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4
As soon asI walked into the fourth-floor waiting room and saw the marble floors, the leather couches, the counter full of free snacks and drinks, and the view of Lake Union out the window, I knew I should have asked for the therapist’s rates before making an appointment. As an independent contractor, I had health insurance on the minimalistside.
I rolled my eyes through filling out the new-patient paperwork, feeling antsy because my new contact had moved up our appointment, and I was already suspicious that this was going to be a waste oftime.
“Are you all right, Ms. Thorvald?” The perky twenty-something receptionist looked at me withconcern.
“Yeah, why?” I glancedaround.
There were two other people in the waiting room, presumably to see other therapists. If this turned out to be some surprise group share-fest, I was going to bring Sindari out to eat everyone here. Or at least cow them intofleeing.
“I can hear your pen scrawling from here. You seem to be applying more pressure thannecessary.”
“I like to be firm.” Noting the thick dark pen strokes on the paper, I forced my fingers to loosen. Would I be judged for that? Were there cameras in the waiting room, taking note of how pissed or frustrated people appeared while filling out thepaperwork?
“Of course.” Perky Receptionist smiled, her artistically feathered eyebrowstwitching.
Even though I attempted to finish the paperwork with less firmness, it was difficult. The guy a few seats away started muttering, “Life’s a long drive, but my car’s in the shop. Life’s a long drive, but my car’s in the shop.” Over and over, too loudly toignore.
I turned in the paperwork. The other person waiting kept straightening the magazines on the coffee table over andover.
I gritted my teeth. Dr. Google assured me that normal people went to therapy—I’d checked—but they weren’t represented in this waitingroom.
“Mary will see you now,” the receptionistsaid.
Mary? How… informal. Did this meanMaryhadn’t earned a degree that came with a fancyhonorific?
“Thanks,” I mumbled and walked through the door she opened forme.
Mary turned out to be a graying Japanese woman with the last name Watanabe, but she only introduced herself by her first name and waved me to a chair that faced her seat and would put my back to the door. I gritted my teeth again. The odds of danger finding me here were low, but putting my back to a door went against my instincts. It wasn’t as if Ms. Perky was going to beat down invaders before they could reachus.
“Aren’t you supposed to have acouch?”
“Do you need anap?”
“No, I need a seat that doesn’t put my back to thedoor.”
That was a weird thing to admit, wasn’t it? Her eyebrows climbed. Yes, itwas.
Growling, I adjusted the chair so that I faced the certificate proclaiming her a Licensed Professional Counselor and could see the door. I had to turn my head to look at her, but it wasn’t my fault she’d so inconsiderately set up heroffice.
She had my paperwork on a tray beside her chair and a notepad in her lap. The sole desk in the room was pushed up against a wall and was apparently there to hold plants and stacks of folders rather than forwork.
“What brings you here today?” Maryasked.
“Areferral.”
She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. Oh hell, was I going to have to do all the talking? Small talk isn’t my thing. Nor is pouring out my soul tostrangers.
“I’ve developed a few… health quirks, and my doctor thinks stress may be a factor. But look, I don’t want to talk about my childhood or my mom or analyze ink blots or take a personality test or any of that bullshit. I just need some breathing exercises or meditation techniques orsomething.”
It was a struggle not to lump those latter two into “any of that bullshit” too, but I was willing to admit that I did gettenseat times. Maybe there was a method that could relax me when I was on the road. Punching the bag at the gym always helped, but beating things up wasn’t alwayspractical.
“I see. Is work on the table?” Mary didn’t appear fazed by my list. “What do you do for aliving?”
“Professionalkiller.”
She dropped herpen.
