Dark Feelings (2)
The second episode in the Dr Pascha Lyle series published exclusively on Substack
I’m about to bring in my first patient Anna from the waiting room, when Fi pops into my office. She tries to close the door behind her, but we have to wait a beat and watch while Zelda pushes her long, sleek body past Fi’s legs, crosses over to the couch and hops up.
“Before you start, there’s a message from Dr Michael Something,” Fi says sounding puzzled, “I couldn’t understand his surname, but he said was your med school supervisor? Anyway, he wants to meet with you sometime this week, is that OK?”
Michael was like a therapist to me when I was a registrar. He was insightful, intuitive, a great teacher. I used to have a bit of a crush on him, truth be told.
“Michael Wallis, really? Did he say what he wanted?”
“Nope. Maybe it’s a date?” Fi’s red lip gloss is apparently making her extra sassy this morning.
“It’s obviously not a date Fifi, since I don’t date…” my pitch rises involuntarily, “New lipstick?”
She ignores my change of subject, “Is he good-looking?”
“No.” I give her a stop it look. “Is there space in the book tomorrow?”
Fi keeps ‘the book’, my big, day-to-a-page, blue hardcover diary on her desk, updating it constantly.
“I think so. I’ll find a time and call him back then.”
She’s about to open the door, but spins around with a sly smile, “Oh, and I meant to ask, who’s Man-baby?”
“What?”
“You wrote Man-baby on the list you gave me, of men from the group who haven’t done their paperwork…”
Oops. Embarrassing. I remember writing that now. The bloke was leering at me in the group and it really pissed me off.
“Just a tiny moment of venting,” I say sheepishly, “Nobody was supposed to see that. Clearly I’m a bad therapist. His name’s actually Wayne.”
“Isn’t that passive aggression Pashy? Bit of name-calling there?”
“Have you been reading our educational handouts again?”
“I type them for you, remember?”
“Of course you do. And I’m grateful. Can you throw out the offending piece of paper please?”
“Already have.”
My patient Anna’s 24, doused in a heady mix of cigarette smoke and Youth Dew perfume, with a tinge of op-shop mustiness. I suspect it emanates from the cool fake-fur jacket she’s wearing over her miniskirt. She’s told me she works in the cloakroom at the Warehouse Nightclub and I bet she makes additions to my prescriptions, to stay awake all night, though she swears she doesn’t.
She’s dealing with anxiety and chronic depression, smokes too much and keeps choosing lousy relationships that compound her struggles. Unfortunately that describes way too many people I see.
I gesture to the couch for her to get comfy, and Anna’s face brightens when she sees Zelda reclining there, giving her a ‘come hither and pat me’ look.
“Would you like Zelda to sit with you or will I put her on her bed?”
“No, keep her here, she’s ace,” Anna says, '“I love greyhounds, I told you how my grandpa used to train them…”
“Yeah. People are scared of them, but they’re gentle, except with bunnies.”
On cue Zelda stands, does a big stretch on the couch, turns a circle then plonks down again with a sigh, leaning into Anna’s hip. Anna grins, stroking Zelda, who immediately looks sublimely comfortable. My dog has such power to lift patients’ moods that I wonder sometimes if she’s the doctor and I’m her assistant.
Fi, Zelda and I work through appointments all day, pausing only when when the irresistible smell of flaky homemade spanakopita and espresso floats up from Alex’s downstairs.
After five, I snap on Zelda’s lead and bag the files I need to take home to update.
“I’m having an early night Fi, I didn’t sleep very well. You didn’t hear from Anton today, did you?”
“No, he didn’t ring back." I left two messages.”
“I left one as well. That’s so weird he didn’t call.”
“I know. It’s not like him,” Fi flips the phone switch over to the answering machine,
“He’ll probably ring tonight. Oh, yeah, I put that Michael Whatever bloke in at 10 tomorrow for a coffee downstairs. Hope that’s OK?”
“Wallis.”
“What?”
“Michael Wallis. And yeah, it’s fine…I don’t know what it’s about…but we’ll see. Goodnight.”
“See you in the morning Pashy. Bye Zellie.”
At ten the next morning, I check my hair for frizz, swipe on a nude lip colour that doesn’t scream trying too hard, although I am trying quite hard despite myself, and head downstairs.
Michael’s sitting at a small wooden table by the café window and he looks…softer in this autumn light. I remember him younger, and more solid. He must be 45 with salt and pepper hair, and he’s thinner too.
My friend Alex who owns the café, peeks from behind the coffee machine and raises a dark eyebrow, probably because the last time he saw me meet a man here was never.
Michael gets up, his broad smile flashes and I feel an uncomfortable thrill as he brushes a soft kiss to my cheek. In the five or so years I’ve known him, we’ve never so much as touched before.
“Hello, good to see you. It’s been a while,” I say.
“You too Pash. You look gorgeous as always.”
He shakes his head in charming, feigned disbelief and I look away, unsure what I’m supposed to make of that. I trusted him to analyse my head and guide my professional development for three years. Letting slip he was always appraising my looks sets off sirens in my brain, albeit while flattering my clueless ego.
I tune out the inner discord while Michael starts making small talk, telling me about his beach house at The Cape, an hour and a half away. Apparently he lives there now, in a secluded pocket of about a dozen tightly held holiday homes built in the 1950s. It’s a classic clifftop coastal shack passed down from his parents he says, with no beach, just a dramatic vista where land, sea and sky meet.
He’s scaled down his practice to consult only three days in the city and spends the rest of his time there, dictating court reports that he posts to a transcriptionist to type up. Sounds cushy.
I’m immediately imagining myself there, hearing the screech of gulls and the waves breaking on rocks. I have to shake myself out of the reverie when I realise I’m staring at him, dreaming.
I quickly ask about his family. I know he has two daughters, and a wife.
“How do your girls get to school from there?”
“They’re still in the city here, with Pip, their mum.” His tone shifts, quieter, “We…separated.”
“Oh, god, I’m sorry…”
“It’s OK,” he says, unconvincing, “It’s good…Been over for a long time.”
I didn’t see that coming, but maybe I should have. He looks at me with piercingly clear blue eyes and I’m flustered, a little sweaty. I feel suddenly cornered. Maybe Fifi was right, and he thinks this is a date.
Then he opens his floodgates, pouring his heart out on the table in a rush,
“I’ve been thinking about this meeting for a while, wondering what exactly to say to you Pash.”
My vision almost starts to swim as I draw back inside. I fear what’s coming, judging from his puppy-dog eyes and I’m already scrambling for potential responses.
He keeps talking,
“I’ve been struggling with how I feel for too long…”
I scrape the last of my coffee out of the glass with my spoon, just to do something with my hands, looking down as if the coffee’s so interesting.
Is he about to just come out and say he fancies me?
“Life is much too short,” he’s saying, “That’s not just a platitude, it’s the truth. I had to tell you how I feel…how I’ve always felt…”
I draw in a long breath, feeling like a rabbit in a spotlight. I’m so hot that the backs of my legs stick to the wooden chair and it’s not a hot day. I open my mouth to speak, but he isn’t finished,
“I’ve been needing to know whether you could ever be interested in me, beyond having been your supervisor, as a man, or whether that’s always going to be the extent of our relationship…from where you sit? I know that it’s complicated, but…”
My ego’s popping its cork at the flattery, but my intelligent brain is waving a scarlet flag bearing the words massive boundary-violation.
Pascha, my wise-mind says, he is your recently separated ex-supervisor. Do not give him any green lights. Tell him this is not OK.
Simultaneously, the devil-may-care wannabe rockstar in me says, Hello sexy, sensitive, available man who says he likes me, despite knowing all my personal and professional weaknesses.
My heart’s pounding, heat rising, slowly flushing my face. The ivory towers of our former student-supervisor relationship crack; each of his words, another wallop of the wrecking ball. From a distance I marvel that somehow, I’m disgusted and disappointed, while simultaneously intrigued. Objectively, the whole thing’s creepy.
“Michael…I can’t even…” I zoom back into reality, reaching for words, “I’m…kind of flattered, but this is big…and a …surprise.”
I default to therapist, mentally stepping in front of my self-destructive side to block it, going intellectual instead of giving him any sniff of a chance,
“Why are you telling me this now?”
He swallows hard and looks down, fiddling with his aviator sunglasses on the table. It hits me that his hands are shaking, and I see a flicker of embarrassment cross his eyes when he sees me notice his unsteadiness. I look down at my empty glass, waiting.
He sighs, “I told you my truth because I had to. I couldn’t…” he stops mid-sentence, “Like I said, life’s short and I think I’m in love with you Pascha,” he smiles awkwardly, “I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
Something softens his composed veneer, so he looks younger, undefended, vulnerable.
From its safe distance, my therapist brain points out the obvious inconsistencies: How is he in love with me when we’ve barely seen each other for a couple of years and only ever shared a professional relationship?
He’s still talking,
“So, I would love to spend some time with you, maybe we could go out for dinner, maybe even Friday?” he presses.
“I don’t think so…”
“Think about it, please? Don’t decide now,” he touches his keys lightly with shaky fingers, then grabbing them, puts his hands under the table,
“Maybe if I just give you a little more time to process…”
“You’re not letting me speak Michael…”
“Sorry…I can’t bare for you to say no without thinking about it.”
“Michael…”
“Please, just think about dinner Pash. Friday night, or next week if you’re busy…I’ll phone you.”
Before I can say anything more, he stands abruptly, grabbing his sunglasses, and heads over to the counter to pay Alex.
I stare at his back, shocked. So that’s it? He drops a bomb and leaves? It’s all a bit surreal.
“Walk with me?” he asks, returning to the table.
My head swimming, I tug at my dress which feels stuck to my backside. I give Alex a quick nod goodbye and he shoots me a weird look, undoubtedly curious.
“Michael, the dynamics of this aren’t right,” I blurt as we step onto crisp, sunny Chapel Street and I finally get a chance to talk, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted because, obviously there’s a lot of feeling between us, because of our history…”
“Please Pash, don’t focus on the past,” he stops in his tracks,”Can’t we start from here, as if we just met?”
I hold my arm up to shade my eyes from the the sun piercing through a cloud, “But that’s not possible, you know that. You told me years ago, not every feeling is for pursuing…some don’t go to good places…”
“I’m sorry,” he looks away. I recognise his red Renault at the curb beside us from seeing it in his clinic carpark.
The sun’s so glary I’m squinting, but I notice a tear in the corner of his eye, “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you,” he says quietly.
The wind gusts, but the sun glare is relentless.
“I need to go,” I say, “It was good to see you Michael.”
I’m not sure if that’s true. I start to turn, but he steps forward quickly and I pause,
“I don’t doubt you need time. Call me…anytime…whenever…just to talk about it … but soon?”
“Sure,” I begin, and he leans in. For half a second, I expect a kiss on the cheek but he just whispers beside my ear,
“Give us a chance…we’d be so good together.”
I take a half-step backwards and Michael dives forward, kissing me full on the lips. I pull back, shocked.
Now all I want to do is run. That was not invited. My face burns with mixed emotions as I head for my office and take the stairs two at a time.
On the street, he calls my name, but I don’t stop.
Fi looks up from her desk as I shove open the door,
“How was coffee?”
Concern crosses her face, “Something happen?”
“Yeah…something,” I feel too many things at once.
“It was…strange.”
“Strange how? Are you OK?”
“Too many ways. Let’s talk about it tonight. I gotta focus.”
“Okay. We’ll get Thai at my flat and we can talk.”
“Great.”
Zelda’s snoring on her chaise in the corner, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. I need to take a leaf from her book, settle my nervous system, so I flop onto the therapy couch, breathe, and watch my screaming thoughts roll by. I’m so angry.
I manage to get a little space from everything for a few minutes doing yoga breathing, but I’ve gotta say, it’s still pretty challenging not to ruminate the crap out of what just happened.
Enjoying reading this book.