Page 9 of Physical Therapy

SIX

Edith

“Please tell me you actually went home last night?”

I roll my eyes as Molly leans around the office door to flick the overhead lights on. “Of course I did. I came in early this morning instead.”

She wanders back to her desk in reception, muttering something about there being no difference.

She’s right. Whether I went home late or came in early, it doesn’t change the reason why I work extra hours. Lack of sleep is the hardest vice to shake of all. Especially when that lack of sleep is from an overactive mind caused by your patients.

Although, a girl can’t complain when that patient is as captivating as Boe Johanssen. More than once I caught myself lost in his intense gray eyes during our last session.

The lid of my laptop snaps shut with a flick of my wrist, my toes dipping into the stiff confines of my heels under the desk. I straighten out my charcoal sheath dress, retrieve my phone and purse, and head for Molly.

“I’m going to nip down to the coffee shop before the first client arrives. Would you like anything?”

She lifts a tall takeaway cup wordlessly while logging on with the other hand.

“Back in ten, then.” Cooler air hits me as I push out the glass door to the shared lobby of our floor.

The frosted glass conceals what goes on in each of the private practices, but eighteen months in this building and I’ve gained a pretty good handle on each of my neighbors.

To the left is a psychiatrist who deals primarily with people referred by the state as a last resort. People with extreme addictions and ailments. Pyromaniacs. Serial rapists. The kind of patients who are escorted in wearing shackles and standard issue jumpsuits.

To the right resides a marriage and family therapist. One day in her waiting room is enough to put most off tying the knot for life. I once asked her what her success rate is out of curiosity. I wish I hadn’t.

The lift arrives, revealing a couple that most definitely belongs to her office. I smile graciously as they move aside to let me catch the door, well aware it might be the only spot of civility they see in the next hour.

My father asked me when I applied to college what it was I wanted out of a career in the mental health sector. At the time I was young and naïve about how complex thought patterns of the broken and desperate could be. I answered him with the simple vow that most people in my freshman year recited when asked the same thing: I want to help people.

Advice from my tutors couldn’t sway me. Case studies set down for study couldn’t convince me either. It was after I recognized the name of a former patient in the news that I finally gave into the truth: some people can’t be helped, and worse than that, some don’t want to be.

The lift arrives at the first floor as I reach inside my purse to retrieve my phone. I pull the device out while navigating the hustle and bustle of a twenty-two-floor office building arriving for work, and manage to unlock it before I reach the street.

The notes app still sits open, the bullet points I made about Boe glaring back at me from the HD display. Is he destined to be another one of my lost causes? A history of violence that extends back to not only his father but his grandfather too. Three generations of men who have either served time or managed to evade a stretch behind bars through nothing but empty promises and false charm.

His mother was a fascinating find. A quiet woman who supported her white-collar husband throughout his impressive corporate career—even when he was convicted of racketeering three years before he was due to retire. I’ve seen pairing such as theirs in the past, and what struck me as odd is Boe’s seeming ignorance that he follows in his father’s footsteps. A tendency to bully people into submission, a history of violence when things don’t go as he anticipated; he’s headed for disaster if he continues on this path.

There’s so much potential in him. That I can see. But what’s yet to make itself clear is if I’ll be able to turn his destructive attitude toward life around, or not.

Rain threatens to fall, gray clouds covering the beautiful blue sky that broke the dawn when I arrived at the office this morning. I swing right into the coffee house at the base of our building and join the queue for my twice-daily fix. My thumb flies across the screen as we shuffle forward, questions for my session with Boe tomorrow filling the six-inch screen.

I started to dig into the man I’ve been assigned out of spite. He strode into my office last week full of arrogance. I was determined to build a plan that would cut him down to size within seconds this week, that would set him firmly in his place as my patient, not purely a paying client.

But the further I dug, and the more my mind map on the man expanded across the page, the more undeniable it became.

Fate had delivered Boe Johanssen to me for a reason.

One I’m not sure I’m ready to uncover.

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