Page 13 of The Therapist
‘Same time next week?’ asks Kirsty again, and Ben meets Sandy’s eyes and then immediately drops his gaze to the floor.
‘Yes, same time. Lana is so good to talk to,’ says Sandy, her voice loud in the quiet office. And then she leaves quickly.
Ben turns and walks towards his office. It’s unfortunate that he was out here. He has back-to-back patients on a Monday like I do so I’m surprised he’s not in his office since Sandy and I wentover time. Was he waiting to see Sandy? Or perhaps his next patient cancelled?
‘Come in,’ I say to Christina, my next patient, and then I glance at Ben, who is standing at his office door, staring at Kirsty.
Christina follows me into my office and sits down on the sofa. ‘I volunteered to be part of the school fundraising committee,’ she tells me with a triumphant smile.
‘How wonderful,’ I reply, knowing that she struggles with social anxiety. And as she tells me what else she has done with her week, I let my mind wander a little.
I think about Ben bringing Kirsty coffee. There’s nothing unusual about it – he often brings me and Kirsty coffee. The more unusual thing was the way they were looking at each other, and in front of a patient as well. It felt like an intimate moment between the two of them and I hope there is nothing to it. It would be very unprofessional.
Admit you’re jealous. Kirsty is young and free and pretty, everything you are not.
And then I think about Sandy, who will come in with Mike next week. I have no idea what he looks like. In my head he is a faceless man, someone who is treating his wife unkindly, but he will probably be nice and charming, ordinary. I bring my attention back to Christina, who is talking about ideas for fundraising.
At the end of the day, I’m grateful to get away a few minutes early to pick Iggy up from after-school care. The sun is setting and the wind chilly when I get to the school.
I peek into the classroom where the after-school care group is and see my son sitting alone in a corner, something that’s unusual for him. Iggy is always surrounded by friends.
Opening the door, I call, ‘Iggy,’ and he turns and sees me. He’s been crying and my heart instantly thrums with alarm.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask as he barrels into me, clutching my legs tightly. He doesn’t reply, just buries his head as the teacher in charge comes towards us.
‘Could I have a quick word?’ she says, taking off her glasses and letting them hang from the chain around her neck.
I crouch down and hold my son by his shoulders. ‘Let me talk to Mrs McDougall quickly, love. Go and get your stuff. We can get pizza for dinner tonight.’
The promised treat brings a smile to Iggy’s face and he darts off to pack up his bag and get his coat.
‘What happened?’ I ask the teacher when I am standing away from the other children. ‘He’s been crying.’
‘Yes, yes, but his tears are perhaps because I had to have a few words with him about his behaviour.’
‘What?’ I am instantly furious. Iggy is very well behaved and whatever he may have done, there was no reason for this teacher to make him cry.
‘He called Abigail “stinky breath”, and he got everyone else in the class to call her the same thing. I had to ask her mother to come and get her early because she was so distressed.’
My fury disappears and humiliation appears in its place. ‘Oh…I’m sure he didn’t mean…I would never accept…’
Mrs McDougall stares at me as I try to find the right words. She knows I’m a therapist and I can feel her questioning my abilities in my chosen profession and as a mother. The school has a zero tolerance policy for bullies, not something I enjoyed while I was at school being tormented by the pretty girls and the popular boys who called me ‘Llama Lana’ and ‘Lame Lana’ and ‘Lumpy Lana’, and as we all got older ‘Loathsome Lana’.
‘I’m sure it won’t happen again,’ she says, rescuing me from having to say anything else.
‘Please tell the little girl’s mother that I’m sorry and I will definitely be talking to him about this and it is unacceptable,’ I tell her as I finally find my voice.
‘Mum,’ says Iggy and I turn and leave, not taking his hand and forcing him to follow me to the car.
Once he’s buckled in, I get in and then turn around to look at my child. ‘Why would you have said such a terrible thing about that little girl?’ I ask, my voice rising. ‘That was a terrible, awful thing to do and I never want to hear of you doing anything like that again, do you understand me?’ I am yelling now and I bite down on my lip to stop myself.
‘I…’ His eyes fill with tears. ‘I… Her breath was stinky and…’ He shrugs as tears fall. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m sorry and I said sorry to Abigail, I did say sorry.’
He sniffs and I root through my bag, handing him a tissue. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ I tell him, my anger at my child disappearing. My yelling isn’t about him and what he did, and I don’t need to be a therapist to know that. My school years just came hurtling back to torment me.
‘But Iggy, that was not a nice thing to say and you made her very sad.’ I soften my tone and he nods.
‘I won’t ever say it again.’
