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My therapist, Maura was just trying to help. She knew I was an early riser and was excited to tell me that instead of my weekly appointments on Wednesdays at 9:30 am, I could switch to Mondays at 8.
“Wait, you mean for just this week, right?” I asked.
“I was thinking more permanently, if that works for you,” she answered.
“Sure. Okay…yeah.”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. It shouldn't have been. I’d still see Maura the following week. But it wasn’t her I was worried about.
It was Caroline.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve called her for the past three years. I never asked for her real name. Caroline came for therapy at 10:15 every Wednesday. Our exchanges usually went something like this:
“Excuse me."
“No, excuse me.”
Often I was swollen and blotchy from crying. Occasionally, giddy with some epiphany. Either way, dropping half the contents of my knapsack as we do-se-do’d around the tan area rug.
Caroline gave me the same slow, respectful nod each week. She was my lamppost before I dove back into the jungles of the Upper West Side. Her warm, round face reminding me that there was a sequence to everything. A reliable routine. That I wasn’t alone, even in this city full of strangers.
At our final encounter, I was determined to thank Caroline for her silent support. Somewhere between “Excuse” and “me” I lost my courage. I heard her black jeans swish and admired her soft cardigan as she retreated into Maura’s inner sanctum.
The doors closed. Nothing left but the raspy hum of the sound machine. Their muffled voices sounded eager. I lingered to catch, was it a giggle? A first rush of sobs?
I’ll admit I did resent Caroline’s constant punctuality. If she was just five minutes late, I could've gotten my full 45 minutes (since I'm five minutes late to everything).
I also made up jealous scenarios – Caroline and Maura whooping it up over lattes and outdated DSM’s. They’d started out as patient and doctor, but Caroline had evolved so seamlessly and remarkably that at 11 am, I could envision her pulling out her checkbook and Maura saying,
“I should be paying you. What a blast!”
I lingered in Maura’s bathroom for a good ten minutes that day, composing this (unsent) farewell note:
Dear Wednesday at 10:15,
Looks like I’m changing times, so I won’t see you here any more. Maybe now we can be friends? :-)
Your new haircut really highlights your grey eyes. Don't worry; I have no idea where you live. Just want you to know, whatever you’re going through, especially on Wednesday mornings, I believe in you.
The following Monday, I missed my subway and got to Maura’s at 8:08. The next week, it was 8:12.
"Sorry, maybe I'm not so great in the morning after all."
"You want to see what else works?" offered Maura.
"Is Wednesday at 9:30 still available?"
"No," she said.
It took a few months for us to find a time that worked. Turns out Mondays at 1:45 breaks up my workday and allows me a morning to gather my thoughts.
It also helps that I have a new friend.
Her name is Leigh. Or at least, that’s what I'm calling her today.
Her curls, like mine, are short and dark. Her cheeks a healthy pink. She always smiles as she emerges, and Maura waves me inside.
Our exchanges go something like,
"Hey."
"Hi."
She looks honest and committed. I hope she sticks to Mondays at 1. Now I'm the lamppost. I make sure to get to the waiting room early because I want to be that first face to greet her back into the world.
