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MY CHIN CHATTERS from the frigid air as I stand on the corner and wait for the light to change. Cars rush by, but I see no empty cabs. I look down the street and then at my watch. There’s no time to wait, so I decide to walk the ten blocks.
With every step I take, I feel the nervous energy within me build. Usually walking calms me, but today it doesn’t help at all. As I hurry up Park Avenue, I get lost in thought. My brain can’t wrap itself around the reason these nightmares have started, and I’m not even sure what’s triggering my recent panic attacks. I assume it has something to do with Richard, but at the same time I’m not sure. Scary thought. But as frightened as I am to find out, I’m more frightened to keep on living like this.
I can’t become my mom.
I can’t let my fear turn me into a woman who’s too scared to live her life.
After ten minutes, I arrive at the address on the card. The building itself is intimidating and harsh. It towers high into the sky, the sun gleaming off the walls of tinted glass. With timid steps, I walk inside and immediately notice a broad Lucite desk in the center of the lobby. I head over and smile at the security guard for the building seated behind the surface, thankful he can’t see my hands shaking at my sides.
I brighten my smile to hide my nerves. “I have an appointment with Dr. Montgomery.”
“And you are?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Eve Hamilton.”
“Look toward the camera, please.” He motions to a small lens protruding from the desk. After the camera flashes once, I turn my attention back to him and he looks down at a screen built into his desktop and starts to type.
“Please proceed to the elevator on the right-hand side of the lobby and press the button for the eighteenth floor,” he directs as he hands me my visitor pass.
“Thank you.”
I proceed to the elevator and press the button to Dr. Montgomery’s floor. Cheesy elevator music echoes through the air. As the elevator climbs, a pulsating knot forms in my belly. The idea of sitting across from this man and airing my dirty laundry is making me feel ill. I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this, but since I’ve come this far already, I decide to take the plunge. My lungs expand with oxygen to calm myself. When the elevator reaches his floor, I step out and search for his office. Once inside, a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk greets me.
“I’m Eve Hamilton. I have an appointment with Dr. Montgomery.”
“Yes, please take a seat. He should be with you in a few minutes. I’ll need to see a copy of your insurance card. Also, I have a few forms for you to fill out while you wait.” Her voice is monotone, as if she’s reciting a speech she has repeated countless times.
I grab my wallet and hand her the card. Once she returns it, I take the stack of forms and sit down in an empty chair. I pull out my phone to text Sydney.
Me: Hey, Syd. I’m here and everything’s fine so far. I’ll text you when I’m headed over to the restaurant.
Syd: Good luck.
Me: Thanks, I’ll need it.
My eyes scan the paper in front of me. Seven pages. Seven freaking pages of questions. Starting off with the most mundane information, leading up to . . .
I look a little farther down the form and I get to family history. My heart thuds in my chest. Can’t he just leave me in my denial and, you know, not make me answer these questions? I feel as though I’ll turn the page and there will be ink splat drawings for me to identify.
Describe your personal strengths? What is this? Am I applying for a job?
What are your coping styles? Should I write down drinking?
Do you experience difficulty sleeping? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
I peer farther down the list . . .
Check.
Check.
Check.
What isn’t my problem? Lord, I’m a mess.
Do you belong to a particular religion or spiritual group? With that, I rise from my seat.
I’m out of here.
This is ridiculous.
Just as I move toward the door, I hear a creak. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes widen as my gaze trails up the man standing in front of me.
How is it that every time I see him he takes my breath away? I’ve never seen a more beautiful man. He is magnificent. But even that word doesn’t do him any justice. He’s tall. His strong, lean body towers over my frail one. This man, his presence . . .
It’s imposing. As if he alone can make the world shift on its axis.
Dr. Montgomery narrows his eyes as he continues to stare. It’s unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. But with a shake of his head, the moment is lost. He pulls his shoulders back and walks toward me.
“Hello, Eve.” My name rolls off his tongue like a smooth melody. One only the perfect baritone of his voice can sing.
“Hi, Doctor,” I say faintly. His hand reaches out taking mine in his.
“It’s good to see you again. But please, I know I’m your doctor, but you can call me Preston.” He pauses, almost as if he’s unsure. “If that makes you feel more comfortable.”
What was I thinking, coming to see this man? I’m desperate to figure out my shit, but this guy . . . No. He’s too gorgeous. I need to see someone older—much, much, older. Maybe a man in his seventies who wears tiny wire-rimmed glasses.
He gives me a little smile and I swear one thousand butterflies take flight in my belly. “If you would please follow me into my office.” His other arm stretches out toward the door adjacent to where we stand. It’s cracked open and pitch black inside. Ominous.
“Um, okay.” My hand feels heavy still encased in his.
My body won’t move, though. I’m cemented in place. Ready to dash. To bury my head in the sand and pretend I don’t need to be here. I look toward the exit and then back up at him and meet his gaze again.
His full lips turn up into a comforting smile. “It will be okay. It doesn’t have to be awkward,” he whispers, but not one part of my shaking body believes him.
Peering back to the door, I contemplate my options: walk away and let the fear take over, or follow this man.
Our bodies are close for the few steps it takes to reach his office. He stops abruptly and I almost crash into him as he switches on the light. With wide eyes I look around the office and then at him. His presence fills the small space. He’s overpowering and my walls start to close in. How can I speak to someone who has me so unhinged at the mere sight of him? He sucks all the oxygen from the air just by standing here.
My breathing becomes ragged as I cross farther into the room. With shallow pulls of air, I try to clear my head. I need to do this. I need to stop the nightmares and this is my only option, so I need to block out my want for this man.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the couch?” he says as he walks over to the desk that sits along the far wall and grabs a notepad. I sit on the red velvet couch and look up to see him watching me as I settle myself. His eyes trail my every move as he gets comfortable in the chair across from the coffee table.
Placing the pad on his lap, he reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he says as if he’s collecting his thoughts.
My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for him to speak. With an audible sigh, I breathe through the panic that coils in my stomach, but my face grows hot and a sweat breaks out against my brow.
“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “This will be easy. I promise. I’ll ask you some very simple questions at first, and take notes about what you say so I can keep it fresh in my memory. Is that all right?”
I bite my lip. “Yes, it’s okay.”
“Oh, and please feel free to interrupt me at any time, and if you need to stop, we can do that, too.” I swallow hard and then nod. “So, let’s start off by talking a little bit about when your anxiety began, what brought you to the hospital, and a little about what brings you here today.”
“Can’t we talk about something simpler?” A nervou
s laugh escapes me and the right side of his lips turns up at my answer.
A small dimple forms in his cheek. “We could, but what fun would that be for our first appointment?” he jokes and my shoulders relax. “So, how are you today?” I tilt my head and I consider how to answer.
“I’m okay. Tired. Didn’t sleep well,” I admit on a sigh.
He nods. “I can understand that. Nervous about today?”
“Yeah. A bit, I guess.”
“Was there something else that kept you up?”
My upper teeth bite my lower lip and I gnaw on the skin to the point of pain. He picks up his pen and jots a note on the pad of paper. His gaze lifts to mine.
“Simpler?” He smiles.
I nod.
“Have you always lived in New York City?”
“Um, yeah. I mean, I wasn’t born in the city, but we moved here when I was young,” I stumble out.
“Oh, so then, where were you born?” He leans forward, laying his notebook down and studying me intently.
“I’m from Long Island, originally.”
