Think of the Devil

One

"...I mean, what do you think?"

Jane's head snapped up, meeting the gaze of her client, Henry. He was sitting on the couch in her living room, his knee jerking up and down as he nervously fidgeted, his eyes locked onto her.

Shit, she thought. What was he talking about?

"Let me understand," Jane said slowly, trying to give herself the few seconds it would take to get her mind linked back to his.

(What is with her today?) he thought. (It's like she's in her own world. Maybe she's doodling in that little notebook of hers. I had a panic attack for Christ's sake, what is she thin--)

"The panic attack came after your dad offered you a ride to work," she reiterated, following his line of thoughts back to the root of the problem. He wanted to understand why he'd panic about something so innocuous. "Even though you've gotten into a few different cars since the accident."

"Yes," he answered.

She paused, keeping in mind to make it brief so Henry didn't think she hadn't been listening. Which, of course, she hadn't been. She scribbled into her notebook to appear as if she was connecting the dots to something.

She pressed further into his psyche, ignoring his bewildered expression and confusion at her loss of concentration. When she could see the memory of his dad offering a ride, there was definite trepidation that hadn't been in the previous memories of getting into taxis or friends' cars. While he'd only been able to get into a car a handful of times in the last month or so, preferring to walk around the city if he could help it, he hadn't expressed this level of intense fear. Why was it?

"Something about that is bothering me," she continued, as if that wouldn't be obvious. She could tell he was suppressing an eyeroll as his mind wandered off to her being so distracted.

(It should bother you. Why would you want your patients to have panic attacks?)

She bit back a reply. It wasn't his fault that she'd let her mind drift off again, like it had been doing so often recently.

"Why do you think getting a ride from your dad worried you more than, say, a taxi driver?" Spinning the question back to a client was a cheap trick of counseling, right up there with "and how does that make you feel?", but she was struggling to break through his being annoyed at her. And because of it, this time Henry did roll his eyes. (Are you serious?)

Jane sighed, feeling like an idiot for screwing up this appointment. He'd been doing so well until this panic attack, and once he was finally in to talk to her about it she hadn't been able to connect with him like she usually could. She had to focus. This was her job, her client. The last thing she needed was him to lose his trust with her, after they'd already made it this far.

"I don't know," he stated bitterly. "That's why I'm talking to you." His knee stopped bouncing, and she noted that his nerves had given way to his frustration.

In that moment, just as she noticed the difference in demeanor, she caught something that she hadn't ever seen from him before. Henry's mind flashed to a memory of his father talking sternly to him at a dinner table, and he recognized that his tone had matched his father's. It was dismissed almost as soon as it had been conjured, but she could immediately sense him becoming anxious again as he straightened uncomfortably in his seat. The memory had dug up an old fear, one that he clearly hadn't felt in a number of years. Not since he had moved from the far side of Queens to Hell's Kitchen to attend NYIT.

"Have you ever considered that the panic could have been brought on by your father?" she asked. She steeled herself for the influx of emotions that would flood him.