Page 46 of Dying to Meet You

Ushered right into the office by the same harried assistant as before, I lag behind Zin, trying to focus on anything other than the doctor. “Ms. Bradford.” Her demanding voice makes me cut my eyes to her. “I didn’t think you’d keep the appointment.” She pulls her glasses down from on top of her head. “Why don’t you join us.” It’s not a question, more of command. It rankles me to the very core.

An hour of being subjected to this mean woman and her unprofessional demeanor is the last thing I need today. “No, thank you. I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

“Sit.” Oh? Now I’m being ordered.

I roll my eyes turning to head back into the cavernous lobby with its espresso machine. “I insist. You should sit because today’s session is going to include you.”

If I keep pushing back, will she give up?

Zinnea stands looking uncomfortable near her seat. I’m not being a good example to her. “Uh, okay?”

Whatever happens in the next hour will not make me break down. I will not give this woman any of the satisfaction she seems to get from me being upset.

For the next twenty minutes she and Zinnea talk about how it feels in her body when she is scared or anxious. There is not a word said about the Revivalists, the house fire, losing her parents…nothing about the trauma itself. I want to interject about her methods. Instead, I try to stay present because when my mind latches onto Weston being gone, it pulls me down a dark path.

I start to pay attention to how my body is behaving. My stomach is tied in knots, all the muscles through my shoulders and down my back are tightened, there is a pulsing ache behind my ears, my eyes are dry and irritated from crying. Once I start identifying the physical feelings, I can breathe easier.

“Now. Ms. Bradford.” I snap my head up to look at Dr. Almari. “My sympathies for what is happening with your family right now. Dr. Wallen and I spoke earlier today. I feel it’s important to acknowledge you will have complicated reactions to this.” Her observation is direct, maybe more than I’m comfortable with, but she’s schooled her tone. No longer exactly condescending, but there is a clinically cold feel to the words.

She is not soft and fuzzy.

I simply nod; afraid I’ll cry if I try to speak.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She pulls open a desk drawer, taking out a key attached to a Fort Lauderdale seashell keychain. Shoving it to the front of her desk she says, “This is for the room across the hall. I’d like you to use it. It’s soundproof. You can utilize it any way you wish; cry, scream, call me bad names. It’s a release room. A bell will sound when Zinnea’s appointment is done.”

My mouth drops open in response. I don’t want to. Once I let go…once I release the growing trepidation, anger…once it’s all bubbling out, I won’t be able to stop. Will I? I can’t do that. I stay seated, now shaking my head.

“Ms. Bradford, you are free to do whatever you’d like. You can do your taxes…I don’t care. What I want you to do now is leave. Go on.” She pushes the keys closer to me.

Zinnea takes the key off the desk, bringing it to me. “Here,” she says forcefully.

On legs that feel like lead weights, I drag myself across the stone-floored, cavernous lobby to a door pointed out by the scrub-wearing presence flitting around the room. I let myself in, and a light comes on at the motion, illuminating a ten-by-ten room in deep shades of blue. There is a single high-back gray chair next to an ornate stand table with a box of tissues on top. There are two paintings of seascapes on the walls. I flop into the chair.

After a few seconds, I hear what sounds like rushing water being pumped through speakers into the room. To no one in particular, I say, “I’m not doing this.” But I’m alone, and the only person listening is me.

Louder I say, “I’m not doing this.”

Floodgates break open, and I shout with everything in me, “I’m not doing this!” Between ugly sobs, I scream, “Noooo!!! Noooo!”

When I feel like I’ve rid my body of all the anger I stand to yell, “I want my baby back!”

Then I lay on the floor, a miserable wreck.

A crying lunatic.

She said the room was soundproof. If she lied, I’m sure the whole building and parking lot heard me.

A bell dings loudly, and the light blinks on and off three times. Returning to the office, I’m wrung out. Every cell in my body is exhausted to the point of breakdown. Dr. Almari stands from her desk to take the key, then hands it to Zin. “You wanted to see the release room, Zinnea? Take ten minutes while Ms. Bradford and I have an adult talk.”

She starts in when the door clicks closed. “I have a deep and abiding respect for Greg Wallen. He and I don’t see eye to eye on some techniques, but I’ve seen his studies on hypnosis, and he’s improved its clinical use. Now, he has some interesting choices for friends, Joan Lassiter in particular, but she bankrolled a lot of his projects. Like the wellness center.”

“That’s true.” I nod in agreement.

Where is she going with this? If she wants to belittle the center to me, she could’ve picked a better time. Like after Wes is home.

“He tells me I have you all wrong.” She frowns, tapping her nail on the desk. “That I’m harshly judging your actions when I don’t understand. That may well be the case,” she purses her lips as she pauses, “but I won’t apologize. The circumstances that caused you to enter into a relationship with three of the men involved in the graduate study you were a part of…they don’t matter. What does matter is the end result. You have a polyamorous family, three biological children, and three more you are in the process of adopting.”

Not crying. I won’t do that while standing here. She isn’t saying she’s sorry. Instead, she is doubling down. I should’ve just walked away after returning her key.

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