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1
Madlen
I’m a nervous wreck even while sitting in the safety of a cab. It smells of other women’s lipsticks and I think someone lit a cigarette in here but at least this is benign. Step outside and I won’t be in the comfort zone anymore.
“Miss?” the cabbie says, throwing me a glance in the rearview mirror. “We’re here.”
I nod and fumble for my credit card, while simultaneously taking a couple of even breaths. I even manage to offer a smile and a thank you before stepping outside and I stroke my hands down my skirt to soothe my nerves.
This is so not my street.
Its extravagant, breathes money and luxury and the people who pass me by don’t even notice me. To them I’m invisible, an outsider that doesn’t belong. I’m looking at a three story row house, narrow and proud and regal. There’s a short, black iron gate surrounding it and blue flowers greet me as I walk down the gravel walk.
This house contains several offices. The bottom floor belongs to a graphic designer, the second belongs to a seamstress and the third....the third belongs tohim.
Maker Darden, clinical psychologist. Thirty one years old. No wife, no girlfriend, no kids.
The fact that I can even afford to be here is nothing but sheer luck. Here’s how it happened. Six months ago, I looked for someone to turn to since I had issues with night terrors. Maker had just opened up this clinic and was offering a generous discount to the first five patients of his. Yours truly happened to be one of the five. And Maker just happened to be such a kind soul that he never raised the price and when it turned out I needed more sessions than I thought, he decided to give some of them for free.
The rest is history.
I see him three times a week which is a lot but Maker insists that visiting him that frequently is necessary for my health. Used to be at least...and I feel a dip in my stomach because that’s the problem. The sessions with him have been so good for me that I don’t have night terrors anymore. I’ve even gone so far as lying to him, pretending I still have them when I don’t.
For two weeks now, I’ve been sleeping like a little baby. Did I mention any of it to Maker? Nope. I’m still acting as if I’m still deeply suffering and he must think he’s really bad at his job when he in reality is a miracle worker.
Sighing to myself, I press the entrance code and walk inside. The graphic designer has his door open and is shouting to someone on the phone while simultaneously singing along to bad pop songs. It’s funny how it’s so lively down here, so cheerful somehow but walk up two more floors and the energy decreases. It turns reassuring, pacifying and even a little sleep inducing. Sitting down in Maker’s waiting room, I put my hands in my knees, twirling them while looking around as if I haven’t seen this place one hundred times before.
He’s got magazines his patients can read if bored. Its stuff about distant travels, sailing or literature. Nothing overly exciting but I suppose it’s supposed to be that way to avoid any triggers. In a bowl on a small table there’s an exotic fish swimming round and round. I like to look at its colors and Maker has told me he got it as a gift from a patient of his who told him it was a delicacy. He intended for Maker to eat it but Maker simply didn’t have the heart and kept it instead. It made me laugh when I heard the story because it’s so typical of him. He’s so kind...maybe even sometimes to a fault.
Not to make it sound as if I know him. I don’t, even though he knows almost everything about me. I’m so personal with him while he’s never personal back. Obviously that’s normal for a psychologist but sometimes I wish he’d open up just a little.
Does he date? Does he play favorites with his patients? Does he think I’m pretty...?
My cheeks heat and I cross my legs. I’m being embarrassing but I’ve cut my heart open in front of him many times and he was nothing but gentle with it. As strong and powerful as he is, he weirdly feels softer than a bed of cotton. He never raises his voice, not even when I once screamed at him because I hadn’t slept for two days.
And when I leave his room, he always gives me a reassuring pat on the back between my shoulder blades. Sometimes I fantasize about his hand sliding further down but he’s always so darn professional. Pushing my lower lip out I pout and glance at the clock. I’m ten minutes early raise my brows in surprise when the door to Maker’s office opens. In my periphery I catch hints of the contours of him and my heart is already speeding.
This is the effect my therapist has on me. I only need to feel his presence, catch a hint of his cologne to get all weak in the knees.
“Miss. Lore...,” Maker rasps in a low voice like a cobra from inside his room and it makes the hair on my neck stand. “It’s time for your session.”
Grabbing my purse, I get up from my chair and hurry into Maker’s office. Standing in the doorway, he greets me with a handshake and it always takes me off guard how warm his skin is even though it’s always somewhat cold in here.
“Hi,” I breathe and he gives me a professional and comforting smile that makes my heart beat even harder if possible. His eyes are blue velvet, his head shaved and his clothes are always ironed and of high quality. It’s enough for me to just look at something as basic as his tie to get butterflies in my stomach.
“I hope you don’t mind starting a little earlier today,” he says and his voice is whiskey on the rocks and it makes my fingertips tingle.
“No worries,” I say in a faked neutral tone and his mouth twitches before he gestures toward the lounge next to the windows and asks me to sit down. Crossing the floor, I have a feeling he’s watching me as if he’s trying to burn through me with his gaze but when I throw a look over my shoulder, his eyes are elsewhere.
And of course, why wouldn’t they be? I’m his patient and I bet he sees women just like me all the time. I feel a flare of worry in my chest when I wonder if they’re prettier than me. Probably and they probably all have boob jobs and dyed hair and...
“Madlen,” Maker says in a soft voice that cuts through my anxiousness. “Would you prefer to sit or lie down this time?”
I’m still standing next to the chaise and I turn to Maker. He’s watching me intently behind his glasses. “Sit,” I reply and his burly shoulders lower and I stutter, “I m...mean lay down.” Laying down, I stretch my legs and make myself comfortable and put my hands on my stomach and take a couple of deep breaths.
Once I got so relaxed, I fell asleep. Maker didn’t wake me up and when I asked him why, he told me that watching me sleep was helpful for him in my treatment. But now I don’t need treatment anymore, dang it and I feel a flash of guilt. I’m wasting his time. Maker could give my session to someone who needs it better and I squirm.
I should open my mouth and tell him the truth but at the same time I know that our conversations would be over. We wouldn’t even be able to strike up a friendship since even that would be deemed too unprofessional. Psychologists don’t turn their patients into friends. And they definitely don’t turn them into lovers either.
