Page 88 of Chosen Road

“What? No! About me, actually, although I probably should not have told you that.” I twisted my mouth to the side in a half smile.

Her shoulders relaxed a smidge. “What are you going to therapy for?”

I smirked. “Really, Mallory? You think I’m going to continue to flap my lips?”

“You expect me to flap mine!” she retorted.

“I don’t expect. I do hope.”

She was silent and I waited. I did a lot of waiting in these sessions. Despite my own personal history, I was losing patience.

Finally, she huffed. “Go ahead. Tell me about your psychobabble.”

I swallowed the hurt. I shouldn’t be hurt. This is her issue, not mine. She’s lashing out due to her own insecurities, insecurities I share and should understand. Because I recognized myself in her, because I was too invested in her, I was beginning to take her reactions personally. I needed to find a boundary.

“I went to talk to someone about abandonment issues. I, myself, was abandoned by my mother and many of my clients, like yourself, have had similar experiences.”

“So?” She was belligerent, but beneath that I believe lived curiosity.

I took a breath and continued. “One of the issues that prevent people from healing is a serious case of mistrust and an inability to share their feelings. This describes me and I thought maybe it might also describe you.”

I didn’t phrase it like a question. Questions did not get answered.

“She suggested writing. I tried it and felt it helped. I didn’t show her what I wrote, and I won’t, but writing helped me to see my feelings clearly.”

“I don’t know if you’ll keep this or not, and you don’t have to tell me what you do with it. Keep it, give it away, save it for a rainy day, it’s your business.”

I leaned over and chose three journals off my shelf and the jar of pens. “I’d like you to take at least one, as well as a pen or three,” I smiled, “in case you think at some point it might work for you.” I shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe you’ll write the next great American novel.”

She didn’t touch them, but I made a point to turn my back and tidy my desk when she began to pack up. I walked her out without glancing at the table. When I got back in my office, all three journals were gone and only half of the pens were left.

Mallory was my last appointment of the day, other than my meeting with Bill, which is where I was headed next.

Thirty minutes later, I sat in his office at the hospital, my PowerPoint presentation loaded and ready on my laptop.

I sensed his rising irritation but convinced myself I was being paranoid and continued.

“That’s it,” I chirped. “I think this will work. It will help with training, offer a forum for sharing and bouncing ideas off each other, and it will take the pressure off of me to oversee all these files.”

He folded his hands on his desk and leaned over. “Isn’t that your job?”

I leaned back in my seat. “Excuse me?”

He waved his hand and smiled. “Amber, I know you’ve had a difficult time this past year and a half, and I’ve been understanding, however, I do need you to get back to your usual pace.” He indicated my laptop. “And transferring your responsibilities to others is not the way to do it.”

I stared at him, incredulous. My first instinct was to back down, but some latent survival instinct kicked in.

“Bill, let’s be honest with each other. Supervising the files was never my responsibility until you made it so. Supervising the files, is in fact, your job.” I smiled at him, and it was his turn to sit back in his chair. “What I’m offering here will be productive for all parties involved, most importantly, our young clients.”

He went to speak but I cut him off. “Now, I’m an independent contractor. As such, I have a comprehensive job description that I can provide you with if you no longer have your copy. Furthermore, I’m already carrying fifty percent more files than most of my colleagues, and that’s before doing your job.”

He opened his mouth to speak when I stood.

“I’ll leave it with you. I, like you, have a family to attend to. You can let me know how you’d like to proceed, or not, but these,” I pressed a finger onto my name written on the sticky note attached to a pile of files, “are not coming home with me tonight.”

As I turned to walk out the door, he called my name sharply. I turned to him, my eyebrows raised.

“You’re right. I’ve been a dick. Please sit down and run it by me one more time. I’ll have an open mind this time and then we’ll both head home.”

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