Page 17 of The Therapist

TEN

Lana

When I drive out of the parking garage, the sky darkens, rain threatening. Summer feels an eternity away.

I have keyed Sandy’s address into my GPS and I should get there in about half an hour.

Possible reasons for her missing the session circle in my mind.

Perhaps she and Mike have sorted everything out and he has promised to go and get help for his violent outbursts.

A very unlikely scenario. It’s not that I don’t believe violent men have some hope of changing, of redeeming themselves, but I do know how much work it takes and that work begins with admitting what you are doing.

Mike is nowhere near close to that, especially if he is accusing her of being the violent one. Unless he’s telling the truth.

Perhaps she was just running really late and decided not to come, although she should have called to cancel.

She could have a sick child and have forgotten.

That’s the one that makes the most sense.

I remember when Iggy was five, which is how old Sandy’s daughter Lila is.

When they’re sick at that age, they are really unwell and then almost instantly better.

Iggy had a bout of tonsilitis at five years old that sent his temperature soaring.

It went so high that I called Oliver and told him he had to come and get us to take us to the hospital.

I was exhausted from lack of sleep and didn’t trust myself to drive.

After two doses of antibiotics, Iggy was his usual self and I felt like I might never recover. I’m sure that’s what happened with Sandy.

When I pull up outside Sandy’s house, it’s started raining, making it hard to see.

Checking her address again, I make sure I have the right number and then I wait in my car, watching the house.

The home is typical of the older suburb with red bricks and white painted timber window frames.

Red roof tiles look like they need to be repainted but the front garden is nicely done with a stone path and flower beds surrounded by wood palings.

There aren’t a lot of flowers but I’m sure there will be in the spring.

I wonder if when she was at school, this is where she expected to end up, and then I chide myself for the unkind thought.

As I watch, a black Toyota pulls into the driveway and the driver’s door opens. I slouch a little in my seat, certain that this is Sandy and not wanting her to see me.

But it’s not Sandy who gets out of the car. It’s Mike. He moves quickly, opening the back passenger doors and getting the children out of the car. I watch as the children – a little boy who looks exactly like Mike and a little girl who shares Sandy’s delicate features –run for the front door.

The children are not with Sandy so that ends my sick child theory. So where is she?

Mike and the children disappear into the house, the door slamming hard enough for me to hear it across the road. At least none of them even glanced in my direction.

What now?

I can leave it or I can go to the police.

What if nothing is wrong and Sandy is simply out?

Reporting a patient missing because she didn’t attend her therapy session will surely sound unhinged.

I should go home and forget about this but I can’t.

I need to know that this woman is okay. I can’t see another car anywhere but there is a single garage at the front so perhaps it’s in there?

I sit in my car for another five minutes, debating what I should do as the rain gets heavier.

When a small hailstone hits my car, I am tempted to drive away but something keeps me sitting there, and finally, I stop trying to reason myself out of action and open my car door, forgoing an umbrella and simply dashing through the rain to the front door of Sandy’s house.

On the covered front step, I take a deep breath and push down on the bell, listening as it chimes through the house.

No one comes and now the hail is really heavy. Perhaps he hasn’t heard the bell?

I push the bell again, hating that I’m here and that I feel the need to do this.

I should never have agreed to take on Sandy as a client.

I’ve never really worried so much about a client like this before.

My concern over her is taking up way more than my regulation fifteen minutes every day after work.

I’ve had a few patients who were in domestic violence situations before but those were emotional and financial abuse situations and I managed to help those women build up enough strength to leave their marriages or to confront their husbands.

And I was also absolutely certain those patients were telling the truth.

Most of my patients are people just struggling with being in the world and those around them.

Someone in actual physical danger is not something I have dealt with, even during my training.

The door opens, startling me from my thoughts.

‘Lana,’ says Mike.

‘Mike, I’m…’ Now that he is standing in front of me, I realise how silly this is. I have no idea who this man is or what he may be capable of. I should have just sent the police. ‘Sandy missed her appointment.’

‘Do you know where she is?’ he asks.

‘I was going to ask…’ I say, confused.

‘I don’t know where she is. She won’t answer her phone. Do you know where she is?’ he demands again.

Fear ripples through me. The man in front of me looks angry, and worried. Is it an act? Does he actually know where his wife is, and if so, what does that mean?

‘I don’t—’ I start to say and there is a huge clap of thunder.

‘Come in,’ says Mike, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside before I can move away, slamming the door behind me. My heart rate speeds up at the aggressive contact. I catch my breath. What on earth have I gotten myself into?