Chapter 4
Chapter four
Different Day
This is just not my fucking day. But I need to get it together enough to at least put on my professional hat for my employees because the show must go on.
Nodding at the stragglers in the hallway, I attempt an airy feel despite my emotional discomfort; however, the smile I emit feels more like a grimace.
They smile back but turn their eyes forward quickly as we pass.
It stings more than it should because when I'm like this I come across very cold, which is a character trait of mine I loathe validating.
Sharply turning the corner, I push through the glass door and then force myself to take a deep breath as I walk to the seat at the head of the table in the boardroom of my practice.
I place my briefcase on the table, and I shove a hand through my hair as my heart pounds heavier than usual and causes me to run a finger between my collar and neck for relief.
“Why’s it so hot in here? Damn,” I mutter, stepping to the side to check the thermostat, thinking Cathy must have set it at the wrong temperature. But, nope, it’s seventy-two degrees per usual. I click it down two degrees then go back to my seat.
Feeling uncomfortably hot, I unbutton my suit jacket before shrugging out of it and draping it over the back of my seat.
Opening my laptop, I wait patiently, going over my files, while my colleagues and the other psychiatrists who are under my supervision shuffle in with their folders and laptops.
They come in staggered clusters, taking their seats and murmuring their hushed greetings to each other.
No one speaks to me, content to talk amongst themselves.
Miserable, it doesn't take any effort on my part to put their droning to the back of my head.
God, I don't want to be here, but I don't want to go home to that fucking house, either.
Shit. I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Rubbing a hand across my jaw, I nod respectfully as they all sit.
A couple people eventually say hello, but for the most part, I keep my attention on my computer, preferring to not engage in chit-chat until everyone is in the room and quieted down.
Yet still, my newest hire, David, a fellow psychiatrist, pulls out the seat directly to my left. He reaches out and rudely raps his knuckles on the desk next to me just as I’m in the middle of reading an email. “What’s up, Richardson?”
Taken aback by the audacity, my hand falls softly to the table as I sharply look up and narrow my eyes, assessing the younger man with an equally as sharp greeting. “Osterkamp.”
Before he can see my displeasure, he turns to share a low laugh with his neighbor.
Discreetly, I regard him for a moment for probably the fiftieth time since I hired him. Though he's perfectly nice, he seems to never get a clue.
There's something off about him that I can't place despite two decades of experience in this field, and that's never a good sign.
At first, my head colleagues attempted to convince me that I should be flattered that it seems he wants me to take him under my wing, but no, that's not what this is about.
I do know that much. Until I figure it out, though, I have to contend with the fact he constantly inserts himself in my space.
As a psychiatrist, this is worrying because the man can't pick up on the fact I want to be left alone unless the conversation has to do with work.
It speaks to a lack of boundaries, and everybody knows that irks the hell out of me.
Turning my attention from David, I nod my head in greeting to the late stragglers pouring in before looking back down at my screen, biting back a groan with effort.
An incoming email from Ms. Johnson sits at the top, unread.
Clicking it open, I only allow myself to read just a few lines before pinning the email, intending to come back to it after the meeting.
Since my colleagues are still settling, I take a second to rub my eyes in irritation.
God, I'm so over her shit.
"Ms. Johnson. You're determined to be a pain in my ass today, aren't you?" I breathe quietly to myself.
David immediately snaps his head to look at me. "Sarah Johnson?" he stresses, arching a brow.
Lowering my hand, I frown, eyeing the expression on his face. "Yes. You know her?" I don't bother telling him to mind his own business.
David nods.
I contemplate transferring this client to him so that he can take it over, and I won't need to be bothered anymore.
Matter of fact, maybe I can figure out how to offload all of the clients Ms. Johnson and I share so that I can be done with this woman.
My personal life sucks enough without my work life becoming a place of discontentment for me as well.
I stretch out my arm and glance at my watch, everyone’s cue that the meeting has begun.
When they're finally settled, I begin in a curt tone.
"Alright, everyone, thank you for joining me.
If you would please, take out your laptops and send me all of your upcoming evaluations, court dates, and where you are at on any currently completed evaluations.
" I eye them all in turn. "Let me know if there is any assistance that is needed with billing your clients or any insurance snags that we need to work through. "
I sit back in my seat, hating how long-winded these meetings get, and click my pen in an agitated move. Everything in me wants to respond to that fucking email that's probably more than likely guaranteed to send my ass through the roof.
"Also," I clear my throat harshly, "if you are requesting time off within the next three months, please send me the dates you need covered so we can make sure your clients remain in compliance.
You all know how I like to stay on top of these things.
" I give everyone a second to laugh before turning to David.
"Osterkamp, you first. What have you got? "
By sheer force of will I make myself pay attention, but in the back of my head, I'm furiously crafting my response to Ms. Johnson.
Furiously.
My phone dings, drawing my gaze down as David's voice drones on. I swipe it open quickly, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at Tyler's request. Further irritated that the boy couldn't even spare me a fucking hello. Not surprising, really. It's truly shaping up to be a shitty week.
Tyler [9:00a]: Dad, can you please send me fifteen hundred dollars? Please?
Ignoring the text, I attempt like hell to not let the correspondence ruin my meeting.
I place my phone face down and resume listening to David.
Pulling up a spreadsheet on my computer, I record any information that's relevant, keeping myself the picture of a person who's in charge and put together.
Which I am…to a certain extent anymore, I suppose.
I clear my throat gently, pulling up another spreadsheet. "Thank you, Osterkamp.” I eye the man next to him. “What about you, Robinson?"
I move on to the next one, then the next, until I take care of all twenty employees under me.
As everyone spends the morning updating me on their work, I shake my head wearily, wishing I had something to look forward to when I get off besides texts asking for money, and a cold, empty house.
Different day, same old bullshit.
The end of the meeting is beyond disappointing; everyone's full-up, so I won't be offloading any of Sarah’s and my clients. See what I mean?
Absolute. Bull. Shit.
A [11:49a]: Tyler, please tell your mother to stop asking you for money. I won't send you any for her to take. Now, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How's your day been going?
He doesn't reply.
When I journey back to my office, I spend time looking at the gold framed photo of us that sits on my desk.
It's the one of when he was ten and thought he wanted to play the cello, like me.
I was so proud, and it reflected in the brightness of my smile.
He's posing with the instrument, my arm around his shoulders.
I looked down at him, beaming. I remember that day like it was yesterday.
I was so surprised and excited that he'd taken up something that I loved.
I thought we could practice together, maybe be the start of us bonding.
But like everything else, the cello fell by the wayside not even a year later.
Reaching forward, I turn the photo away from me so I can focus on work and not the past.
But at the end of the day, like every single day, I drive home, cook myself a simple meal and eat by myself at the breakfast table.
No music today. I want to wallow in my solitude.
Once I finish my meal, I wash my dishes, then head up the stairs to the room down the hallway, and push open the only door I keep closed.
His room.
I keep it just like he left it. Same dark green comforter with the planet projector on his bedside table.
I walk to it and open the top drawer, seeing the raggedy stuffed animal that he used to haul with him everywhere before abandoning it when he was seven-years-old.
Smiling, I pick it up in my hand and rub my thumb over the matted fur, remembering a night, twelve years ago in the winter, when he left it at the restaurant we'd had dinner at.
I drove half an hour back to that restaurant that same night in the freezing cold because I couldn't bear to see him cry himself to sleep.
I think that was the last time I felt like his hero.
That night, Hannah made love to me, telling me she was turned on by how fatherly I was, only for us to end up divorced a year later.
My eyes prick, and I place the animal on his pillow before shutting the little drawer.
I click on his planet lamp and take a second to marvel at the patterns it makes on his wall while I think about my life, all my regrets and choices.
I didn't spend nearly as much time as I'd wanted in here.
It would have been magical, snuggled up with him in bed and reading him book after book under the stars.
Truth of the matter is, I didn't even get to read him even half of the books I'd bought, and I doubt his mother did, either.
Fuck, I failed him so badly.
I scrub a hand down my face and walk to his closet where I get out his old cello before going back to his bed.
Sinking to the mattress, I roughly dust off the case before unzipping it.
The mahogany looks just as bright as when I’d first bought it.
Contemplating change, I stare for a second before taking the rosin out of the small pouch and test it.
Surprised it's still any good, I brush it over the strings and then stand it up.
The bow snags a little as I play a few chords, but it still sounds decent enough for another parent to have a chance to accomplish what I couldn't.
Tightening my lips, I return it to the case, click off the lamp, and leave the bedroom, my fingers wrapped around the handle with a death grip.
I'm not quite ready to let go of what could have been, but I know I need to start taking the steps to. My mental health can’t take holding on like this much longer.
Just outside the door, I turn my head slightly and allow myself a moment to grieve before meandering down the hall.
I leave his door open for the first time since he moved out.
Placing the cello in the foyer to donate, I journey to my den to turn on the fireplace and put on the television in a rare need to zone out, keeping my phone face up on the cushion next to me.
Propping my feet on the table, I keep a hopeful eye on my phone and stay up an extra hour later than normal in consideration of our time difference, hoping he'll respond.
But he doesn't. He never does…really.
I shut the fireplace and television off, both my heart and soul heavy as I make my way up the stairs to the bedroom. Painfully aware it's not just a different day, it's a completely different time in my life, and maybe it's time I start coming to terms with it.