Ready for another borrowed day.
Choosing where to open my clinic was easy. I peered through sash windows before a toadying agent opened the door to the pretty, terraced, Cornish sandstone and slate building. Proudly nestled between its charming unassuming neighbours. Two mottled slate steps lead the way to the solid wood door of 39b Lemon Street. Warm, humble and crammed with character. Inside, a large reception window films passing life, sweeping down to the heart of Truro. ‘Sometimes, things just feel right,’ I’d agreed with the toady agent.
Knowing Ruan, my fresh-faced, uncomplicated-by-life assistant, will always be there to open up first is a blessing. Despite his ungodly early morning jaunt to catch the sunrise waves. He’s then usually followed by Bea, the physiotherapist who sublets a room. Today, when I push through the door, characteristically late, the sunlight fills the reception area, elbowing through the leaded window. The cream slatted blinds are pulled back tight to allow shimmering beams to create a warming ambience. Thoughtful shadows grace the archetypal dense walls. Not all shadows are dark, I remind myself.
‘Hey,’ Ruan greets me, sauntering away from my room. He nods towards a rigid-looking man sitting in Reception between us, who’s eyeballing the window. Gazing anywhere other than at me.
‘Morning, Ruan. Here, grab these, will you?’ I pass him the loose bundle of files trying to leap from my arms.
‘For your room or filing?’
‘My desk, please. Any chance of a—?’
‘Coffee? Yep, already on it.’ He smiles, feigning to stagger with my files.
‘You’re an absolute star, have I told you? I couldn’t ever be without you.’ I indicate towards my client. Ruan shakes his head. No, I didn’t think he’d accept a coffee.
My room leads directly from Reception, where old fosters new, modern, light and airy but still entirely intimate. The colours are cool yet warm, shades of white, pale blues and citrus-fruit seasonings. Natural oak shelving engulfs the walls; heavy with journals and books, some receding to my undergraduate and training days. Two hardbacks take precedence on the top shelf. One of these, an extremely worn leather-bound Complete Works of William Shakespeare. The other being The Meaning of Dreaming, my early allure to the workings of the human mind. Little did I know then the importance of dreaming, the power of REM sleep. As I sat cross-legged on the floor devouring its contents, I trustingly believed all dreams became true. Now, I understand, it’s only the nightmares.
I reach for the timeworn literature bible; inside the cover, an old-fashioned script reads:
Mervyn Oliver 18th April, 1909
My grandfather. I grew up in Stratford-upon-Avon. It still riles me that I was never a fan of Shakespeare; his works were, though, significant to someone who was significant to me.
I jump with the awareness of movement behind me. ‘Coffee time!’ Ruan swirls my china mug under my nose before placing it on the desk. ‘Hot and strong, just for you.’
‘Thank God for small mercies. Has he been here long?’ I nod towards the Reception.
‘Only pacing the pavement, waiting for me to open up,’ he whispers. ‘He’s not exactly forthcoming with conversation. Think you might have your work cut out with him.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Eve, do you mind me asking you something?’ He steps closer to me.
I look up to see his creased brow. ‘Sounds ominous. Do I have a choice?’ Ruan shrugs. ‘Go on, then, hit me with it.’
‘Is everything okay? It’s just, me and Bea were saying, we think you’ve been kind of distracted, just lately.’
‘So you’ve been talking about me?’ I tease.
‘Well, yeah.’
‘I see. Distracted?’ Why am I questioning him? I know I have.
‘A little bit distant, not your usual, not…’ he holds out his hands, and I smile as he delivers a boyish grin, trying to select an inoffensive word ‘… you know, just not you.’
‘Not me?’ I turn away to sip coffee, avoiding eye contact. ‘Interesting. Can you elaborate?’
‘No. Stop doing that throwing-the-question-back-at-me thing.’
‘Sorry.’ I turn to smile at him. ‘I’ve not meant to be different. Just a little tired, I guess, not been sleeping brilliantly this last couple of weeks.’ This isn’t a lie.
‘But nothing’s worrying you, is it? To stop you from sleeping?’
‘No, Ruan, really, I’m fine. I’d tell you both, if I wasn’t.’ This is a lie. I can’t tell you, Ruan. I wouldn’t even know where or how to begin. I don’t want to lie to you. But I can’t tell you the truth either. Please don’t press.
‘Okay, cool. What’s that you’re looking at?’ He points at my book.
‘It belonged to my grandfather.’ I shut it and turn to place it back on the shelf. I can’t help wondering, what do you think of all this, Mervyn? Shocked, sad, scared for me? How did I get to this? How did my life go so wrong? I still don’t get it either. How could I have been such a complete fool? ‘He was a silent type of man, a huge reader, a wealth of knowledge.’
‘For sure, that’s pretty smart.’ Ruan grins and leaves me to it at the sound of the front door opening.
I’m not long behind, to collect my client from Reception. Instantly recognisable from the few notes I have. Each condition parades under a distinctive cloak, hanging over people as obvious as the clothes they’re wearing. He is now perched opposite a harassed-looking mum waiting with her son; her mind being in many other places at the same time. Her son, staring at his mobile, immersed in whatever lies behind the screen. Bea must be running late again; she talks too much, can’t seem to help herself.
I glance back to my man; his feet lightly touching the floor so he can run should he need to. He’s studying them, anything to avoid any eye contact with the woman or her son. He clearly doesn’t want to be here and who could blame him? If I’d stalled another few minutes, I may now be looking at an empty seat. Talking of empty, this is how he’s feeling: empty, heavy and helpless. Depression etched on his forehead. I get it. He lifts his head to me uneasily as I step forward with my hand held out. I smile at him; he can’t feel it. Burdened eyes stare back with a particular darkness. I get the feeling I’m his last hope.
I introduce myself as he stands to face me. But his words bump together, jarring in his throat, joining a long traffic jam of unheard utterings; he nods, instead. I sense the weight of him behind me as we head for my room, despite his slight covering on wide shoulders. Sometimes people ooze desolation, debilitated by despondent and hopeless thought processes. People of all guises, backgrounds and ages, men, women and children. Mental health problems are always without prejudice.
I softly close the door behind us and gesture for him to take a seat in one of our tub chairs, snuggly enveloping the body securely at both sides. His eyes dart from my desk, laden with files – I’m not the most organised – to the floor. I smile at him. I’ve work to do too; he needs to relax before we begin.
‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I smile again, hoping to meet those eyes. ‘Though I’m guessing you’d rather not have to meet me at all.’ A half-smile regards me, no words. What an odd thing for me to say: it’s lovely that you’ve hit rock bottom, so are forced to come to me. But wouldn’t it be rude not to suggest it? He regards me as if I’m some form of mind-reading witch. I’m used to it.
We talk for some time, around symptoms and the considerable changes to his everyday life. Gradually, his eyes begin to meet mine, then he asks me if he will always feel the way he does, encounter dark thoughts. I fight with my thoughts, as I remember promising myself fifteen years ago my state of mind was merely a short-term turmoil. I’d come through the other side, even laugh back on it. Perhaps I should be sitting in the opposite chair.
‘Were you born feeling this way, thinking these thoughts? Have you always felt and thought in this way?’ I challenge his rationale; mine is useless.