Page 8 of Versions Of Us

Because lately Kristen is all I think about.

Chapter 3

KRISTEN

Professor Caldwell paces the front of the lecture room spouting facts about social psychology. We’ve only been working through this component for a few days, but somehow, she makes it feel like weeks with her monotonous drivel. She seems nice enough, and very knowledgeable but the problem lies within the delivery of the information.

To put it bluntly, she’s putting me to sleep.

Psychology has always been the end goal for me, although I can’t deny that there have been moments during my academic career where I’ve questioned whether I’m heading down the right path. Investigating the workings of the human mind can be fascinating and intriguing. It can also be downright dark and disturbing.

But my decision to enter into this course had been made many years ago and the reason for it is one close to my heart.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It had been my eighth birthday. I realise that a career in mental health and well-being might seem an odd thing for an eight-year-old to be contemplating but my circumstances were anything but normal.

Up until a few months before that birthday, we had lived an ideal life. I was the only child of Pamela and Greg Riley. My mother was a vet nurse, my father the CEO of a major corporation. We resided in a picturesque mansion on a lake.

And we were happy.

That is, until my father was caught sleeping with his secretary. My mother didn’t hesitate to pack us both up and move to Cliff Haven, with nothing but a suitcase and a tank of fuel.

It’s impossible for a child to fathom the courage required to step out as a single parent and build a new life from scratch, and I’ll admit I gave her hell for the first few weeks. I’d blamed her for taking me away from everything I’d known. I missed my friends, despite them turning on me when vicious rumours began to circulate through the school. I guess I hadn’t realised yet that Mum was not the enemy.

I received that clarity on my eighth birthday.

Previous birthday parties for me had looked like pony rides and petting zoos, giant pinatas with excessive candy bars and professionally decorated cakes three tiers high. But Mum couldn’t give me those things anymore. I didn’t even have a single friend to invite. I was unaware of her struggle, too focused on my own, and all I wanted was my old life back.

So, as I sat there, snuffing out the candles on the homemade monstrosity that didn’t even nearly resemble Belle from Beauty and the Beast the way my mother had intended it to, I made a wish that my dad would appear and take me into his arms.

Of course, he didn’t though. He didn’t even send a birthday card.

Later that night, I sprawled out on the second-hand couch Mum had bought in a local garage sale, an episode of ER playing out on our small screen TV. I don’t remember a lot about that episode. Only that there was a young emotional boy that needed the help of a counsellor.

“Hey Mum, what’s a counsellor?” I had asked.

My mother’s face fell, her expression overcome with sadness. I didn’t know why at the time. Looking back on it, maybe she was wondering whether a counsellor would benefit me, and the fact that we were in no position to afford one upset her.

Still, she’d answered my question. “A counsellor is someone who helps people when they’re going through a sad time. Like a therapist.”

Her eyes had brimmed with tears when I’d asked, “Do you need to see a counsellor, Mum?”

Mum was tough and she hid her pain well behind a polished facade, but I still heard her tears at night.

She didn’t deserve the way my father had treated her. She’d given him the best years of her life only to be discarded like garbage for a twenty-something blonde tramp in a mini skirt. I’d vowed then and there that I would become someone who could help people through their emotional pain.

Hence the reason I sit here in this darkened auditorium listening to Caldwell’s monotonous drawl about social psychology and cognition.

I don’t regret my decision, despite making it at the tender age of eight. Although I have to admit that some days, I feel stretched, pulled in a million different directions.

Currently my time is split between university and working shifts at the Haven café to pay for at least some of the fees upfront, and it can be exhausting. But I get through it by reminding myself that I’m on the home stretch. There’s only one year left in my post grad degree, and then I hope to score an internship as a qualified psychologist.

That’s the dream anyway.

A few more minutes pass before Caldwell snaps her textbook shut and barks out instructions for a homework exercise that will apparently help with the final assessment for this module. I blow out a breath, closing my laptop gently and sliding it into my satchel.

“Hey, Kristen.”

I turn at the sound of Chase’s gravelly voice.

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