Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(36)
Victoria was filling her tub.
He shook his head. What was with this woman and her damn baths? Was she part mermaid? He could just picture her right then, pouring herself another one of her “nice, jammy” zinfandels as she waited for the tub to fill. Probably piling her long, chestnut hair on top of her head . . . and then slowly stripping off her clothes, one item at a time. Closing her eyes in hedonistic bliss as she stepped in the tub, perhaps even moaning softly as she eased into the water and slid her hands over her naked, wet skin.
Ten feet from him.
With an irritated grunt, Ford grabbed the towel bar box and hauled it into his bedroom.
Looked like he picked the wrong day to stop hammering away his frustrations.
Twelve
HER EYES CLOSED, Victoria took a deep breath and exhaled, listening to the sound of Dr. Metzel’s voice.
“The key is to breathe from your diaphragm,” he reminded her. “Try putting one hand on your chest and the other hand on your stomach, above your waist.”
As she had when they’d first started practicing these exercises during their last session, she felt a little silly and self-conscious, sitting in his office with her hands on her chest and stomach. But according to Dr. Metzel, “diaphragmatic breathing” was the core foundation for the relaxation techniques that would help with her tiny panic problem (she still refused to call it a disorder), so she went ahead and did it anyway.
“As you inhale, the hand on your chest should move less than the hand on your stomach,” he said. “Now exhale, allowing all of the tension in your neck, shoulders, and back to drain away. Good. Remember, this is something you can do anytime you find yourself in a stressful situation. Speaking of which . . . you’re getting homework this week. I’d like you to start facing the things that trigger your panicky feelings—like the subway.”
Nervous butterflies danced in her stomach. “Are you sure I’m ready for that?”
“We’ll start slow. Pick a time when you know the subway won’t be crowded. Ride it for two stops, get off, and ride it back. And while you’re riding, here’s what I want you to do.”
Dr. Metzel walked her through another exercise, one that involved relaxing different parts of her body while silently repeating a certain phrase. I feel quiet. The muscles in my forehead are relaxed and smooth. My shoulders are loose. My legs and feet feel warm and heavy.
She studiously tried to memorize every phrase. She liked this technique—for the first time, she felt like she had a weapon in her arsenal to fight back against the anxiety issues that had been plaguing her since the break-in.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a handout that lays out all of this so you can practice on your own,” Dr. Metzel said. “If possible, I’d like you to spend fifteen minutes a day repeating this exercise.”
More homework? Good. That meant more progress. She mentally doubled the time to thirty minutes per day, thinking the faster she could whiz through these exercises, the faster she’d be back to her old footloose and panic-free self.
When they’d finished running through the exercise, she opened her eyes. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”
Dr. Metzel smiled. “Glad to hear it.” He folded his hands on his notepad. “Now, with the time we have left, how would you feel about digging a little deeper into what might be behind these panic attacks of yours?”
Balls. She’d spoken too soon.
He must’ve seen the less-than-enthused look on her face. “It’s your choice, Victoria. But I really do think that exploring these issues would be helpful to your treatment.”
She considered this. The good doctor was smart, using her desire to be cured as fast as possible like a carrot on a stick that he dangled in front of her. So she agreed—reluctantly. “Okay.”
He appeared pleased with her decision. “I think a good place for us to start is with that first panic attack you had during the break-in. Take me back to that night, when you were hiding in the closet. I believe you said the 9-1-1 operator told you that help was on the way, and then you suddenly began to feel ‘off.’”
“That’s right.”
“What were you thinking about? Walk me through that moment.”
“Well, I heard a gunshot downstairs, and the guy who’d been raiding my closet ran out. Then I started to talk to the 9-1-1 operator, and . . . she said something that triggered a flashback.”
Dr. Metzel sat up in his chair, looking particularly interested in this new, unexpected information. “A flashback to what?”
So. Here they were.
Victoria had been hoping not to get sidetracked with things from her past that had been long since resolved—happily, she might add. But seeing how her only other choice was to lie to her therapist, she figured she’d just get it out there so they could move on to the business at hand. “To the 9-1-1 call I made when I found my mother after her suicide attempt.”
Clearly not having expected that, Dr. Metzel simply looked at her a moment. “Oh.”
Victoria pointed to the pen and notepad on his lap. “I’ll wait while you go to town with that one.”
* * *
HER PARENTS’ DIVORCE had started off like so many cases she’d handled over the years. Her father, an American Airlines pilot, had an affair with a flight attendant eleven years his junior, and had decided to leave Victoria’s mother when his mistress discovered she was pregnant. Worried about supporting two families at the same time, her father—to put it bluntly—had turned into a cheap son of a bitch during the divorce proceedings, challenging her mother and her mother’s less-than-stellar lawyer over everything. Suddenly, Renee Slade had found herself looking for a job for the first time in ten years, while simultaneously having to fight for every alimony and child support payment to which she was entitled.