Serani - The Ninth Session

The Ninth Session

Deborah Serani

Relax. Read. Repeat.

THE NINTH SESSION

By Deborah Serani

Published by TouchPoint Press

Brookland, AR 72417

www.touchpointpress.com

Copyright 2019 Deborah Serani

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition

PAPERBACK ISBN-10: 1-946920-75-4

PAPERBACK ISBN-13: 978-1-946920-75-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to media@touchpointpress.com.

Editor: Kimberly Coghlan

Cover Design: Colbie Myles, ColbieMyles.net

Connect with the author at www.drdeborahserani.com

First Edition

For Ira

All of us are much more human than otherwise.

Harry Stack Sullivan, Psychoanalyst

T

he light slowly filtered in from the other room as I opened the door. This was the last moment of the unknown, where two strangers meet and a life story begins.

Most times, I've no idea which seat in the waiting room a new patient will choose. Sometimes, though, I can make a good guess from the initial phone call. Usually, the depressed patient, feeling weak with fatigue, sits in the first seat available, whereas the anxious person, eager to feel relief, selects the seat closest to the consultation room.

Not that it really matters. There are only six chairs in my waiting room.

Mr. Ferro? I rolled my neck around the waiting room. Then checked my watch. Eight o'clock on the dot.

Seeing no one, I pressed my lips together.

Did I make the appointment for eight or eight fifteen?

I left the door ajar, walked to my desk, and re-checked my schedule. I slid my finger down the Monday, June 5 th grid in my appointment book to the eight oclock hour, and there was his name: Lucas Ferro. Hed be my last appointment of the night.

Okay, its for eight oclock.

Maybe hes running late .

While I waited, I reviewed my notes from my telephone conversation with Ferro. I opened the crisp manila file and heard a shuffling, then a sputtering hiss of air in the waiting room. I turned toward the sound, unsure of what it was.

A magazine falling on the floor?

The air conditioning shutting off?

I listened for another moment or two and, hearing nothing more, went back to my desk.

My office suite was a beautiful setting and one I didnt mind spending so many hours in. The waiting room, a spacious rectangle, was lined with several Ficus trees and exotic plants, paintings from local artists, and burled wood furniture contemporary in design. The thickly upholstered leather chairs were caramel in color, and the teal-flecked carpet stretched from wall to wall. The vaulted ceiling housed three skylights, flooding the room with an abundance of natural light.

My consultation office was just as large, and there was ample room for my desk, two chairs, and the proverbial psychoanalyst's couchand of course, an etched nameplate on the door: Alicia Reese, Ph.D. Psychologist.

Across from the built-in bookcase was a long picture window overlooking Oyster Bay. At this time of night, the evening sunset gleamed across the water, layering the inlet with a silvery orange hue.

I turned my attention back to the Ferro file, and I heard it again.

Thumping movements.

Hissing sounds of air .

Then silence.

What is that ? I asked aloud with growing curiosity.

I'd been working in this building fifteen years and knew all its creaks, thuds, and mechanical whirrs. But I couldnt decipher these sounds. They werent familiar.

I tapped my pocket, confirming the presence of my panic remote. In all the years Id been in practice, I never found a need to use it.

I got up from my desk and moved toward the door that led to the waiting room. An emerging sense of uneasiness took hold. I heard a hollow voice say something I couldnt catch and then trail off.

I jolted forward, took out the panic alarm, and held my thumb on the button, ready to send the signal. I entered the waiting room but saw no one.

Again it happened. The bang of something hitting the ground. Then a rush of air.

I focused my vision on the sounds, turning my gaze toward the far-right corner of the reception room.

The darkened bathroom.

I walked in willed steps toward the nearly closed door. Drawing in a deep breath, I opened it all the way with a poke of my index finger.

There, standing against the corner wall, was the shadow of Lucas Ferro having a panic attack.

The tile...its cool, Ferro said, breathing raggedly like a drowning swimmer.

Hissing sounds of air.

Its okay, Mr. Ferro. I followed his frenzied movements with my eyes. Im gonna step away and give you some room.

I flicked on the bathroom light as I moved away. As the room brightened, I saw Ferro's face. It was sweaty and chalk white. His black hair flopped in wet patches across his forehead, and his eyes were narrow slits of blue. His body moved in spasms, halting and then starting again.

Ferro tugged at his shirt collar as he drew in rapid breaths. Watching him, I felt the anxiety leave my body and the return of my clinical posture. This was a crisis, and I went into crisis mode.

I want you to listen to my voice as you take in a deep, slow breath.

Ferro lifted his shoulders, straightening himself from the stooped position against the wall. His knees bent several times as if unable to bear his own weight. Then, all at once, his body buckled toward the sink, but he anchored his two hands on the porcelain base to steady himself. As he drew in a series of deep breaths and huffed them coarsely through his mouth, his feet wobbled and slapped the tiled floor.

Thumping movements .

Youre doing great, I said. You're gonna be just fine.

Soon, color began to return to his face.

I want you to slow your breathing even more. Like this. I modeled the technique for him.

Ferro followed my instructions and formed a slower breathing pattern, ending the hyperventilation that gripped him. Bit by bit, he raised himself to a solid standing posture. A self-conscious impulse took over as he saw his reflection in the mirror. Ferro slicked back his hair with his fingers, smoothed his clothing, and blotted the sweat from his face with a swipe of his arm. Then he smiled at me weakly.

The crisis was over.

As he found his way back from this acute attack, I realized there was no longer a need for me to be holding the panic alarm. I tucked it back into my pocket. I waited for what I thought was a good moment to ask my very first question.

Can you move out of the bathroom?

Ferro nodded his head and walked toward the reception area. Upon moving into the waiting room, his eyes sought my approval to sit down.

Yes, of course, I said.

He slumped into the chair and tilted his head back against the wall. I moved a few seats away and waited for him to find a sense of balance.

In the long stretch of silence that followed, I studied him in sidelong glances, trying not to be obvious. He was young, probably mid-to-late twenties, and his dark blue eyes glowed with intensity. He was dressed in a green and white Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. There was a moose logo on the left chest pocket. His slacks were washed in a dark tan hue, and he wore no socks with his deck shoes. On his wrist, a flash of golda watch with chunky links. He was vulnerable right now, but as the panic faded, I noticed he was muscular in build. And tall. Six feet or more.