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Mariaisasticklerabout her marriage counseling patients arriving to appointments together. Because of this, she has no waiting room. At our first session she told us that, when we arrive each time, we are to stand outside the thin white metal storm door, and wait. While we stand at the door this time, anxious for Maria to let us in, I am suddenly aware of my hands. Leaving them hanging at my sides feels heavy and oafish, so I clasp them in front of me. That feels ridiculous. I cross my arms and am just remembering what a gift that body language is to therapists, when Maria appears behind the silver mesh screen set into the top half of the door.
I let my arms fall back to my sides and place one hand on the small of Miranda’s back as we cross the threshold. There is not enough pressure to push her, but I want her to know I am standing behind her, in every sense. This is where my hand should have been all along, of course. Afterall, I am here to learn how best to support her.
I look around the room as we enter the office, at the bookshelf full of psychology texts and self-help books, as well as the framed photos of gentle ocean waves and dew on blades of grass. I’m sure those pictures are supposed to be calming, but I notice Miranda shudder slightly as she walks by. It was so slight that most people probably wouldn’t have even noticed. But I know her tells. Or, at least, I thought I did until all this shit with George, being Guardian, and this new appearance of her old panic attacks.
I follow my wife and wait for her to sit, which she does slowly, with a hint of hesitation she didn’t even show our first session here. She’s been so self-assured and confident lately. But now…not so much. As she sits, she perches at the edge of the beige couch cushion, looking as if she wants to be able to jump to her feet and run for the door. Her hands are clasped on her lap, the tip of her right thumb trembling against her left.
I lower myself beside her, absorbing her anxiety and feeling it multiply in my chest as my own heartbeat quickens. I want to give her space, to let her stand on her own, so I force myself to sit on the opposite end of the sofa, resting my elbow on the arm, trying to look calm and collected, pretending to be the rock I need to be, for her.
There is so much that makes this feel different than our last time here. But one thing is the same: the heavy silence in the room. We have no idea where to start.
Miranda is the first to break the silence with a heavy sigh. “So.”
“So.” Maria smiles, and that’s all she has to do for Miranda’s posture to relax. Maria’s smile glows with eternal patience as she watches Miranda melt back into the couch. Once she is settled, I grab her hand so she knows I am here for her, and Maria continues. “On the phone you said you had a panic attack while training? Let’s talk about that.”
I can’t help but get distracted, lost in my own mind for a moment. Just hearing the wordspanic attack while trainingscares the shit out of me. What happens if she has one of these episodes and passes out while she’s in a fight? As long as she’s having these attacks, I’ll be worried that her life is in even greater danger than it already was.
When Miranda squeezes my hand, I focus back on my wife. She glances at me, quickly pulling the corners of her mouth up in an imitation of a smile, before looking at Maria to begin.
“Um, okay. George was saying that he thinks we should start training outside. He thinks it will help because of the extra distractions in the environment. I’ll have to learn to ignore them, which will make me stronger.” While she speaks, she lets go of my hand to tuck hers under her thigh, which has started to bob up and down as she bounces her knee frenetically. Some deep, sleeping memory gets poked when I see the movement.
“That makes a lot of sense. So why did that make you panic?” Maria looks at the pad and jots down notes.
I stare at the tip of her pen as it moves back and forth across the page. There is an electric jolt in the top of my chest. I want to protect Miranda. I want to know what this woman is writing about my wife. I suddenly want to jump up and grab that notepad from Maria. But I don’t, because I know that is not what Miranda needs right now. I tear my eyes from the pen and take a deep breath.
Miranda looks up at the ceiling. She hates feeling weak, and it’s really hard not to when you’re unloading all your emotional baggage on someone. I know this first hand. My body still convulses with guilt every time I watch her train. My mind instantly goes back to Vegas, to when I was in bed with those muses. Thinking about how I even enjoyed it, how I almost stayed there with them instead of coming home to the kids, to Miranda, to our life. When those images come into my mind it’s all I can do to keep from vomiting on the dojo floor.
Miranda has decided her fingernails are completely fascinating. She is picking at one with another when she starts speaking. “I don’t know. I’ve hated being outside for as long as I can remember. Although I did enjoy it as a kid, I think. I know my family used to go camping a lot, and I don’t remember ever having a problem with it.”
Tapping her pen on the pad and looking up, pulling a memory into the present, Maria looks at Miranda, carefully choosing her next question. “Okay. When we had our initial phone call, you told me a little about your family growing up, that your father in particular had many shortcomings as a parent.”
I can’t help but let out a snort that draws all eyes to me.
Raising her brow Maria addresses me directly. “Do you have something you’d like to say about her father, Jake?”
As I run my fingers through my sweaty hair, I lock eyes with Miranda, raising my own brow to ask her permission to speak freely. When she shrugs and crosses her arms, sinking into opposite end of the sofa, I take a deep breath to begin.
“Well, youcouldsay all that crap about his shortcomings a parent. But, another way to put it, is to say he was a drunk, deceitful, abusive piece of shit.”
Maria blinks rapidly at my blunt words. In my periphery, I see Miranda press her fingertips to her forehead, just above her eyebrows.
My heart pounds in my chest. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken out, but it is instinctual for me to protect my wife. It has been since the moment I met her father.
We were at her college graduation party, a small affair at a local restaurant, especially small if you compared it to the catered shindig my parents threw for me. Miranda was off talking to her cousins. I was at the bar getting a beer. A good-looking older man in front of me ordered a glass of scotch. He looked familiar, even though I was sure I’d never met him.
A second bartender asked for my drink order. When I gave it, the man joked, “Put it on my tab!”
The woman pouring my beer winked and said, “Oh, Mr. Jones! The whole place is on your tab tonight!”
I squinted and looked at him, “Mr. Jones? Are you related to Miranda?”
He squinted back at me and smiled. “I sure am, Son. I’m her dad. Who might you be?”
I smiled back, “It’s so nice to meet you, Sir. I’m Jake, Miranda’s boyfriend.”
“Well, hey there, Jake. Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” He clapped me on the back like we were old friends. I thought it was a good sign that he had heard so much about me, since I had heard nothing about him.
We talked for a minute and then I saw Miranda standing alone, looking around. She smiled and headed to me when I caught her eye and waved. Her father had already disappeared into the crowd.
