6
Alison
My therapist’s office was situated in a lovely old Victorian house down a residential street in Bayerton, about ten minutes from where I lived. My doctor in Philadelphia had recommended Brooke Slater, with whom she’d worked in a large Richmond, Virginia practice years ago before my former doctor had moved north and Brooke had gotten married and relocated to Florida.
In the two years I’d been seeing Brooke for bi-monthly sessions, we’d developed a friendly sort of relationship that didn’t violate the patient-therapist boundaries—but that at the same time made me feel more comfortable about sharing my deepest thoughts with her. Sometimes our conversation before or after my visits wandered into something more akin to girlfriend chatter.
Today was such a day. I’d taken advantage of my short day at the office to drive into Tampa for some shopping before rushing back to Bayerton for my late-afternoon appointment with Brooke, and on impulse, I carried the large paper bag from the boutique into the office.
Brooke had one employee who doubled as both secretary and receptionist. She worked a half day on Wednesdays, so Brooke routinely scheduled long-established patients on that day, people like me who could be counted on to sit in the waiting room unsupervised until the office door opened.
When I walked through the front door of the house, I could see through to Brooke’s office—and the door was open. Either her last appointment had canceled, or she’d built in some time between clients. When the front door closed behind me, I heard her calling me to just come right on in.
“Well, what do we have here?” She was sitting behind the elegant French provincial desk that she’d confided to me that she and her husband had found and purchased during their honeymoon in the French countryside.
I lifted up my bag. “I’ve been shopping, and I just had to show off what I got to someone who will appreciate it. You know? Sometimes, you just need to hear another woman squeal.”
Brooke laughed. “I get that. Okay, then. Let me see.”
I pulled out the short pink sequined dress and held it up to my front. “What do you think?”
“Ooooooh.” She stood up and came around the desk to take a closer look. “Pretty, pretty! And sexy, too.” She raised one eyebrow. “Just where are you planning to wear the pretty, pretty, sexy, sexy?”
I draped the dress over my arm and carefully slid it back into the bag. “One of my friends is getting married in a few weeks. I’m kind of excited about it because I haven’t done anything remotely social in a very long time. So I kind of splurged on the dress, shoes, bag . . . and new make-up, too.” I glanced at my therapist. “Am I crazy, doc?”
Brooke shook her head. “In my professional opinion, no. A little splurging that makes us feel good is almost always a good idea. And you don’t do it enough, so I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” I tucked my shopping bag and purse next to my usual chair. “And thank you for doing the squeal routine for me, too. I feel totally satisfied now.”
“Glad to oblige.” She sat down across from me, curling her bare feet up beneath her and clicking on the tablet in her hand, indicating we were now officially on the clock. “So how have you been, Alison?”
“Not bad.” I stretched out my legs. “Life’s been fairly stable. The office is running well—agreeing to have the NP intern was a good move. I like her, and she’s making my job easier. I’ve been strict with myself about my work hours, as you suggested. No more staying at the office until all hours.”
“Glad to hear it. And how’s the home improvement going?”
I chuckled. “That’s a dangerous question to ask the woman who’s doing it herself. It’s going well, actually. I finished the kitchen, and I’m going to start on the master bathroom next. Then once I see how that goes, I’ll tackle the powder room. I figured it was a good idea to make my mistakes on the bathroom that I’ll be the one to see.”
“Hmmmm.” Brooke tapped notes into her tablet. “All right. Tell me more about this wedding you’re going to. Who’s getting married?”
“My friend Emma, the one who brought me down here. She and her fiancé Deacon are having the wedding at his grandparents’ farm. I’ll get to catch up with all the people I worked with at St. Agnes, all the friends I made through Emma.”
“That’ll be fun. I’m happy that you’re doing this. As you know, I’ve thought for a while that growing your social network would be a positive step for you.” She looked up at me expectantly.
“Yes, I know.” I shrugged.
“So maybe you’ll get back in touch with old friends at the wedding and work out a way to see each other more often.”
“Maybe.” It didn’t seem likely, but then suddenly I remembered something. “I actually did see another friend—well, he was more of a friend of a friend, I guess—last weekend. I was at the hospital with a patient, and I got lost on my way out. When I was wandering through the emergency room, I saw Noah. He’s a football player, and he’d been hurt in the game. I ended up sitting with him until his ortho doc arrived.”
“Oh, really?” Brooke cocked her head. “By football player, do you mean, like, pro football?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my God. And he plays for Tampa? He’sthatNoah? I was watching that game. The hit he took was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in my life. I can’t believe you know him.” Her eyes were wide, as though I’d just copped to being besties with J Lo.
“I know him alittle,” I hedged. “My friend Emma, the one who’s getting married, was his wife’s doctor. His late wife, I mean. So Noah and Emma are really close.” I tried not to think exactlyhowclose the two had been for a short while, and then I recalled Noah’s confession that he’d only ever been with one woman. So that must have meant that he and Emma had never . . .
“—but you know him by one degree of separation. That’s still pretty cool.” Brooke continued to rave.
