In Your Dreams, Chapter 8: Ericka

Chapter 8: Ericka

(Tuesday, March 4, 2014)

The warm muted earth tones that decorated the therapist’s office gave it a cozy, hygge feel, soothing my nervousness. A hint of lavender in the air tickled my nose as I checked in with the receptionist and found a chair to wait. My heart slowed from an urgent pound to a less labor-intensive thump, and I settled down into an overstuffed microfiber chair in a scrumptious shade of chocolate brown. The many different pieces of art layering the walls, from faceless Annie Lee prints to carved animated expressions on wooden masks, provided an added distraction. Like being in a tiny gallery, but no signs identifying the artists.

Dr. Herbert called my name as though she was calling me in for dinner. She wore an orange duster that flowed behind her as she walked, making her movements fluid as though she were floating. Her demeanor was calming, and I immediately liked her.

“Take a seat. Welcome,” she instructed, smiling brightly. Her teeth, a brilliant white, like sugar had never touched her lips. She stood politely, until I took the seat directly across from her, leaning my cane against the arm of my chair. She then sat, folding her hands in her lap.

She began. “I’m happy you’re here. Tell me, what brings you in today and why you decided to seek therapy?”

I wasn’t sure where to begin. I was there for the nightmares, but suddenly, I felt the urge to share so much more. I began to talk.

“Well, I’ve been having nightmares for a couple of years. And in the last few months, they’ve become more frequent. And pretty intense.”

“I see.” She picked up a pen and pad from an ottoman next to her chair. "Do you mind if I take notes? They help me keep track of important points during our discussions. I use them to refer back to as needed."

I shook my head.

She continued.

"How long would you say they’ve been going on?”

My thoughts were interrupted as my phone rang loudly in the middle of our session. I scrambled to gather it up and silence it before it could ring again. “Sorry about that. I meant to turn it off before I got here. But umm, A couple of years, maybe? But I’d say they’ve been a lot worse within the last few months.” My face grew hot from embarrassment and irritation when I noticed who the call came from.

“No worries,” assured Dr. Herbert, as she continued to scribble away on her pad while I opened my phone settings and hit ‘silent.’ I set the phone face up on my lap and she continued her inquiry.

“Have you experienced any past or recent trauma?”

I nodded.

“I was shot three times in the back a couple of years ago before I moved to the area.”

As I spoke, my phone, though now silenced, lit up to reclaim my attention. I rolled my eyes, picked up the phone, and put it in my bag.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologized again.

“It’s fine! It can be a good thing to have people who are concerned about you,” she smiled.

“Yeah, overly concerned, if you ask me,” I mumbled.

I thought she might be interested in exploring the topic of my ‘concerned’ caller further. But she apparently wasn’t. She continued as if nothing happened.

“First, let me say I’m so sorry that happened to you. And I’m so glad you are still with us.”

I nodded, shifting in my seat. As much as I felt ready to unburden, it was uncomfortable talking about the shooting. Other than a few surface level conversations with my friends, I always avoided talking about in depth. And after Desmond made the offer for me to move and work with him, I shifted all my attention and efforts into relocating. Dr. Herbert continued.

“People respond to trauma in a variety of ways, recurrent or intruding thoughts, inability to sleep, depression, angry outbursts, recurring dreams about the event. Trauma can even trigger a physiological response in our bodies, like heart palpitations or even panic attacks. Are you experiencing anything else besides the nightmares?”

“I don’t feel depressed that I know of." I kept my little outburst with Desmond to myself. "And I don’t really think about what happened. I just keep having the same nightmare over and over. He’s standing over me, taunting me right before he blows my brains out. And then I wake up, and my heart is racing. I know it’s a dream, but I can’t make myself go back to sleep afterwards.”

Dr. Herbert crossed her legs and wrote some more before she spoke again.

“So, this is affecting your sleep at night?”

I nodded.

“It sounds like you may be experiencing PTSD. I’d like to do an assessment to confirm and then we can try some cognitive behavioral therapy to see if we can get control of these intrusive thoughts in your head.”

I frowned.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a series of techniques we use to change negative thought patterns and give you coping skills to help you develop new ones.”

“Oh, okay. So, what do I have to do?”

“I’ll give you some things to work on at home. And we’ll do some activities here. And we’ll talk through some of the issues that you may be having that’s keeping you stuck. I’ll send you the assessment to fill out online, and we can go over it at your next appointment.”

I shrugged, trying to digest a possible PTSD diagnosis.

Dr. Herbert thanked me for coming in and ushered me to the receptionist desk to schedule a follow-up appointment. I was still feeling a little skeptical about this whole therapy thing. But somehow, just saying what I had been dealing with out loud to someone who seemed to understand what I was going through did make me feel better.

I pulled out my phone when I got to the car. I had a total of five missed calls. I huffed angrily and swiped open my settings again to turn the ringer back on the phone. I could maybe understand that he didn’t know I was in an appointment. But what the hell was so important for him to keep calling me back-to-back? I was tempted to not even return the call. But someone calling you back-to-back five times in a row might mean something was wrong. I pressed the button to return the call and started my car. His sunny mood when he answered only irritated me all the more.

“When I call you, you’re supposed to pick up on the first ring.” I knew him well enough to know He was joking, but he was subliminally sending a message. He expected me to make myself available to him on a whim the way I used to do before we broke up and I moved away.

“You must have the wrong number,” I sniped back. “There’s nobody here doing that foolery. Why you blowing up my phone, anyway, Reese? What do you need?”

Maurice was unfazed.

“I need you to let me come up there and put this thang on you like I used to, so you can calm your ass down. Why you got an attitude today? Dang! A nigga can’t call you and put no smile on your face?”

Earpiece in place so I could drive hands-free, I backed out of the parking space and shot out of the parking lot like I was the police. I hit the brake as I rounded the corner before I messed around and got a ticket.

“Why are you so eager to make me smile, now? When I was at home, we barely saw each other. And I had to blow you up to get you on the phone. So, I freed you and even moved away so you wouldn’t have to be bothered. Now, I’m two hours away and I still can’t seem to get rid of you. What gives, Maurice?”

I had slowed down but was using one hand to gesture wildly, as if he could see me. I tried not to let him take me there. It was hard to remain friends with an ex, when they still acted like you were a couple. And I really didn’t want him back. It was just lonely being single and he was familiar. Toxic. But familiar.

“I seen your Mom earlier when I called you. She was downtown coming out the post office. I asked her how you were doing, and she said, ‘Why don’t you call her and ask her, yourself?’”

I’m her baby. She knew I had an appointment, though, so I know she didn’t mean for Reese to call at that moment.

“What else my messy ass mama say?” I knew there had to be more to it than that.

“Not much. She said y’all having a party next month.”

And there it was. Toy and Germaine’s engagement party. It was set to be party of the year. A who’s who of regional celebrities, and hopefully some national ones, too. A huge display of black excellence. Since neither had much family, it would be more of like a coming out party for Toy; for her to learn to hobnob and network. Toy didn’t want the party, but Germaine insisted that she practice being comfortable in a room full of strangers wearing something besides sweats and tees. He did a lot of formal affairs for business, and he wanted her to be by his side, but comfortable and confident, which she was neither. Natalie, Renee, and I equally encouraged it because who doesn’t want to go to a party and be in a room full of celebrities?

“Oh, yeah. Toy’s engagement party. What about it?”

Maurice hesitated before responding.

“Can I be your plus-one?”

I groaned. “Really, Reese? You’re calling me to help you crash my best friend’s engagement party?” I pressed the accelerator when the light turned green. I was only a few blocks from home.

“Come on, E. Middle! You got an inside track to some ballers that want to spend money. I got a new luxury line that I’m about to start carrying and I need to expand my clientele so I can move it.”

I gripped the steering wheel tight, as though I was turning into rush hour traffic instead of my driveway. Maurice continued begging.

“And it’s not just the connect, E. Ever since you left, I’ve been lost, man. I mean, I knew I was gonna miss you. But I didn’t know it was gonna be like this. If you go up in there without me, it’ll be other dudes all on you. And I don’t wanna see you with nobody else. It’s bad enough Desmond up there keeping you and getting to look in your face every day.”

It was like someone sucked the air from my body as the darkness swallowed me with the automatic closing of the garage door. I barely remembered to shut off the car’s engine as I sat dumbfounded at Maurice’s piss poor attempt at wooing me back so he could be my date to Toy’s engagement party.

“Desmond keeping me? That’s the best you can come up with to get me to take you back?”

“I’m saying. You up there living in a spot he paying for,” he complained, attempting to justify that foul insinuation.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I spat into the phone, “but if I were a kept woman, I damn sure wouldn’t be dragging my ass out of bed every morning to go to a job to work for him. Kept women get to sit on their ass all day, unless they’re out getting their nails and hair done!”

“Well, you gotta be doing something else for him, the way he got you out there living all lavish on the beach and shit.” He was determined to die on that hill.

“Why is that? I’ve done a lot more for you than I have for him…for a whole lot less! You know what, Reese? Kiss my well-kept ass! I got a plus-one! Call Toy and ask her if you can come. Shit, it’s her party.”

Reese began to back track. “Man, I didn’t mean it…”

I stopped him mid-sentence. “That’s always been your problem. You’ve never meant it. You never cared. Unless you thought it was someone else involved. Now, what? You gonna try and shame me into taking you back? Well, you can’t shame a nigga with no shame. I’m over here minding my business, living my life. I ain’t never asked you for a damn thing. Not even when we were together. You called me. I didn’t call you. Now, do me a favor. Call somebody else with your jealous, hatin’ ass.” I ended the call and flung my car door open to get out. “He got me fucked up,” I muttered to myself, tapping the can on the cement floor of the garage, secretly relishing in the fact that he was finally sweating me for a change.

© 2024, Evelyn Outlaw

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