What We Keep
Session One
SESSION ONE
DESERT FLOWER THERAPY
It is humbling to be the person sitting on the couch.
The man in the chair opposite me directs his stare my way, his eyes a glacial, almost translucent blue. Dr. Ruben Sandoval . A distinguished name, one that calls to mind good manners and sweater vests.
Despite having eyes the color of an iceberg, he is affable with his graying hair in need of a cut and his eyeglasses rimmed in thin gold wire. He looks like a reserved, intelligent young grandparent.
“It’s nice to meet you, Avery.” A brief dip of his chin accompanies his greeting.
“Likewise, Dr. Ruben.” I offer him a friendly smile. “I’m a therapist, too,” I add, seeking common ground.
Dr. Ruben nods slowly, just once, not letting on if he already knew my job is ( was? ) the same as his.
My hands fold on my lap, my legs cross at my ankles. I’m not sure if he’s agreed to see me as a favor to Joseph, and I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to bring up what drove me to seek his help. Not right away, at least. It will make its way out eventually. It must.
What brought me here, to this emerald green velvet couch, isn't the low point of my story. It is one of many low points, a rock bottom that continually turns out to have another layer beneath it.
What would I give to get my life back? To have Gabriel in my arms, my home, my bed?
If a hero would sacrifice their love to save the world, but a villain would sacrifice the world to save their love, what does that make me?
What would I sacrifice to get it all back, to save my husband?
The answer is easy. The world .
In an effort to delay the start of our session, I direct my attention to the desert scenery beyond the window. The palo verde trees are in full yellow bloom, the cacti pushing forth magenta flowers. Soon the saguaros will offer their white, waxy blossoms. Spring in the desert is something to behold.
I’m aware of the symbolism. New beginnings, the emergence of a fresher, better self. Me, here in this office, attempting my own new beginning.
Politely, Dr. Ruben asks, “What do you practice, Avery?” The pointer finger on his right hand taps his thigh. On that finger is a gaudy gold ring in the shape of a buffalo head. It’s so far past ugly, it has reached the point of being cool.
I toy with the end of my long brown hair as the weight of what I’m really doing here presses in on me. Less enthusiastic now, I answer. “Marriage and family.”
Again, his response is to nod once.
This damned smile still stretches across my face, the corners tightening. “I know, I know.” My hands lift in feigned protest. “Doctor, heal thyself.”
He squints one eye and shakes his head in a subtle back and forth motion. “It doesn’t work that way. Heart surgeons don’t perform open heart surgery on themselves.”
A dissenting sound sits at the top of my throat, but I hold it in. “I wouldn’t call this open heart surgery.”
“Wouldn’t you?” He sips his hot tea. The tag hanging from the cup swings. Chamomile. “You of all people know you’re here to cut yourself open, expose your organ, and fix what went wrong somewhere in the past. So—” He shifts in his chair and tucks his wavy hair behind one ear with his free hand. “Why are you here?”
My brain forms a safe answer, a cheeky response like 'I was hot and in need of air-conditioning,’ but it’s overrode by the sudden and pressing desire to bare my soul. Heart surgery .
“A fire.” Something inside my chest cracks. Perhaps it’s the veneer I’ve used to cover the thousands of fissures in my heart. Years have passed, but the unraveling begins with a single look at the wound. “My life changed the night my house caught on fire.”
Without a trace of emotion, Dr. Ruben says, "Let's begin there."