Page 24 of The Therapist
The morning passes quickly with back-to-back patients and I try to put Sandy out of my mind so that I can concentrate on doing my best for my patients. At 2.30 p.m., as I finish a late lunch, Kirsty buzzes me and I feel my heart lift a little because surely this is Sandy to apologise for missing her appointment this morning.
‘Damien called to say he can’t make it today. He’s got to go to an emergency dentist appointment.’
‘Okay,’ I say, thinking of my 3 p.m. client who is, it must be said, a frequent canceller. Damien has a problem with alcohol but because he covers it so well, he doesn’t believe he has a problem. He is only seeing me because his wife makes him. It will take me some time to get through to him.
‘And he was your last client for today,’ Kirsty adds.
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
It’s nearly 3 p.m. and Iggy is spending the afternoon at his friend Jack’s house. I only have to pick him up at five thirty. I suddenly have some time spare.
Impulsively, I grab my bag. I need to know that Sandy is okay or I’ll get no sleep tonight at all. Visiting her at home will be crossing a lot of lines but I need to do it, just to make sure. And I have to admit that I’m actually fascinated to see where she lives.
‘Ooh, early mark,’ says Kirsty when she sees me with my bag.
‘Yes. Sandy didn’t call, obviously?’
Kirsty shakes her head. ‘No respect for other people’s time. I’ll bill her.’ She smiles.
‘Okay.’ I wonder if I should tell her that I’m heading over to Sandy’s house now. I immediately decide against it. It’s not professional, and what I’m really hoping for is to be able to go to her house and see her without her seeing me. It feels a bit cloak and dagger but I need to know that she’s all right.
I glance at Ben’s office door and see that he’s with someone so there’s no way I can interrupt him and ask him to come withme. Maybe I should wait? Leaving via the stairs, I go back and forth with each flight, but finally, I decide that I’m doing this for myself and I don’t need to involve anyone else.
And with each step I take, I try to convince myself that Sandy is fine and that all I’m doing is making sure of that.
I’m just making sure.
TEN
Lana
When I drive out of the parking garage, the sky darkens, rain threatening. Summer feels an eternity away.
I have keyed Sandy’s address into my GPS and I should get there in about half an hour.
Possible reasons for her missing the session circle in my mind. Perhaps she and Mike have sorted everything out and he has promised to go and get help for his violent outbursts. A very unlikely scenario. It’s not that I don’t believe violent men have some hope of changing, of redeeming themselves, but I do know how much work it takes and that work begins with admitting what you are doing. Mike is nowhere near close to that, especially if he is accusing her of being the violent one. Unless he’s telling the truth.
Perhaps she was just running really late and decided not to come, although she should have called to cancel. She could have a sick child and have forgotten. That’s the one that makes the most sense. I remember when Iggy was five, which is how old Sandy’s daughter Lila is. When they’re sick at that age, they are really unwell and then almost instantly better. Iggy had a boutof tonsilitis at five years old that sent his temperature soaring. It went so high that I called Oliver and told him he had to come and get us to take us to the hospital. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and didn’t trust myself to drive.
After two doses of antibiotics, Iggy was his usual self and I felt like I might never recover. I’m sure that’s what happened with Sandy.
When I pull up outside Sandy’s house, it’s started raining, making it hard to see. Checking her address again, I make sure I have the right number and then I wait in my car, watching the house. The home is typical of the older suburb with red bricks and white painted timber window frames. Red roof tiles look like they need to be repainted but the front garden is nicely done with a stone path and flower beds surrounded by wood palings. There aren’t a lot of flowers but I’m sure there will be in the spring. I wonder if when she was at school, this is where she expected to end up, and then I chide myself for the unkind thought.
As I watch, a black Toyota pulls into the driveway and the driver’s door opens. I slouch a little in my seat, certain that this is Sandy and not wanting her to see me.
But it’s not Sandy who gets out of the car. It’s Mike. He moves quickly, opening the back passenger doors and getting the children out of the car. I watch as the children – a little boy who looks exactly like Mike and a little girl who shares Sandy’s delicate features –run for the front door.
The children are not with Sandy so that ends my sick child theory. So where is she?
Mike and the children disappear into the house, the door slamming hard enough for me to hear it across the road. At least none of them even glanced in my direction.
What now?
I can leave it or I can go to the police. What if nothing is wrong and Sandy is simply out? Reporting a patient missing because she didn’t attend her therapy session will surely sound unhinged. I should go home and forget about this but I can’t. I need to know that this woman is okay. I can’t see another car anywhere but there is a single garage at the front so perhaps it’s in there?
I sit in my car for another five minutes, debating what I should do as the rain gets heavier. When a small hailstone hits my car, I am tempted to drive away but something keeps me sitting there, and finally, I stop trying to reason myself out of action and open my car door, forgoing an umbrella and simply dashing through the rain to the front door of Sandy’s house. On the covered front step, I take a deep breath and push down on the bell, listening as it chimes through the house.
No one comes and now the hail is really heavy. Perhaps he hasn’t heard the bell?
