. "Understood."
Florence let the silence sit for a moment, her gaze settling on Catherine with a kind of patient attention.
Catherine waited for a question or some kind of opening she could work with. When it didn't come, she filled it herself. "My best friend recommended therapy. And my neighbor agreed with her. So here I am."
"I see. You're not convinced this will be useful."
"No," Catherine said. "But I'm open to being proved wrong."
A faint smile at the corner of Florence's mouth. "That's a good place to start."
For the next ten minutes, Catherine talked about her medical history.
The diagnosis, the medication, the routines she'd built around managing her condition.
She described the seizure in London the way she might describe it to a neurologist, precise and sequential, draining it of anything that might be mistaken for feeling. Safe ground. Manageable territory.
Florence listened without writing anything down, without nodding or interjecting or doing any of the things Catherine had expected.
She just listened, and somehow that was enough to pull out more than Catherine had planned to give.
Details she hadn't meant to offer. She was annoyed at herself even as she kept going.
When she finally ran out of things to say, she waited for the response. But Florence let the silence stand.
Catherine crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. "Is there something you're waiting for me to say?" She finally asked.
“I’m listening,” Florence replied. “It’s rare to get such a comprehensive self-report in the first session. You clearly came prepared. Though I suppose preparation is its own form of control. And control makes a great deal of sense when you've been through something that took it away from you."
Catherine recognized the move. A gentle reframe, an open door, the kind of thing you said when you wanted someone to feel seen without feeling pushed. She wondered idly which of the color-coded books it had come from.
“Would you say your condition is under control?” Florence asked.
"It’s managed," Catherine said. "I haven't had an episode in just over five months. I keep to a strict routine, I've reduced stress where I can, and I take my medication at the same time every morning."
Florence nodded once. "Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
"And work, what does that look like at the moment?"
"I teach private piano lessons from my apartment."
"And do you enjoy it?"
"Yes," Catherine said, and heard how quickly it came out. How rehearsed.
The word hung there, thin and insufficient. Florence tilted her head, as if examining it.
"You've described your routines," she said. "Your methods of managing things day to day. But you haven't said anything about why you left performing.”
Catherine blinked. She'd been talking for fifteen minutes and apparently said nothing at all. Was she really this bad at therapy? "Isn't it obvious?"
“I’d like to hear it in your words.”
She had lots of versions of this explanation. She'd developed them methodically since the incident, the way you develop scar tissue, each one calibrated for its audience.
For former colleagues: “I’ve decided to focus on pedagogy."
For Simon, simply: "A well-earned break."
And for the fans who had seen the video or read the coverage and asked anyway, wanting to hear her say it out loud: "I'm preparing to record another album. Live performances aren't a priority right now."
Each one was true enough to pass. But none of them were anywhere near the thing itself. The closest she'd ever come to that was the night of the Church recital, when she'd told Theodora that after that performance, she knew something had broken inside her.
For Florence, she chose the plainest version. The one that was just facts.