Page 43 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“The appointment is only fifty minutes.”
“Fifty minutes, then.” I wave from the driver’s seat, feeling absurdly like a parent dropping her kid off at school. “Good luck!” I call, but he’s already across the parking lot.
I use my maps app to search for a nearby coffee shop. There’s one two blocks away called Jitters. Inside, it’s a bit cold and dingy. It’s also severely lacking in attractive Frenchmen. But it serves as a place for me to bang out some work for forty-five minutes. I’m supposed to attend a meeting at two o’clock, but fortunately it’s not super important for me, so I send a quick message saying that I can’t join today. So far this week, I’ve been able to attend almost all my meetings without any hiccups, despite being across the country and three hours off schedule. I don’t think anyone will notice that I have to miss one.
I’m parked outside the office building when Gramps comes out.
“How did it go?” I ask encouragingly as he drops into the passenger seat. His face looks oddly blank and colorless. But maybe I imagined it, because he turns to me with a big grin.
“Fine. Just fine! The doctor must have received top marks at shrink school.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You know, Mallory, before the appointment they had me sign some forms. One of them mentioned doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Of course, I was just…” My laugh trails off at the barely disguised shell-shocked look on his face. “… curious.”
After a minute, he says, “We didn’t talk about Lottie much at all. Mostly about—well, about me.”
I nod, glancing sideways at him as I drive.
“I wasn’t expecting that. She asked about my mother.”
I can’t help the quick laugh that escapes me. He gives me a sharp look.
“It’s kind of a cliché to talk about your mother at therapy,” I explain.
“I hadn’t given my mother that much thought in—ever. I’ve never done that.”
“Uncomfortable?” I ask.
“Extremely.”
“Did it help?”
He gives a bewildered shake of his head. “I’ve no idea.”
He doesn’t say anything more, so I drop it. Maybe he’ll tell me more later, but maybe not. As snippets of beach interspersed with ostentatious mansions flash past us, I try to convince myself to let it go. Let go of trying to control everything, trying to know everything. I got Gramps to attend one therapy session—I did my best. I’m not going to be able to transform him into a happy, active version of himself who goes to therapy weekly and plays tennis and attends social hours with his friends. But I’ve spent enough time with him to see that he’s going to be all right. I’ve done what I came here to do.
In my room, I’m about to close my laptop for the night when I get a new email from Alan. He says that he expects to finish up tomorrow and would I like to come take a look at the house tomorrow evening.
I reply in the affirmative, toss my laptop onto the bed, and stretch my arms overhead. It looks like all my loose ends are tying up neatly. Maybe tomorrow I’ll search for flights back to Seattle.
There’s a knock on my door. Gramps pokes his head in.
“I thought you were asleep,” I say.
“Heading that way. I just wanted to let you know, my next appointment with the good doctor is Tuesday morning. Sweet dreams!”
So Gramps liked his therapy session enough to schedule another one. That’s a good thing. It’s actually beyond my wildest expectations. I never expected him to humor me twice.
Of course, he’ll probably expect me to be his taxi driver again. But maybe I can fix that before I leave. Maybe I can have him do a trial run driving somewhere on his own, to pick up groceries or something.
Then I would need to teach him how to grocery shop. That’s doable, I guess.
I’m at Paradise Coffee, and I should be head-down focused on work right now, but I’m distracted by the new development. I really thought I’d be booking a ticket home today. But I don’t want to risk Gramps changing his mind about therapy just because I’m not here. Maybe I could stay for one more session. No, no, first I’ll attempt the grocery store trial run. He does know how to drive, after all. It’s just his pesky panic attacks. I should make sure he mentions those to Dr. Mellors.
“Your job looks complicated,” a voice says behind me.
