Finally, the door opened and Ilya stood with his back to whoever was exiting the room, wanting to avoid being recognized and to offer the other person the same privacy. He pretended to be fascinated by a tall plant in the corner.
He heard the outer door open and close, and then his new therapist said, in Russian, “The plant is fake, I’m afraid.”
Ilya turned to face her. “That makes sense, I guess,” he said, also in Russian. He gestured to the walls. “No windows.”
“Sometimes it’s better to not have the distraction of the outside world,” she said with a small smile. “And it’s better for privacy.”
“Oh.”
She held out her hand to him. “I’m Galina. It’s nice to meet you, Ilya.”
Ilya shook her hand. She was a small woman, probably in her forties, with dark blond hair that she wore in a neat ponytail. Ilya wondered when she’d left Russia, and why. “It’s nice to talk to someone in Russian.”
“Has it been a while?”
Ilya considered it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full conversation in his native tongue. He hadn’t been in Russia since his father died years ago, and he never talked to his brother anymore. Ottawa didn’t have any other Russian players, and he didn’t have any Russian friends. The only person he ever spoke Russian to was his friend with former benefits, Svetlana, but she lived in Boston and they hadn’t spoken much since Ilya had moved to Ottawa. He felt bad about that almost every day. He missed her.
“It’s been a long time.” He smiled wryly. “I may not be able to shut up.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Would you like to come in?” She took a step toward the open door of her office.
“Of course, yes.”
He walked past her into the small, cozy room. As described, it had no windows, but did have very nice lighting, a comfy-looking light gray couch and matching armchair, and more fake greenery. It was about what he’d imagined a psychologist’s office to look like.
“I sit here, right?” Ilya asked, gesturing to the couch.
“Most people do. Are you nervous?”
Ilya figured lying wouldn’t be the best way to start his therapy journey. “I’m very nervous. Is that weird?”
“Not at all. Though I hope you’ll find there’s no reason to be. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Ilya sat in the middle of the sofa, hands folded in his lap, knees spread apart. Every muscle in his body felt tense, and he tried to take a steadying deep breath.
“Are many of your clients Russian?” Ilya asked.
“A few. I’m the only Russian-speaking psychologist in town, I believe. As you probably know, mental health isn’t a popular concept among our people.”
Ilya was very aware of that. “No. It isn’t. Not for hockey players either.”
“That’s true. But you’re a Russian hockey player, and you’ve been outspoken about mental health issues. The charity you started is doing good work,” she said. “I’ve been following your progress with it. I’m very impressed.”
Ilya twisted his fingers together. “Oh. Thank you.”
“You told me you haven’t tried therapy before, even though you seem to be quite knowledgeable about mental health. What made you decide to book this appointment?”
Okay, so they were just going to…start. Ilya tried not to overthink his reply, and said the first thing that popped into his head. “I think I might be depressed. Sometimes.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He’d never said those words out loud, in any language, so he just let them sit there like an anvil.
“Your mother suffered from depression,” she said.
Ilya nodded. It wasn’t a secret anymore. Not since Ilya had spoken about her illness during the press conference where he and Shane had launched the charity they’d started in her name.
“Would you like to talk about her?” Galina asked gently. “That might be a good place to start.”
Ilya had been expecting this, but he still wasn’t sure if he was ready. He stared at his folded hands, and noticed his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his fingers together.
“I’ll try,” he said.
He started talking, and he didn’t stop for almost forty minutes. By that point his cheeks were wet with tears that he hadn’t even noticed were falling until Galina had silently handed him a box of tissues. There was now a small pile of used, crumpled tissues beside Ilya on the couch. His ball cap was next to the pile, because he’d started raking his fingers through his own hair as he’d been rambling. He’d never talked so much about his mother. He’d shared his fondest memories of her, and the way she’d tried to hide how bad her depression had gotten, always ready with a reassuring smile for Ilya. He’d noticed, even as a child, that her smile was often sad.
He told Galina about finding his mother’s lifeless body when he’d been twelve years old. How he’d thought she was resting, as she often was, until he’d gotten closer. It was her hand that he’d noticed first. The way it was flopped over the side of the bed, fingers dangling.
He talked about his father sternly telling Ilya that his mother’s death had been an accident. She had taken too many pills for her headache, that was all.
“Did you believe him?” Galina asked.
“No. Not at all. But I didn’t say anything.” He took a slow, shaky breath. “He moved on so quickly. He wanted to forget about her. Wanted me and Andrei to forget her too. It was like…he was disgusted by her.” Ilya’s throat tightened again. “I missed her so much. I still…” He covered his mouth with his hand as the room turned blurry.
“I’m sorry,” Galina said. “That’s a horrific thing for anyone to go through. Especially a child.”
Ilya could only nod miserably. He knew it was. He tried not to think about it too often, because what good would it do, but he knew.
She gave him time to collect himself a bit. Finally, when his eyes were dry and his throat had relaxed, he said, “I might be done for today. That was a lot.”
“It was. How do you feel now?”
Ilya assessed himself before he answered. “Tired. But better, maybe. I would like to do this again.”
They figured out a date and time for Ilya’s next appointment, then Ilya gathered his tissue pile up and found a waste bin in the corner. He paused at the door before leaving and blurted out, “Do you think there is something wrong with me?”
“Wrong?”
“Am I depressed? Mentally ill? Am I…going to get worse?” He closed his eyes, embarrassed that he’d said all of that, but needing to know.
“You’re here,” she said kindly. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any answers this early on, but being here is an important step in the right direction.”
“Slow and steady, right?” Ilya said, in English, with an attempt at a smile.
“Exactly.”
He sighed. “I hate slow things.”
That made her laugh. “I’ve heard you like fast cars. Maybe you can think of this as building a Ferrari, instead of driving one.”