I HAD ATTEMPTED to open the door to the colonial house, serving as Dr. Erin’s office almost a dozen times over the past few days. I’d been at this very point so many times in my life, hoping the person behind the door would fix me. I always left disappointed after I was given a one-size fits all cure for my issues and a new prescription.
In this case, I didn’t want to be fixed, I only wanted to be strong enough to stand on my own for a while. Remembering the disappointment and cycle of failures, I decided to leave.
“Mrs. Brenton?” a woman’s voice rang out and stopped me cold. Her voice—she sounded like my mother. “Why don’t you come in instead of taking fifteen minutes to decide whether or not you’re going to open the door?”
I turned around and my heart stopped. Not only did she sound like her, she resembled my mother when she was a size-twelve knockout who caught the attention of men without so much as a glance in their direction.
“D-did…Melonie tell you about me?”
She raised a brow and gave me a warm smile. “I’ve been expecting you. You were on my books. You scheduled a two-hour block of time, didn’t you?” Stepping away from the doorway, she pointed her chin toward the entrance. “The second and third steps will be easier after you take the first.”
I shifted my feet up the steps and entered her home. The warmth of the reds and browns were too familiar. It looked very lived in and not very much like a therapist’s office.
Opening the mahogany French doors to her office, she led me through the doorway.
The walls were decorated with numerous rows of espresso-stained bookshelves; there was barely a stitch of wall space to be seen. Her desk sat adjacent to the doorway. A worn leather couch sat opposite an upholstered rustic chair in the center of the room. A glass coffee table stood between both pieces of furniture.
I flopped down awkwardly on the leather couch.
She adjusted herself in the club chair opposite a leather fainting couch and clasped her hands across her lap. “Why are you here today, Diouana?”
“It’s Nikki, actually. I usually didn’t mind before, but since my mother died, I prefer Nikki.”
“Can you tell me why you’re here, Nikki?” she asked, maintaining her pleasant tone.
“Because I’m addicted to things that don’t exactly mean me well. My prescriptions. Pain. My husband.”
She lifted a brow and leaned forward. “You referred to your husband as a vice.”
I couldn’t speak about him very much. Beyond the patient-doctor confidentiality, she would be required to tell the authorities if I told her my husband was a serial killer who was turned on by degrading and breaking women.
“Instead of internalizing your thoughts,” she began with a tempered smile, “why don’t you share them with me? After all, it is the focal point of your visit today, isn’t it? The tone of your voice when you stated your husband was an addiction—there was quite a bit of pain there. Would you like to explore that?”
“Right, I have to make good on the two hours I paid for.”
“Don’t be afraid to speak with me about the issues you’re most afraid of, Nikki. We can’t begin the process until you do.”
“I can’t.” I pinched the fabric of my skinny jeans along my thigh. The heat pervading from the vents behind me caused me to perspire underneath my sweater. “Some of the things I have to say would incriminate him. You’re supposed to report it to the authorities. I’m not at the point where I want him in prison.”
“There’s no recording device in this room.” She straightened her a-line skirt to cover her knees. “Nor do you see a pad or paper in my lap.”
I noted her empty lap, deeming it odd. Every therapist I had known pretended to record our appointments when they were truly doodling, or making shopping lists.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to seek comfort in the rigidness of the leather. “It doesn’t really comfort me.”
“Nikki, if you don’t want me to report any information you share with me to the authorities, I won’t. I want you to look at this office as a comfortable space where you can disclose anything without fear of repercussions.”
“It’s illegal. You could lose your license.”
“What occurs in this room, stays in this room,” she stated with finality.
“I was told you were different. So far, you don’t seem any different.”
“Because you haven’t told me anything to help me move forward with you. Are you ready to take the first steps, Nikki? Because once we begin, there will be no turning back. It will be quite messy. You will get worse before you begin to thrive. It will be arduous and the brunt of the work will rest on your shoulders.”
“Can you guarantee I’ll get rid of my addictions?” I asked wistfully.
With a smile that warmed her face, she said, “That is entirely up to you.”