“Yes.”
“It’s about you. Because I won’t survive it if some asshole hits you and you get hurt all because you’re being stubborn about me buying you—”
“Nixon, I said, ‘Yes.’” She grinned.
I stilled, my thoughts trickling back to that new pickup truck that sat at my parents, unwanted and undriven. “Yes?”
She ran her fingers through my hair. “I get it. Why you need to feel like you’ve protected our little girl…and me. I get it. So, yes.”
“Holy shit, I just fell in love with you all over again.” I kissed her soundly. “I’m thinking something along the lines of an M-1 tank.”
“Don’t push your luck.” She laughed.
“Fine. Armored truck it is.”
That only made her laugh harder.
16
Liberty
“What is the specific problem from your viewpoint?” I asked as I crossed one leg over the other. Dr. Bernard sat observing in a leather chair in the corner across the room, the client seated before me.
As I was nearing the month mark on my internship here at the sister company for Breaking Boundaries in the city, she’d felt comfortable allowing me to take lead on a case with her as an observer. Lucky for me, this counted for the practice hours necessary to earn my degree. By the end of May I’d earn the degree that would allow me to practice on my own. I just would’ve preferred earning these credit hours with an overseas internship since that was my main goal anyway. But, I still beyond appreciated Dr. Bernard’s support.
“My viewpoint?” he asked, rubbing his palms back and forth. The kid was barely twenty and was here in the States on a student visa.
“Yes,” I said, keeping my tone soft as I jotted down notes in my notebook. “Everyone has a different perspective, and today you’ve made great strides in informing me on what your parents back home think of your time here, but you haven’t delved into your own personal feelings on the subject.”
He weighed my words for a moment, and I kept quiet, allowing his mind to change directions from outer to inner. “I guess the problem is I’m breaking tradition,” he said. “No one in my family has ever pursued a career in the arts. They’re all doctors or scientists or mathematicians. And while I want to chase my passions, the last thing I want to do is feel guilty for it. It means something to me, to my family…tradition. So by me breaking it, I feel like I’m breaking their trust.”
I hurried to write down his thoughts so I could revisit them before our next session. “That’s understandable,” I said. “And it takes a great deal of courage to seek help on sorting out these issues of guilt and blame.”
He nodded, blowing out a tight breath. “Thank you,” he said, his voice accented. “Therapy,” he continued, “is not common among my family either.”
“So you’re going two for two,” I said playfully. “Very bold.”
A wide smile stretched his lips, and it met his eyes.
“Let me ask you this,” I said. “Do the feelings of guilt outweigh your confidence in your chosen career aspirations?”
He furrowed his brow for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said the word almost as if it were a surprise in itself.
A soft crash of waves radiated from the sound machine on the desk next to me, and I offered him a genuine smile as I stood from my chair. He shook my outstretched hand, his shoulders looser than they’d been when he’d walked in.
“Next week let’s dive into the ways we can alleviate the guilt while also finding ways to inform your family of the importance and courage in your decision about your future.”
“Sounds good,” he said, dropping my hand and heading for the door. He flashed Dr. Bernard a satisfied look before shutting the door behind him.
I exhaled, my nerves untangling a bit.
“That was fantastic,” Dr. Bernard said as she rose from her chair to meet me in the middle of her office.
“Thank you,” I said, smoothing a hand over my growing belly. My lower back ached something fierce. “I have to admit, I was a little nervous.”
“That never truly goes away,” she said. “Helping people take care of their minds is a serious business as well as a delicate one.”
I nodded. “And there are so many people who need it. Who need to understand that there shouldn’t be a stigma on it.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “I agree. Which is why I think you’ll do great things in the future. Even if you merely stay here and continue to help patients as they come in, you’re changing their lives.”
I flushed a little. “It’s an honor,” I said. “All I’ve ever wanted to do.” Beyond provide care abroad, helping people feel mentally healthy had always been my dream. Ever since I’d been ten years old and met a child in Croatia with severe depression and anxiety. He was outcast from his tribe because of his condition, not because he couldn’t be helped, but because they didn’t have access or education when it came to mental health.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, drawing me back to the present.
“Good,” I said, patting my stomach. “Except for the body aches, constant hunger, and heartburn.” I laughed, and she joined in. “Well, you can count on us for maternity leave and plenty of support. We know how hard it is to be a working mother.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, and gathered my things. “I’ll see you soon,” I said, waving to her as I exited her office.
I settled into the easy drive home, my muscles uncoiling the closer I got to Nixon’s house. Taking on my own clients was a new and exciting process, but it was also an exhausting one. I’d been gone all day, and it was already past dinner. The bathtub and bed were practically screaming my name by the time I pulled into the driveway.
The memories of Nixon’s confession hit me in the center of my chest—both a warmth and a weight. The way he carried the responsibility for his brother’s death made my heart heavy, but the fact that he’d let me see that vulnerable side of him filled me with hope. His admission had helped me understand how he used controlling his environment and his intense need to protect those he cared about as tools to cope with the loss of his brother. I could only hope with time he’d come to terms with the fact that he was not responsible and that he was worthy of happiness free of that guilt.
I locked the door behind me, doubling back to drop my bag and keys into the designated drop-station Nixon had in his entryway. Now that I knew how important order and organization were to his well-being, I made a triple effort to follow it.
“Babe?” Nixon called from down the hallway. “That you?”
“No,” I laughed. “It’s a ghost come to haunt your sexy ass.”
I heard him laugh, but the sound didn’t come from the bedroom.
“Where are you?” I asked, setting my shoes in the slot beneath the drop-station and padding barefoot down the hall.
“In the spare bedroom,” he said. “Would you come here a minute?”
I had been heading toward the kitchen, the need for food a real, visceral thing in my soul. But I couldn’t resist the hope in his voice, so I headed that direction.