Chapter Thirty-Seven
NASH
Everyone had days when they didn’t want to go to work. Even Nash had them, despite loving his job and being able to talk to the children under his care.
But today, he wasn’t having any of it.
The children weren’t the issue; surprisingly, Nash found them to be full of clarity and realism. It was their parents who were the problem.
“What do you mean my daughter has an eating disorder? She’s just lost a little weight! And it’s about time, given that she’s always been a little chubby,” one mother protested.
“Antidepressants? He’s thirteen. He sleeps all day and ignores his schoolwork for attention and because he’s being lazy, not because he’s depressed. What does he even have to be depressed about?”
“How come Dr. Brigham isn’t taking care of this case? Why would he pass it on to a new doctor?”
It was only noon, and Nash had a headache that seared through his entire brain, throbbing and pulsing behind his eyes. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, trying to relieve the pressure somehow, but it didn’t help. Even pain relievers weren’t kicking in.
And he had to keep it together for his session with Dr. Brigham.
David Brigham was like a dad to all the psychologists at the hospital—a little older, a little wiser, a little more full of corny jokes during the rare, off-the-cuff moments one caught him, like grabbing a drink of water or in line for snacks at the cafeteria.
He was the type of mentor Nash had hoped for when he moved to New York, a blessing he hadn’t counted on that life had seen fit to give him.
He and Dr. Brigham were seeing Trent Dagmar’s mother today. She had been released from rehab recently, and Dr. Brigham wanted to check in with her to see how the transition was going, if Trent needed anything, and how the family was doing overall. While Nash worked with Trent, Dr. Brigham dealt with the psychology of adults, so they wanted to tag team this case.
Nash silently followed Dr. Brigham into the room, sitting in a seat in the corner of the room to observe rather than participate in the session.
“How are you doing today, Rhonda?” Dr. Brigham asked, looking at her chart before setting it down.
“I’m fine. Got released a week ago.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Honestly, like I really need a hit.”
Nash was used to answers he didn’t expect. He never knew what could come out of a patient’s mouth. But this time, his objectivity was clouded, and he frowned at her response.
“Have you spoken to your sponsor? Have you been using your coping techniques to help you get over the tough moments?” Dr. Brigham asked.
“I’ve been trying. But I miss the high. It’s easier to deal with the high and the feeling of invincibility than it is to be a mom or handle the lows. I’ve been tempted more than once to call my dealer.”
Dr. Brigham patiently noted something down, likely about her cravings.
“And how does Trent feel?”
“He’s been acting out more often at his foster home. He has a good situation over there; I’m not really sure why he’s been so pissed at me. Sometimes I think it’s better that I’m gone from his life anyway—like he’s getting a better upbringing without me.”
“Do you think you’ll feel like a better mother once you’ve been sober for longer?”
“I don’t know if I will be sober for that long, Doc. I mean, it’s like they said in rehab. ‘Once an addict, always an addict.’ Right now, I’d probably trade Trent for a hit.” Rhonda laughed.
If Dr. Brigham was shocked at Rhonda’s confession and joking tone, he didn’t show it.
But something snapped inside Nash.
It wasn’t funny. This wasn’t a joke. Whether it was a coping mechanism, a bad sense of humor, or an urge, Nash saw red at the woman’s dismissiveness about her addiction and the damage it had caused.
“Rhonda, you do know that all Trent wants is for you to be sober and come home to him, right? He still believes you can overcome this disease, like the hundreds of people who have come through here and sat in that very chair that your uncaring ass is sitting in and who have fought through hell to come back and make a life for themselves. And here you are, joking about how you’d trade in a son for more drugs—maybe he should give up hope. God knows I would.”
“Nash!” Dr. Brigham said sternly.
Rhonda’s face reddened, like she’d been punched.
“Dr. Hawthorne. Outside. Now,” Dr. Brigham commanded.
Nash knew at that moment he’d crossed a line and he owed everyone an apology. There was no excuse. Hell, even he hadn’t given up on Rhonda. How many times had Mom tried to stay sober? And how many times had others been successful? He wasn’t a crystal ball that could predict what the Dagmar family’s future looked like.
With a level head, Nash knew that Rhonda was doing what addicts did—going through various cycles of healing, utilizing different methods of coping with the effects the addiction had on their lives, and trying to navigate a new life where they’d be labeled an addict forever.
He’d never had an outburst in his life, always more focused on the positive results of these sessions on children rather than how damaged all the involved parties could become.
But life had finally pushed him over the edge, to the point where he could feel himself free-falling through an abyss. No one could catch him now, and he was beyond being able to reach out and grab a hand.
“What was that, son?” Dr. Brigham asked with a surprising amount of patience.
“I am an ass,” Nash said. “I’m so sorry. I owe her an apology. And you. I snapped in there at how carelessly she talked about Trent, who has literally spent the last few months telling me how much he wants his mom to come home and how tired he is of taking care of himself.”
Dr. Brigham sighed heavily and nodded, considering the options. “You’ve done enough today. I’ll talk to her for you and tell her you weren’t feeling well. But I suggest you take a few days and go home. Nash, you are one of the most brilliant psychologists I have ever seen. You’ve made breakthroughs with patients that even I’d given up on. But if you’re taking it home with you, for your own sake, I suggest you take a look at yourself and why you’re doing this.”
“No, sir, I can work. I apologize. I—”
“That wasn’t a request. You need to take a week. I’ll have another psychologist cover you, and you can swap your weeks. But you need to take time. Go home.”
“I’m sorry.” Nash bowed his head. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“It happens to the best of us, son, but that’s why you need to take care of yourself.”
With the suggestion in his mentor’s voice, Nash knew he was being dismissed.
* * *
Nash berated himself the entire train ride home, using a colorful set of four-letter words in his mind to describe the disaster of a career move he’d just made.
What. A. Clusterfuck.
As he moved toward the door to the apartment, he saw a flash of a familiar set of Keds step out the door, followed by legs that had wrapped themselves around him. Kiran’s face was pointed in the opposite direction, but as she turned and came down the stairs, she saw Nash and froze. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open.
They faced off in the middle of the sidewalk.
Nash couldn’t help but notice the hollowness in her eyes and the pale shade her skin had taken on, the telltale sign that she hadn’t slept. She probably saw the same exhaustion in him.
“How are you?” She broke the silence.
Nash tried to say “Good,” but he couldn’t lie. He shrugged instead.
“Me too,” she whispered. “I miss you. I haven’t been able to sleep—”
“Kiran, has a single thing changed about your situation?” Nash asked, refusing to let her make him feel pity.
“What? No…I mean, I haven’t talked with my parents about it—”
“Then I’m not sure what sympathy you’re trying to gain, but it’s misplaced to think it’ll come from me.”
Her mouth fell open, and the hurt in her eyes broke him further inside, but he didn’t give in.
Kiran gave a quick nod, as though she was telling him she got the message, and pulled the bag in her hands to her shoulder as fast as she could, jostling its contents. A couple of receipts floated to the ground, and some spare coins jingled against the cement.
She didn’t even notice as she increased her pace and brushed past him.
He closed his eyes, a whiff of her perfume making him long to be with her, and his eyes followed her past him.
As he turned back, he saw a folded piece of paper on the sidewalk among the clutter that had fallen out of her bag.
He leaned to pick it up, wanting to call out and give it back to her, knowing it was probably one of the million lists she used to keep her life organized. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, holding it in his hand like it was a piece of her that he could cling to.
When he went inside, desolate and defeated, he wished it were her he was holding instead.