“It’s just talking, Frankie. And it’s mandatory.” She knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Jill opened the door. “See ya, Frankie.”
Frankie moved forward, one foot in front of the other. She was in her stockinged feet. Where were her shoes?
The door clicked shut behind her.
“Hey, Frankie.”
She looked up just in time to see Henry open his arms for a hug. He wrapped her in an embrace that was as stunning as it was familiar.
She looked up. “You saved me.”
He tucked her hair back behind one ear. “Not yet. And it won’t be easy.” He let her go. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Some of it,” she said softly. The terrible images were there, waiting for her: running into the ocean, hoping to disappear, freezing, her teeth chattering … her dad pulling her off the surfboard, carrying her … an ambulance, her screaming, crying, being restrained …
She looked around his office. A window overlooked a park of some kind, a grassy area filled with picnic tables. Beneath the window was a cheap wooden credenza laden with framed pictures and a potted jade plant.
“Where am I?”
“Inpatient therapeutic drug and alcohol treatment facility. At the medical center. It opened about six months ago, remember? I run the place and see patients two days a week. I won’t be your primary therapist, for obvious reasons, but I wanted to ease you into therapy.”
“What obvious reasons?”
“I loved you.”
“Past tense. Yeah.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, remembered that she’d been in a psych ward for a suicide attempt. Suicide. She couldn’t process that terrible word. “How did you get me out?”
“Your mom called me. She signed you up here for eight weeks. To start.”
“Wow. Mom facing the problem head-on. That’s new.” Frankie pressed two fingertips to her throbbing temple.
“Your headache, by the way, it’s withdrawal. You may experience other symptoms: anxiety, chest pains, sweats, tremors. Also, your cognitive abilities may have been impaired for a while now.”
“No shit.” Frankie sighed. Withdrawal. “So, in addition to everything else, I’m officially a drug addict and an alcoholic. Yay.”
“The yellow pills you’ve been taking? Diazepam. More commonly called Valium, but I’m sure you know that. The Rolling Stones called them ‘Mother’s Little Helpers.’” He went to his desk, pulled out a magazine, opened it to an advertisement with the headline NOW SHE CAN COPE, which showed a woman in an apron, smiling broadly as she vacuumed. “Docs have been prescribing them like candy to women for years.”
“Did I lose my nursing license?”
“You will. At least for a while, but that’s not your biggest concern right now.” He took her by the hand, led her to an antique fainting couch. “Sit.”
She looked at it, and a bit of her old self rose up, made her laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m a shrink,” he said, smiling back. “It’ll make you comfortable talking.”
“I don’t know if I want to be comfortable talking.”
“Haven’t you been uncomfortable and not talking for a long time?”
“I have a headache. No fair outthinking me.”
She sat down, remained upright. Her hands were shaking. “Do you have a cigarette? I don’t think I can stand you exploring the murky depths of my soul without some aid.”
He found her a cigarette, a lighter, and pulled over a standing ashtray, then positioned his chair next to her.
Frankie stood up. She was afraid, agitated. She walked over to the credenza, studied the photographs displayed. Henry’s life in images. It made her realize that she hadn’t taken a picture in years. She picked up a framed photograph of him and a woman with long graying brown hair and round rose-colored glasses.
“That’s Natalie,” he said. “We’re engaged. She loves me.”
Had he meant to put the slightest emphasis on she?
Frankie felt both happiness for him and a sliver of pain for herself. Would she be sitting here, head pounding from withdrawal, if she’d married him?
Henry smiled. “She’s an elementary school teacher and poet. But we’ll talk about me later. Right now I want you to get better, Frankie. My colleague Dr. Alden specializes in Vietnam veterans. We’re seeing too many addicted military personnel, especially after coming home from the war.”