The door was closed behind her without warning, startling, and — after she became aware she had drawn the attention of the other occupant in the room — causing her cheeks to burn. In a bid to regain her composure and prevent further embarrassment, she cleared her throat and smoothed down her clothes so as not to appear unkempt after that display. Her life might be a mess, but it would be bad form to appear that way publicly (even if the action was irrational).
Be professional, her mind whispered, and she straightened automatically, plastering on a smile artificially bright and brittle.
“I'm usually not one for formalities,” Mr. Davies said once the initial greeting phrases were over and she was seated, her purse by her side, hands clasped on her lap, and back as straight as it could be on the soft armchair. Whether the man had taken notice of her brief moment of discomposure or not, she did not know. His expression had remained blank. “So, if you’d be alright with it, I’d suggest we go by our first names here. I’m Davies. Can I call you Joanne?”
“I,” she paused. While it was not what she was used to nor wanted, the man seemed to be a top-level manager in the clinic, so it would be in her best interest to follow his lead. “I do not mind that, sir. My name is Joanne”—she spied a familiar clipboard on his desk—“but I am sure you already know that.”
He rewarded her with a smile, polite smile, and adjusted his seat slightly. “Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea is preferable, sir.” She did a quick assessment of him: casually but neatly dressed, with tidy grooming — at least one person seemed to be taking their job seriously. “Three sugar sachets.”
“Ah, a sweet tooth.” His brown eyes flitted up to meet weathered grey, amusement evident in the crease at the corners before they lowered, and steady hands poured the black liquid into two mugs. One sugar sachet went into one, while three went into the other, and he stood, walking around his desk (past the live plants and colorful artwork) to place the latter in front of her on the center table.
“Thank you.”
Nodding at her words, he turned smoothly on the flooring and quickly returned to his seat, form briefly outlined by the light coming in from the large window behind him, which overlooked the not-so-scenic road.
She picked up the half-full mug with both hands and, enjoying the warmth seeping through her bone, held it to her face and closed his eyes to breathe in deeply. Its steam — accented with a hint of something floral — rose and spread across her face, warming her nose and cheeks. Opening her eyes, she lowered the mug to rest comfortably at chest level, resting her elbows on her knees; she was leaning forward now, her gaze shifting from the tea to the man, silently watching as he stirred the content of his mug and took a sip.
“So, is this your first time meeting with a psychotherapist?”
The question, although basic and seemingly random, was a good one. It was always good to find out if the client had any prior experience with therapy (of whatever kind), to understand whether it had been helpful — and, if not, why, as that could affect any therapeutic attempt.
She shook her head. It was not.
“Then, you must know how this works.” It was not a question, but she chose to nod in affirmation. “Should you decide to be admitted to the clinic, we’ll help with your writer’s block. Our goal is to help you reach your goals without passing undue judgment, criticism, or instruction. We’ll discuss your problem and discover its course, but at your own pace. Remember, we’re merely guides, not teachers.”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
For lack of any other response, she kept quiet and raised her tea to her mouth, blowing softly at it, then slowly sipping.
“Before we move to payment plans, might I ask you this: why… why here? We aren’t exactly popular.”
She resisted the urge to shrug. The action was too casual. “I guess… Desperation. I stumbled upon the clinic’s name by chance, and well, If there is a chance this is the answer to my problems, I am willing to try it.”
“That’s not surprising — most of our clients happened upon us similarly.” Even as she put down the mug, she didn't take her eyes off Davies. “But there was one thing they all had in common.” A pause, most likely for dramatic effect, but although entirely juvenile and unexpected from someone of his caliber, any other day, it would not be enough to ruffle her feathers. However, it seemed there was something about the place that made losing her composure easy because, as the silence extended, her thoughts began creeping onto her features.
To her growing chagrin, his reaction could not be more opposite; the quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement. She would have called him out on it, but the instruction to be professional still echoed in her mind, so she swallowed the disapproval and bit out:
“What?” His expression instantly became blank, and with a cringe, she realized there was more heat in the word than was appropriate. And to add to her horror, before she could do damage control, the man continued.
“Skepticism,” he said, his dry tone another sign he was affected by her rudeness. “But in the end, they all become believers…”
He leaned forward in his seat, and even if she wanted to, she could not look away from him. The intensity of his gaze held her in place.
“You may doubt now, but don't worry, after we turn those mental blocks into creative building blocks, you will also believe.”
“How?” The word escaped her lips without conscious volition, soft, halting, hopeful — almost like a plea, the hysteria in it not feigned. “How will you do that?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Her hands came to rest on her knees, twitchy fingers lightly playing with the hem of her skirt. The mystery was unnecessary. “What do you mean?”
The plush leather seat crumpled under Davies’ weight as he shifted back, crossing his legs in one fluid motion. They couldn't have looked more different if they tried.
“Writer’s block is unlike any other condition,” he said, eventually. “Where others have a set prognosis and treatment, due to various underlying factors, no two clients suffering from it can undergo the same treatment.”
She blinked, confusion in the knit of her brows. “I… I do not think that is—” cutting herself off, she blinked again and not-so-eloquently breathed, “Huh?”
“In this clinic, treatment is personalized.”
“Oh,” she simply said, not knowing how else to respond.
The hot wisps of the tea struggled for its existence, sitting between them like a metaphorical wall. The silence stretching, she picked up the mug and swirled its content as she stared out the window.
People in different attire and walks of life lined both pathways; most seemed to be rushing from their workplaces or nearby stores and restaurants, picking up smokes, dinner, or a drink before heading to their place. All the while, cars busily honked their way down the road, filling the air with the squeals and hums of their tires.
She turned back to the man, watching him take out a bound document from the stack on his desk and stand, hands on either side to push himself up with a low exhale.
In a move reminiscent of the receptionist’s, he bent to place the set of papers neatly on the table before her.
“That contains the necessary information on the clinic and an important questionnaire,” he said, still looming over her. “If you decide to go ahead with us, complete the questionnaire and pay the fees in the account disclosed within. Once you do so and return the document, implying informed consent, we will get started with your treatment.”
She nodded her understanding, picking up the document and running her hand down its spine. Its colorful cover offered her a glimmer of hope, despite it being in her best interest to stifle the feeling.
Could the clinic really bring about her much-need salvation?
Sucking an unsteady breath, she let it out quickly. Maybe it was a mistake to trust in a place where professionalism was the norm, and things did sound too good to be true, but she couldn't help it. Her future as a writer depended on her faith, and after so long wading in the ether filled with disappointment and doubt, she was willing to believe and hope that the clinic was the light that formed a rope anchoring her to the chance of a cure.