Chapter 5

      Julian had factored a good six months into getting his practice up and running with a stream of regular patients. Until that happened, he felt he’d have time on his hands. He’d hired an agent to book college talks and professional speaking engagements. Had set up a schedule with the Drake Community Center’s director to offer free counseling to the troubled youth it served. The first month was understandably slow. In August, following an article featuring him in a national medical magazine, he began getting referrals from medical doctors in neighboring towns. Some from as far away as Sacramento and San Jose.

      Last week, a former patient of Dr. Johnson had walked into his office. He’d been treated for ten years and felt it wasn’t working. At first Julian refused outright, but after a thorough interview, he’d decided to treat the man. People regularly changed therapists. For the patient, the change proved beneficial. For Julian, it had been fateful. The satisfied patient had obviously been talking. Barely into September and a stream of Johnson’s patients had called for appointments. He turned most of them down, but agreed to see the ones he felt would benefit from his counsel. One was in his office now, engaging in a pattern most likely developed in childhood and perfected throughout her adult life.

      He stole a glance at the clock on the wall behind where his patient Vanessa sat. Nicki’s plane would arrive in just over ninety minutes. To leave right now would be cutting it close, and Vanessa’s time would be up in sixty seconds. But she was in crisis. He could not in good conscience end the session before her emotions stabilized.

      He watched her twist a tissue to shreds as she recounted an incident from her abusive childhood. Tears for moments she’d probably relived thousands of times. It was neither healthy nor productive, but he knew why she did it. Why millions of people relived the very situations they’d most like to forget. How one could at first hate and then—after depression became the new normal and sadness felt sane—relish the pain.

      In psychology it was called destiny neurosis, a form of repetition compulsion. The term was coined by Sigmund Freud in 1914 and expanded after further research. As she had during each previous session, Vanessa lamented over the beatings endured at the hands of her parents, and later a foster mom after the parents lost custody, yet was despondent that a physically abusive third marriage was ending. In the past, a cocktail of antianxiety and antidepressant medication had been prescribed as the cure for her chronic depression. Masking the pain, not fixing the problem. Prescription drug abuse was an epidemic in America. Seventy percent of the country was on some type of prescribed drug. A quarter of them were like Vanessa—depressed, abused, hurting. It’s one of the reasons Julian had chosen psychology over psychiatry, to push himself toward holistic, drug-free healing and make prescribed medicine the absolute last resort.

      “I just want to be loved without being beaten. You know?” She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Is that too much to ask?”

      “Not at all, Vanessa. Being beaten is not love. It is what you have come to associate with love, because the abuse you suffered was done by people who said they loved you, those who professed to care about you. Do you understand that?”

      “What am I doing wrong, Doctor? How do I keep attracting the same type of man into my life?”

      “By repeating the same thought patterns and the same actions that brought you to my office. But that’s why I’m here. To help you replace toxic thoughts and actions with positive, productive ones.” Julian looked at his watch and stood. “I have a couple things I’d like to give you.” He continued talking as he walked over to a wall unit. He pulled a card from a drawer beneath the shelving and a blank journal from a stack on one of the shelves. On the front was a message in large, bold letters: Focus on Good Thoughts and Good Things Will Happen.

      He walked back to Vanessa, who had stood as well. “I want you to begin keeping a journal. Every day, write at least one page of what you are thinking. It can be anything, any thought that comes to mind. How you’re feeling. How you slept the night before. What you watched on TV or ate for dinner. Doesn’t matter. The point is to get in touch with yourself and become conscious of the storyline that’s playing in your head.”

      He held up the five-by-seven card. “Here is a list of questions to help get you started. Your first journal entry can be answering these questions. There are no wrong answers. Just write how you feel.”

      “But, Doctor—”

      “No buts.” He took her arm and gently guided her toward the door. “You can do this, Vanessa. It’ll help you get better, okay? See you next week.”

      Traffic was light, and the gods were kind. Forty-five minutes at mostly ninety miles an hour helped him reach the airport within minutes of Nicki’s arrival. Jennifer had suggested he send a car service. Much too impersonal for his queen, and for someone who’d experienced a career-threatening injury less than a week ago. He wanted to get her himself.

      He parked the car and went inside, hoping she’d take his advice and use a wheelchair instead of trying to navigate the busy airport on crutches. So independent, his private dancer. A trait that over the years had often put them at odds. It had taken less coaxing than expected for her agreement to recuperate in Paradise Cove. And while he’d not promised that the specialist he’d lined up could cut her recovery from six weeks to four, it was a carrot he’d gladly dangled to bring her home.

      Once inside he looked at the monitor for her flight number. The plane had landed. Most likely, she was on her way down. He checked his phone. There was a text from his mom.

      Dinner with Nicki? Private room @ the club?

      He quickly responded. Thanks, Mom. Not tonight.

      Sunday brunch?

      We’ll see.

      He looked up just as a set of elevator doors opened. A heavily wrapped ankle supported by an Aircast was the first body part through the doors. It was Nicki, busily texting while the wheelchair assistant pushed her toward baggage claim. Just as she looked up, his phone dinged.

      He walked to her, smiling. “Is that a message telling me you’ve arrived?”

      “Yep.”