The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(32)
When room service brings in my breakfast, I order a cab. The breakfast order turns out to be too small. I wolf everything down and still feel a bit hungry. I guess not eating much and throwing up the prior day is good for the appetite. I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost a few pounds. There’s no time to get more food, though, so I guess I’ll have to make do. The shrink always has doughnuts at her office.
As I get dressed, I realize the biggest problem with staying in a hotel. All I have is my prior day’s clothes, which have been through a lot. Thankfully, they’re dark, so no blood or dirt shows. I will have to go shopping, but that can wait until after the appointment.
Leaving my room, I grab a cab and make my way to Midtown.
*
“Darren,” the shrink says when I sit down on her comfy office chair. “I’m glad to finally see you here.”
“It’s good to see you too, Liz,” I say, smiling. “Sorry it’s been so long. Things have been hectic.”
Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise in surprise, and I can’t blame her. I don’t normally apologize for missing sessions—nor do I normally call her Liz. She asked me to call her that a while ago. Just Liz. Not Dr. Jackson or Miss Jackson. Not just Doctor. Not Ma’am or Madam. Not Mrs. Jackson or Mrs. or even Elizabeth. But, of course, I very rarely obliged in the past, so I can see how she might find it surprising that I didn’t do the usual—which is to invent a new way to address her that she most likely would prefer I not use. Like Mrs. J, for instance.
She now knows things are different today. More serious.
“It’s fine, Darren. I knew you would come visit me when you were ready for it—when you felt like you needed it. And as usual, this is a safe place, so please don’t hesitate to share whatever is on your mind—whatever brought you here again.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t actually know where to begin.”
“You’re hurt,” she observes, looking at the bandage on my head. “That might be a good place to start.”
“Yeah, I got shot, actually. Came face to face with my mortality and all that. It was bad, but it’s not exactly what I wanted to talk about today. At least not at first,” I say as I shift in the chair. “If you don’t mind.”
This gets me another barely detectable expression of surprise. Her face is hard to read. I suspect she’s had something done that interferes with showing emotion. Botox or something like that. Or she just developed that unreadable expression as part of her job. It’s hard to say for sure.
“Of course, Darren. We can talk about whatever you want.” She crosses her long, black-stocking-clad legs. “Start where you want to start.”
I look her over while thinking of what to say next. She looks like the epitome of a MILF mixed with a bit of sexy librarian. The latter is due to the stylish spectacles she’s wearing. She’s slender, but with noticeable muscle definition on her exposed arms, particularly around her shoulders. She must be hitting the gym regularly, and it shows. Her long hair looks like it belongs to a woman in her twenties or teens. She always dresses in outfits that border on hot, but still pass for professional. I have no idea how old she is; it’s not a gentlemanly thing to ask. All I know is that she already looked this way—awesome and middle-aged—when we first met almost a decade ago. She hasn’t visibly aged since then.
As you’d expect, I used to have inappropriate thoughts about her in my early teens, but it was just a phase. Nowadays, I sometimes suspect that the tables might’ve turned, and it’s not just because of the cougar-like vibes she gives off. It goes deeper. There are little things. Like, for example, when I talk, she seems to genuinely care about what I have to say. True, it could be just her doing her job. In fact, a good therapist should behave that way. But I find it hard to believe that the amount of attention and the heartfelt advice she gives me is merely her doing her professional duty. Her attention to me changed as I got older—or maybe I just started noticing it at that point. Then again, it could, of course, be wishful thinking and conceit on my part; it’s beyond flattering to think a woman of this caliber wants me.
Oh, and besides the way she listens to me, there’s also the fact that I think she’s available. At least I’ve never heard her mention any family, and her desk lacks any pictures of children or a husband. Then again, these sessions are to talk about me, not her, so it’s possible I just don’t know about her personal life.
“Have you stopped time recently?” she asks, pulling me out of my jumbled thoughts. “You haven’t talked about that for a long time, something I consider to be a good sign.”
“Surprising you should mention that,” I say, considering my next words carefully. She just opened the door to the issue of covering up my blabbing about the Quiet. “I think I made a huge breakthrough when it comes to that. Sorry it hasn’t come up before in our sessions, but yeah, I don’t believe that stuff anymore.”
“Interesting,” she says, but the expression on her face is anything but curiosity. She looks almost upset. Or, more specifically, she looks disappointed and perhaps a tiny bit worried. It’s hard to tell with the Botox or whatever. “What brought this on so suddenly?” she asks, gazing at me.
“Not suddenly. It’s been a while now. I guess I grew out of it. Isn’t that the way of these things? Don’t your other patients go into remission? Get cured? Shouldn’t you pat yourself on the back?”