He says, “Because I haven’t had a panic attack since I had my wisdom teeth pulled out.”
“Past tense. Doesn’t mean you can’t have one now.”
“And here I was, thinking I was a well-adjusted human being.”
“You are a well-adjusted human being. I’ve been following your case, Brian. Anyone who has been through what you have for the past few months has every chance of cracking under the strain.”
“I’m not cracking. Mirrors crack. Badly maintained pavements crack.”
“Spare the wisecracks, Brian.”
“Jesus, I’m not cracking, all right?” Brian gets up, runs a hand through his hair, and paces around the office.
Dr. Robertson observes him. “You don’t have to feel that you have to be in charge all the time. It has been the only way you could cope when you were a teenager, but the circumstances are different now.”
Brian swings round suddenly. “Tell me, doc, is it hereditary?”
“What?”
“Violence. Is it hereditary?”
Dr. Robertson sighs. “There is a strong association. The son of a drug- or alcohol-abusing father has around four to seven times greater than average of having the same problems. There are more than a hundred studies to show a genetic basis for abusive personalities. But you don’t have an abusive personality.”
“How would you know? You haven’t seen me as a patient since college.”
“No, but your mother still comes to me as a friend and she talks about you all the time. From all accounts, you’re as gentle as a lamb.”
Brian smirks. “She’s not the one whose neck is in a noose.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s a hanging jury.”
Dr. Robertson’s silence indicates that he thinks there’s a chance of it too.
He finally says, “The only thing you can do is tell them the truth. That’s all you can realistically do.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“You still see your father?”
“I try not to.”
“You’ve forgiven him for what he did to you?”
“You can’t forgive such a thing easily, doc. You certainly can’t forget it.”
“Try to keep yourself busy until the court case. Are you depressed?”
“No,” Brian lies.
“If you are,” Dr. Robertson says knowingly, “I can prescribe you some antidepressants.”
“I don’t want to take those. They screw up my mood.”
“Which is precisely the point of antidepressants. Tell me about this friend you mentioned briefly in our last session together.” Dr. Robertson glances at his case notes. “Samantha.”
At the mention of Sam’s name, Brian smiles a little.
“Sammie,” he drawls, using Cassie’s nickname for her. “She’s a real kicker.”
“You sleeping together?”
“Do crabs live in oceans?”
“I take that as a yes. And you haven’t been with anyone else?”
“No. But that’s because I’m afraid . . . of what might happen.”
“And yet you’re not afraid around Samantha?”
Brian shakes his head. “Sam’s different. She knows me in and out. I’ll never harm a hair on her head.”
“What makes you think you’ll harm a hair on anyone else’s head? You drinking?”
“Not anymore. I’m not doing drugs either.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Throw yourself into your work, Brian. And keep hanging around this Samantha.” Dr. Robertson’s eyes twinkle. “She’s good for you. You should see the look on your face when I mentioned her.”
“Huh?” Brian is immediately wary.
“You just lighted up like Christmas came early. If I didn’t know you better . . . and maybe I don’t, not yet anyway . . . I’d think you were in love.” Dr. Robertson leans back in his executive chair and folds his hands, smiling.
“Me? In love?” Brian tosses off a nervous laugh. “I don’t believe in love, I believe in – ”
“Fucking. Yes, I know. But there’s always a first for everything.” He holds up a hand before Brian can protest. “You don’t have to admit it to yourself right away, but just know that it may be your lifesaver.”
“I don’t do love.” Brian pauses, and then goes on, “Loving someone sets you up to be hurt. And I can’t afford ‘hurt’. Not anymore.”
“You weren’t in the gym business before either, but now you are. I can’t promise you that you won’t be hurt, Brian. Life doesn’t quite work out that way. But you don’t skip out on taking an airplane just because you’re afraid it might crash. So if you don’t open yourself to the possibility of love . . . or of being loved, for the matter . . . then you’ll never experience life’s greatest moments.”
“I don’t believe I’m actually paying you for this shit,” Brian says.
Dr. Robertson just sits back and smiles.
8
It has been a week of trickling customer sign-ups. Sam almost has to drag her feet in to work – so distraught is she at the prospect of another day with hardly anyone at the gym. But when she pulls into the car park of ‘Shape’, she’s amazed to find it full of cars. People are bustling everywhere and crowding the entrance.
What’s happening?
Her first thought is that of a disaster of the greatest magnitude. But no smoke is billowing from the roof. The building has not collapsed in any significant earthquake, not that this is an earthquake zone. There’s no ambulance wailing outside.
Sam has a reserved spot. She parks her car there, her mind spinning with the sudden upheaval.
What the hell is going on?
To her surprise, there’s a queue at the reception desk that stretches all the way out. Jolie is up to her ears with recruitment papers. The trainers are all engaged with one customer or another. When Sam peeks into the gym, she’s shocked to find every single piece of equipment being used by attractive, athletic individuals.
Brian himself is attached to a pillar, watching the proceedings with interest.
Sam sidles up to him and hisses, “What’s going on?”
He just grins. “You’ll see.”
“We having a free for all or something you didn’t tell me about?”
“No. In fact, we’re not having any discounts on recruitment fees at all. Why follow a tired path paved by aging chain gyms?”