“You’re shitting me.”
“Yes I am.”
And they both laughed. Surprisingly, Andrew’s breathing started evening out bit by bit.
“I’m Cal Valen,” Cal said offering his hand. Andrew took it, and Cal didn’t even flinch at the clammy feel of Andrew’s palm. His grip was strong and sure, but gentle, hands well kept with calluses, and soft by nature.
“Andrew. Or Drew.”
“Can I call you Drew?”
“Yeah.”
“Cheers mate.”
“Yeah.”
“Andrew?” A large man with salt and pepper hair, a kind face, and big hands, appeared. “I’m Doctor Alexander. I’m ready for you, if you are?”
“Yeah. Sure, Doc.”
“Good luck,” Cal cheered him on.
“Yeah. Thanks. You, too.”
When Andrew entered the office, his hands weren’t even shaking.
*****
Cal watched Andrew go, rubbing his palms against his jeans, swallowing against the wave of nausea that came with the loneliness he couldn’t explain. But he felt better, just then–and he liked to think that perhaps it was because he worked himself up to talking to the stranger. And it could be that they wouldn’t be strangers anymore, at some point–wouldn’t that be grand?
Though he wondered why Drew would want to be friends with him.
Depression, of course, didn’t have a voice–it just sounded like himself, cold and quiet and resigned. It kept his tongue pinned to the roof of his mouth with frozen glue. But today–today he had defeated it, if only marginally, by speaking to Andrew. Though the voice was still chilly, and it certainly still existed, he had made a step forward. And that was something spectacular.
He had to give credit where credit was due–it was thanks to Doctor Arnold, despite her nickname, Isis, she wasn’t just a force of nature. She was also compassionate, caring and patient with him. She reigned in Cal’s dislike of himself and his isolation and tied it up with rope.
It only took a few moments of waiting–or it could have taken longer, Cal had always had a habit of spacing out too much when he ought to be doing other things. But it felt like moments, rather than minutes, until a small receptionist stepped into the waiting room with a hesitant smile. Cal tried his best to smile back–and he thought he succeeded.
“Doctor Arnold is ready for you Cal.”
“Thank you,” he replied, with emphasis on both words. He was very grateful for her time. Time spent on him sometimes felt wasted, and he wanted her to know that he understood. He stood and followed her down the hall, past the offices of a few other therapists, before she stopped at her own. He stepped in, finding Arnold at her desk–cherry wood and very professional–before she looked up, brown eyes assessing and gestured to the faux leather chair before it.
The receptionist was gone when Cal entered, shutting the door behind him to take his seat.
“How are you doing, Cal?” Arnold was brisk, and a little impersonal, but she was also excellent at her job. She took it very seriously–and Cal was grateful for that too.“Have you been writing down good things in your day?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said quietly, his back straight against the not-cushion of the chair. “I think it’s been helping.”
“Good,” Arnold set aside her pen and leaned forward. “Then let’s begin today’s session, shall we? Tell me your list and explain the reason behind each.”
Cal added Andrew to the bottom of his list–it counted. It was before the session.
And he felt the stone of sadness in his chest float. Just a little.
*****
The halls were quiet. Most patients had taken their visitors out to walk around the grounds or back to their rooms for quiet conversation. Andrew walked from his room to the reception slowly, pulling his sweater down over his hands and gripping the knitted fabric between his first and middle fingers. Halfway there, he could see the warm yellow light of the reception spilling out onto the tile of the hallway, and he stopped, wanting desperately to turn back. But that was what his therapist had been talking with him about: the running away from things, the hiding from the difficult or scary stuff in his booze and his sarcasm.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and clenched his fingers more tightly around the sweater. God, he wanted a drink right now, just to take the nervous edge off. But he couldn’t. He had to walk down the hallway and into the waiting room. One foot in front of the other. That was it.
Stephen was sitting in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs pushed against the wall of the reception, eyes darting around at the motivational posters and informational brochures hanging everywhere, feet tapping against the floor, and he looked as nervous as Andrew felt.
He stood quickly when he saw Andrew in the doorway, stepping closer with a hesitance Andrew had never seen before. He watched Stephen take in his appearance, the dark bags around his reddened eyes, the untidy hair, the way the sweater hung loosely about his too-thin body, the shaking hands that gripped his sleeves.
“You look like shit.”
Andrew managed a smile. “Thanks.”
“Sorry—I just—” Stephen looked incredibly uncertain, small and skittish in the bad fluorescent light, and it made Andrew feel off-kilter, so he shrugged.
“It’s okay. Come on.”
Stephen trailed behind him back to his room, looking at the closed doors and the people milling about in the rec room as they passed. Andrew knew he was freaking out about how much it looked like a hospital; it made him feel weird the first couple weeks, too. He flipped on the light in his room and sat down on the end of the bed where the blue sheets were crumpled. Stephen leaned awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
“So, um, how are you?”
Andrew shrugged and tugged on his sleeve. “Getting better, I guess. Mostly I feel like shit and I want a drink all the time, but I think I’m getting better. My therapist seems to think so.”
“You’re seeing a therapist?”
“They call it a counselor here. He’s basically just talking to me about getting through my addiction and staying positive and stuff like that.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, I guess. Are you going to come in? The room isn’t going to trap you. This isn’t Hotel California.”