“It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,” said Arthur. “You have to come to your own realization.”
Two weeks later, after a period of no realizations at all, and a bill of almost two thousand dollars, I lost patience and rephrased my question in a less polite way: “You must have worked out by now if I’m fucked in the head?”
Arthur laughed. “Do you really believe that about yourself?”
“You’re never going to tell me, are you?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t for me to say.”
As the weeks dragged on, I grew tired of talking about myself, and couldn’t shake the feeling that I was locked in a game with no end and no rules. Often at the close of an hour I had a sore throat but no insights, though I did notice that on the days I went to see Arthur the list was quieter, more subdued.
Toward the end of summer, I found enough courage to quit my job and book a ticket to London, and once bought, I pinned my hopes on going back there. New Zealand was to blame for making me depressed, and leaving would be the cure. It wasn’t just about what had happened with my father, or with men; the country had a melancholy side. Flip paradise over and all that wide-open space with too few people in it became an echo chamber for your own thoughts. I wanted to go to a city that was noisy and polluted and crowded with people. I thought it would be safer there, that with so many bodies jostling and colliding, I might be able to leap from my skin into someone else’s.
Through the southern-hemisphere autumn I daydreamed of escape, though I failed quite spectacularly to plan any details of the new life I was heading toward. Instead I got carried away with the rightness of it all, the synchronicity of returning to London after exactly a decade.
I didn’t tell my plans to Arthur because I feared he would imply, with pointed questions, that I was running away. Then one morning, after a spell of cold, wintry weather, I arrived for my appointment at his office and Arthur said, “It’s a glorious day. Why don’t we take our session outside?”
“Okay,” I said, surprised and a little unnerved.
We walked the leafy streets around his office, past gabled villas with sweeping driveways and canopied trees, and arrived at a small reserve, open on one side to the road. Arthur laid out a checkered picnic rug, the sort men keep in the back of their cars for romantic dates, and he sat down on it with stiff crossed legs. I tried to copy him, but was wearing a skirt, and ended up in an awkward posture with my legs twisted uncomfortably to one side.
“How have you been this week?” asked Arthur, in the same manner he began all our sessions.
“Fine, I guess.”
He looked at me expectantly, waiting for more, but I said nothing. A woman with a pram and a young child in tow walked past, and she glanced in our direction for a second longer than she needed to. Did she think Arthur was my boyfriend, or, worse, did she realize he was actually my shrink?
“Don’t worry about her,” said Arthur. “Pretend we’re still in my office.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought she was looking at us.”
“Tell me how you’ve been,” said Arthur, fixing me with his kind, sad eyes.
Away from the squishy couch and the box of tissues, his question seemed unnatural, prying, and his voice too loud. I felt exposed.
“Is something wrong?” Arthur’s brow creased with concern and he leaned a fraction closer and placed his hand tentatively on my arm. “You don’t need to feel uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe.”
But his words sent panic coursing through me, and I shrank from his touch as though he was diseased. What were we doing together on a picnic rug in a secluded park? Was he coming on to me? I was sure a line had been crossed, and every molecule inside me turned against him. “I don’t like it here,” I said, flatly. “I want to go back to the office.”
“Of course,” said Arthur, immediately getting to his feet. “Wherever you feel more comfortable.” He stood up too quickly, and his papers scattered in a gust of wind. With pathetic flapping movements, he chased them around the small park. I should have helped him but embarrassment paralyzed me, and I turned away, pretended I didn’t know him. On the walk back, I hurried ahead, picking up speed whenever Arthur tried to catch up. Back in the office, he tried to continue the session, but I felt no less uncomfortable and couldn’t shake off the sensation of disgust. “I need to go,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “It was foolish of me to suggest going to the park.”
His apology made him seem even feebler, and it was all I could do to stay long enough to get out my checkbook and pay him.