Chapter 8 #2
Her hair is shielding her face when I glance at her again. I refrain from reaching over and pulling the silky curtain back so I can see her lips move as she speaks. “What’s that?”
“It’d be really nice to go back to life before I fell into that water. And not just right before, but like, months before that. Everything felt so much simpler then. Easy.”
I stretch a leg out and do the same with one of my arms, resting it over the back of the bench.
“There are always going to be challenges in life. There will be battles you can choose to fight and ones that you’ll have no option in the matter.
It’s what you make of both that matters most. Whether you have someone at your beck and call in the early morning hours or not. ”
She looks over. “What did you make of the aftermath of your accident?”
Her question catches me by surprise. Just like it did when she pointed out the scar on my neck.
I wonder what she’d do—think—if she saw the ones on my back and side.
Would she trail her finger over the puckered skin and be disgusted?
Or would it act as a bridge that brought us closer together—the opposite of what happened between my ex and me.
My gaze dances between her eyes, and it’s almost disgusting how drawn I am to her. “The outcome of my situation was messy in its own ways. I’m not sure it’s good to compare it to—”
“I’m not asking you to compare.” Her voice wavers, like she isn’t sure if she should keep talking or not.
“I just want to know…if this is normal. If it’s common for it to feel like everything in life is falling apart when something traumatic happens to a person.
For things to feel put together one day, and then to feel like they’re in pieces the next. ”
Her words pull at the muscle in my chest, which is the best explanation for what I do next.
“I was in a steady relationship at the time of my accident. The process it took to heal afterward…” I pause, not quite sure why I’m opening up to her like I am but knowing that I need to do it.
For her. For me. For this hole I’ve felt inside of me since it happened.
I collect my thoughts and finish. “It was more than anyone could have expected. It took a lot out of me, and because of it, I didn’t know how to be with someone while I was trying to figure out the dynamics of what I’d been through.”
“What happened?”
I lift my head, looking ahead as cloud coverage blocks half the sun.
“I turned inward and stopped talking in the ways it mattered most. It’s not just yourself you have to help through the experience you go through.
At some point, you have to help others make sense of it, too.
The people who you’re close with and around most. And, well, I… I struggled with that.”
“So she left.”
I nod and smooth a palm out over my thigh. “She did but it was for the best.”
“You don’t miss her?”
I bring my other hand up and rub it over my cheek, knowing this isn’t the conversation we should be having.
Then again, maybe it’s already too late.
“Not her specifically.” It’s the honest truth, even if it does sound bad.
I was starting to love the person I was with and had gotten used to her quirks and pet peeves, but my soul stopped lighting up when I came home after a long day.
“I miss the idea of being the other half of something meaningful. Of something that has the ability to change the chemistry inside a person.”
“So, you’re saying we’re doomed?”
“I’m saying—talk to him. Rebuild the pieces you can and give him the chance to do the same. Everyone struggles in their own ways. It’s unfair to write them off without first giving them the opportunity to prove themselves. Don’t you think so?”
“Is that what you did with the person you were in a relationship with?”
A sad grin catches my lips, and I let out a long breath. “We were far past being able to talk, Emory. But that doesn’t mean you are. You’ve spent a long time with this person, I assume, yes?”
“Of course.”
“So, then try. Don’t allow what you’ve been through to force you to end up alone.”
You don’t have to end up like I did.
She’s quiet for way too long, and I know the end of our appointment is nearing.
Still, I don’t get up and rush her back to the office—hers are always my last of the day.
We soak in the warmth of the sun, in the promise of new beginnings and possibilities.
In the opportunity of communication and expressing how we feel on matters to help us get through our days.
I lock my heart in a steel trap, behind metal bars that don’t bend, for crossing the lines of my professional boundaries.
“Maybe you’re right about talking to him,” she finally says after we’ve been quiet for awhile—sometimes talking less is more helpful than a person can imagine.
My attention drifts back to her, but all I can think about is pulling her hair to one side while my other thumb skims the soft skin of her neck. When a breeze sweeps through and vines her scent around me, I damn near shudder during my next exhale.
“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” It’s a joke, of course, but it gets her to look over at me as she squints. It’s enough. At least in this moment. I carry her playful expression with me while we walk back to the office.
On our way back, Emory says, “Do you think it’s weird that I can look at pictures of the ocean, but seeing it in real life causes this anxiety in me?”
I consider her question and swipe my keycard at the side entrance that’ll lead to the hallway where my office is located.
“I think it’s only natural to have reservations about something that affected you so greatly.
Your body is responding to the traumatic event of what happened to you, and because of it, you’re different.
Specifically, your brain. Your experience rewired how you feel about the ocean and has attached fear to it.
Seeing it probably incites a detection of a threat, which is why you can’t seem to get close to it.
As long as your circuitry perceives it as something that could harm you, you’ll find every reason under the sun to avoid it. ”
By the time I’m done explaining, we’re walking into my office. I check the time on my watch, realizing that our time is just about done.
Emory lingers at the side of my small desk as I lean against it. Her tea is still in her hand, and she swirls it around and looks down at it like she can see through the lid. A strip of her hair glimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”
I hate how she doesn’t sound sure of herself.
“Your amygdala releases chemicals that keep that fear alive. Some people might feel anxious and get sweaty or their heart might race. Others,” I draw out, wondering what exactly happened to lead her to ask me about this in particular, “might skip that entirely and use avoidance as a preservation tactic. Everyone’s different. ”
Her chin dips, and she lowers a hand to run it along the smooth top of the desk. I watch, tantalized and stricken with a curiosity that is bone deep.
“So basically, my brain is fucked.”
“No,” I say, gutted that she’d even think such a thing. “It just needs help recategorizing what is a threat and what isn’t.”
She looks up, our eyes locked in a serious game of ping pong as they flick back and forth. “How do I do that?”
My voice is gentle when I say, “You’re already doing it. Showing up here, living life. They’re all steps in the right direction.”
“But what if I don’t want to take small steps? What if I want to make one giant leap?”
“Leaps work if the ground you're landing on is solid, Em,” I say, nearly balking when I realize I’ve shortened her name.
It slips out of my mouth so sneakily, but I don’t try to correct it because it feels right.
It’s a warm hug to my tongue, a sweet escape that a freshly baked piece of banana bread provides after an afternoon walking in the autumn breeze, burnt leaves skipping along the pavement.
“But…” I continue, “if the ground you’re landing on is shaky, you’ll fall, and it’ll be twice as hard to get back up.”
Her eyebrows jump in sarcasm. “Especially if no one is there to help pick you up afterward.”
It's a quiet comment, but I pick it apart all the same. Because she’s my patient.
But also because of this tie I feel twined around my ankles when it comes to her.
It doesn’t matter that she’s my client. I don’t want her hurting.
I don’t want her swimming in sadness. I don’t want her feeling so alone that she feels like she only really has herself.
A mirthless laugh falls from her lips. “I don’t even have my parents.”
“They’re…?”
Her eyes go wide. “No, they’re not dead, but they live across the country and are very absent. Maybe I should’ve said that a little differently.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s alone—and feeling lonely in her relationship.
I’m alone—with no one waiting for me at home.
My mind turns us into a math equation. Two plus two equals—me tasting her lips, her fingertips teasing the areas of my body that haven’t had attention in far too fucking long.
“I…didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear.”
Her eyes slip from mine. “How would you?”
She looks at me almost right away again, and it’s like her soul is beckoning me forward, a curled fingertip telling me to come just a little goddamn closer.
The worst part about it is that I fucking want to.
More than anything, I understand that she’s disconnected. Her parents aren’t physically or emotionally close to her. They’re not here to see her or help her through what she’s facing—with her accident or her relationship. Hell, maybe, they don’t even know what her current struggles are.
Which only leaves her fiancé.
And we already know how that’s going.
I push off my desk and round it, going to the same drawer I found that Band-Aid from two weeks ago. I find the cardstock I’m looking for, a small rectangular piece that includes my information. Specifically, my email address and phone number for those that need to get into contact with me.
I’ve only given them to other experts in the field.
I’ve never actually handed one to a patient.
I’ve always liked keeping my personal life separate from my professional work.
What I’m about to do, it’s not necessarily wrong.
Doctors can give their phone numbers out depending on different circumstances.
I’ve never deemed it necessary until now.
I tell myself that Emory should have someone to confide in, that she shouldn’t be moving through life out there with no one to turn to. Some wouldn’t consider that an emergency, not in the context of what a true crisis means in this line of work.
But to me…it is.
I pluck the card out of my drawer and hold it between my index and middle finger. “I’m offering you this in the event you find yourself alone and those thoughts and fears become too big for you to handle on your own.”
Her eyes flick to the white cardstock then back to me. “Isn’t it frowned upon to give your information out to a patient?”
“It’s a gray area,” I tell her, giving her a look that I hope she doesn’t recognize as desperation. I want her to have this, to take it and know that there is someone who will be there for her no matter the time of day; me.
“Dr. Cole…”
“Dawson,” I correct.
She exhales a breath, and I take a small step closer, flattening my palm on the desk beside us. Her hair is lightly windswept, a flurry of coppery auburn strands that I’d love to twist around my fingers.
“I don’t want you to get into trouble. I didn’t say all that stuff to guilt you into giving me your phone number. I said it because…” she pauses for a moment before saying, “I find it easy to open my heart to you. I’m not sure why, I just do.”
I crack the softest grin. Meanwhile, my fucking heart smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon. “It’s important you have someone to talk to, Emory.”
“I know. I just…”
I reach out, resting my palm along the outside of her arm and give it a reassuring squeeze.
It’s as friendly as physical affection can get between us.
“You deserve the gift of having a safe space to go to when you need it. When your fears get too big and the aftermath of your accident tries to push in and take over, I’ll be here. ”
She takes the card, though hesitantly, and looks at it. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face when she looks back up at me and says, “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” I tell her, though I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.