The Lonely Hearts Club [On Hold]

Chapter Four: All You Need is Love

I had a shrink. Well, kinda. I wasn’t really sure if it qualified since this was my first time seeing her and I hoped it would also be my last. It wasn’t that I had anything personal against her, it was just . . . you know.

   The doctor at the hospital in Germany, after he had mended both me and Jesse to the best of his abilities, had suggested that we try seeing a therapist once we returned back home. He told us that patients that had been in the war sometimes had psychological damage that he couldn’t help with, but maybe a therapist could.

   Jesse and I agreed, with a bit of reluctance, and after we had settled in for a few weeks, both booked appointments. Not together, though. Apparently it broke some kind of “patient confidentiality” regulation—which was incredibly untoward, since all our anecdotes sounded a hell of a lot better when Jesse told them, as he had the tendency to make us sound like superheroes, in a way. Also, I didn’t really like to talk about it more than was necessary, especially not to strangers. But I supposed I had to because I was, after all, paying good money to do just that.

   When Jesse came out of the office just as the lady at the front desk motioned for me to enter, I stopped him in the hallway and asked quietly, “How was it?”

   He offered a noncommittal shrug. “Fine, I guess. We had a nice little chat.” Jesse didn’t look particularly scarred by the experience, so I took that as a good sign.

   “About what?”

   “Oh you know, the weather. The Leafs game last night,” my roommate answered sarcastically. His snippy tone may or may not have been the result of the meeting with his—our—therapist. I had a feeling it had more to do with how it was ten in the morning on our day off. If it had been up to Jesse to arrange the schedule, he wouldn’t have showed up until well after one in the afternoon because he’d still be in bed by then.

   “Right,” I said, trying to move past him to get to the office, but he was standing in the middle of the hallway and consequently blocking my path.

   Finally, he stepped to the side and gestured to the door. “Well, see for yourself.”

   I glanced at the door, wide and wooden with a nameplate stuck to the front that had “Tess Johnson” etched on it in what looked like Times New Roman. With one last glance back at Jesse, which he just returned with a shooing motion to tell me to just get it over with already, I knocked twice on the door before entering, closing it behind me.

   Here goes nothing . . .

 ***

   Due to the lack of furniture, save for two bookcases, a couch, an armchair, and a few potted plants scattered about, the room looked much bigger than it actually was. Tess, a redhead who looked at least a decade older than me, sat in the armchair while I tried to make myself comfy on the couch. The cushions were lumpy and sagged in all the wrong places, so I kept alternating between sitting and lying down. Every time I did, Tess would look at me and then write something down—probably “commitment issues” or something akin.

   Now, however, I was fully committed to sitting, posture somewhere right in the middle of slumped and straight, and had been in this position for about twenty minutes. I didn’t doubt Tess noticed me glance at the clock on the wall every few seconds to see how much longer I’d have to be here. Time passed like microwave minutes.

   Talking to Tess, as she insisted I call her, wasn’t actually as bad as I initially thought it would be. Not that I imagined it would be exceptionally traumatizing or anything, it was just that people had certain presumptions and perceptions of, not only therapists, but their clients as well.