Page 84 of To Save Him

My companion looked over at me as if to find assurance that I was, in fact, going with him as promised.  I nodded, and it was in that moment that it dawned on me that the psychologist had called himBrandonand notMichael.  I needed to see his driver’s license, his military ID, all his identification to see what they said.

I needed to look at his discharge papers again.

For now, though, I needed to accompany him as he met his new therapist.  The man whose hair and goatee reminded me of old pictures of Colonel Sanders assessed me.  His eyes were kind but also keen, and I could see his lips beginning to form a question.  Brandon prevented him from asking, though, when he shot out a question of his own.  “Is it okay if she comes back with me?”

The man nodded.  “For now, yes.  That’s fine.  You are?”

“Kimberly Cooper.”  I would have stuck out my hand so I could shake his, but Brandon slipped it inside his grip, letting the psychologist know I was practically his lifeline.

“Let’s go back to my office, shall we?”  It wasn’t until we’d entered that space and he’d closed the door that he spoke again.  He pointed out an overstuffed love seat and matching chairs on both sides, letting us choose where we wanted to sit.  The space looked almost like someone’s living room—spacious, gorgeous artwork on cream-colored walls, rich beige carpet, two oak end tables with plants and knickknacks—until I looked over at the nook next to the door where we’d entered.  There sat a large wooden desk with a desktop computer nearly overshadowed by dozens of files and above it, on the wall, were framed certificates verifying his degrees—and that was how I could tell I wasn’t visiting Martha Stewart.

Once we sat, the psychologist said, “My name is Irving Cartwright, Ph.D.  Brandon, I’ll need you to tell me a little about why you wanted to come here, but would you like to introduce your guest first?”

He nodded.  “Yes, this is Kimberly.”  I smiled and hoped I didn’t look panicked, as I wondered exactly how he was going to introduce me—as a mother figure, mom of his dead best friend, or lover?  “She’s a close friend and the reason why I’m even here in the first place.”

Dr. Cartwright almost smiled at me but instead kept his professional visage cemented firmly in place.  “Do you mind if I call youKimberly?”

“Not at all.”

“Both of you, please call me whatever feels comfortable. Irvingis fine, as isIrvor evenDoc. Doctor Cartwrightis a bit formal, but I understand some people feel better using titles.”  He looked at me then and said, “While I have no issues with your being here for now, because I know patients need to get past a certain level of anxiety with strangers, Iamgoing to ask you to leave at some point.”  I nodded my head, not surprised at all.  In fact, if Brandon was going to feel the need to talk about our relationship, I might feel relieved to not have to listen to it.  The psychologist looked over at him.  “Will you be okay with that too, Brandon?”

“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

“We always have choices, Brandon—just not always ones we like.”  Without pushing him any further for the moment, the therapist then began talking to Brandon a little about his education and areas of expertise before adding, “I know you said you’re here for dealing with symptoms of PTSD.  Any other areas you need to explore?”

Brandon almost seemed to squirm but, to his credit, his voice remained unwavering.  “There are probably a lot of other things I need to talk about—but I’m just not ready to go there yet.”

“In due time.  You’ll want to feel comfortable.  For now, we can focus on your day-to-day dealings with PTSD.  Why don’t we start with you telling me about the last time it affected your life in a negative way.”

After listening to the incident at work where Brandon found himself in a bathroom stall, Dr. Cartwright asked, “Have you ever taken medication for some of these symptoms?”

“Yeah…when I was in the hospital.”

“Hospital?  For what?”

“For…this.  For military-induced stress.”  It was obvious that Brandon was feeling agitated.  The psychologist was, if nothing else, intuitive enough to know to not approach the topic of the hospital.

For now.

But it wouldn’t stop me from looking once more.  The two men spent the rest of the session with Brandon telling the therapist things I’d already heard.  While I was sure there was plenty Brandon had to talk about, there was nothing new he mentioned on this first visit, and the psychologist had plenty he wanted to discuss, letting Brandon know how he approached therapy and what he expected from his patients.

The drive home after the appointment was fairly quiet, but I finally looked over at Brandon from my seat. Ineeded to know if this was going to work.  “You’re willing to keep seeing him?”

Brandon turned the car to go down the road toward my house.  “I made another appointment, didn’t I?”  His jaw was clenched.  I could see his eyes squint but he said nothing.

“Do you think medication will help?”

“I don’t think anything will, Kimberly.”

I might have felt like he had a fighting chance in spite of his words, but when he turned his head to look at me, the hollow look in his eyes convinced me otherwise.

 

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