Chapter 6 - Psych-Out
"Hello. Yes, I'll hold. Hello. My name is Virginia Turner. I would like to make an appointment for my husband. His name is Tim. 5:15 tomorrow? Thank you. That will be fine."
(...the office...the next day...)
Tim sits at his desk, a sour look on his face. He stares at the papers before him. A grunt escapes his lips.
Mr. Hamilton walks by and spots his supposed difficulty. "Hey, Tim, still struggling with the APS reports? I thought you got that settled."
Tim tries to get a handle on his brewing emotions. "I...thought I did too."
"Well, you can always finish them at home like the other night."
The younger man develops a slight twitch in his eye.
(...a couple of hours later...)
The reports are in the same condition as earlier: unfinished. Thankfully, no one had much commented on this. The other employees knew Tim to be a good man, but they kept mainly to themselves.
The man looks at the clock on the wall. 2:56. The hands seem to be stuck there. He glances at his co-workers, who seem to be getting things done faster than him. How can they be happy doing this day in, day out? The sound of silence causes Tim's twitch to re-emerge. He again looks at the clock. The minute hands moves from the ':56' marker...to the ':55' marker.
He reaches his arms out and sweeps the papers off his desk. The spillage gets the attention of his fellow workers.
Without a word, Tim gets up from his desk. People can't help but stare at him; he seemed like such a nice guy. He walks to the elevator and pushes the 'down' button. He scowls; it's like he can feel everyone staring at him...but then, how could they not?
He snaps around. "What!" This quickly sends everyone back to their work. The bell dings and the door opens. He walks in and the door closes.
(...the streets of Dimmsdale...fifteen minutes later...)
Tim drives his car down the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other at his head. Why did life have to suck so much? He turns a corner. His mind drifts back to this morning...
(...the Turner's kitchen...)
Tim is rushing to get his belongings together. Virginia tries to keep up with him.
"Tim, I know you've been feeling...pretty bad these past few days. Somehow, I don't think it's the headaches."
He grunts in response.
"I've signed you up for...for..." The brunette was understandably nervous about telling her husband that she wants him to see a psychologist. Her mind ran through a number of possible suggestions, until... "...a masseuse."
"A masseuse?" For the first time in days, there was elation in the man's voice.
"Yes. She's one of the best in the area. Guaranteed to help you out." Virginia turns her head and bites her lip. She didn't want to lie, but she was backed into this corner, with no other way. It was the truth...except for the 'masseuse' part, at least.
(...the streets of Dimmsdale...)
"So, where is the parlor?"
"Downtown, Doyle Street. Next to the internet cafe."
Tim pulls up to the modest brownstone. There are no parking spaces in front. He mutters a curse as he drives up the street.
(...the brownstone...)
The young man steps into the waiting room. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Magazines up to six months old on a table in the center. A young woman sitting at a desk talking on the phone. This was unlike any massage parlor he'd ever been in...not that he was any kind of connoisseur.
He walks up to the desk. "Hello. Tim Turner. I have an appointment."
The blonde flips through a datebook. "Let's see, Turner, Turner...wow. You're two hours early."
"Yeah. Work let out early. Someone pulled a fire alarm. I'd like to get right to this."
"Certainly. It's the third door on your right." The secretary points the way.
Tim walks down the hallway. He arrives at the room and goes in, wholly unaware of the lettering embossed on the door: 'Jasmine Fenton, Ph.D'.
(...an office...)
The young man closes the door behind him. He glances around the room. Framed degrees. A shelf full of psychology books. A couch. Pretty fancy for a masseuse parlor. The red-haired woman sitting at her desk looks a little overdressed for what he expects, though she sure is pretty enough, right up to her glasses. They were mainly for show, but she does need them from time to time. She can't be more than a few years older than him.
He shrugs his shoulders. "Tim Turner."
"You're two hours early." She doesn't look up from the book she's currently buried in.
"I already went through this with Mary Sunshine out there. I'd really like to, uh...get started." He starts to undo the buttons on his shirt.
The woman looks up. "All right. I--what are you doing?"
"Well, it wouldn't do to get a masseuse with my clothes on, would it?"
She chuckles slightly. This wasn't the first time that a patient was tricked into seeing her...and she knew it wouldn't be the last.
"I hate to break this to you, but this isn't a masseuse parlor." She closes her book and sets it down. "This is a psychiatrist's office."
Tim throws his arms up. "Well, that's just great. So where's the psychiatrist?"
She stretches her hands out, as if to say 'Ta-da!' "You're looking at her."
"I don't need to be here."
"Look. If someone took the time to make an appointment, I'd have to say otherwise."
Tim thinks a bit. He scowls upon arriving at the answer.
"I'm gone."
The woman stands up. "Well, if you don't want to be here, fine. No one's stopping you." Sure enough, Tim's stomp toward the exit goes unimpeded. "Of course, if you're scared, that's fine, too. It'll be our little secret." Tim stops before touching the doorknob. He turns around.
Jasmine smiles. Another popular skill was reverse psychology. Some of her professors instructed her on these tricks between lessons; a little something they used to break the ice with their students.
As he walks back to the couch, she sits in the chair next to it. He lies down on the couch. "So, what is it you do here?"
"People tell me about their problems, then their problems go away."
"Meaning that if I talk about you, you might go away, right?"
She crosses her legs. "Very nice. So what's troubling you?"
"A better question would be 'what isn't troubling me?'. My wife keeps asking me how I feel. I feel fine!"
"Well, maybe she's just concerned for your well-being."
"'Concerned?' What is this, a woman thing? There's nothing wrong with me!" The woman lies back a little in her chair. "I'm just fine. People are always worrying about...!"
(...the streets of Dimmsdale...)
A navy blue car makes its way through traffic. At the wheel is Virginia. She pulls into a parking space next to the park.
She looks at a spiral notebook with a pen on it lying in the passenger's seat. She picks up both items and begins writing.
Where was it written that a woman had to find a man? She couldn't be content with a life of solitude? She knew her friends meant well, but it was her life. Her decisions. Deep down, she felt that if she was never allowed to make her own decisions, she would never truly find happiness.
The brunette puts the pen down and reads over what she's written. "Not bad", she states with a nod. "This'll make a nice addition."
(...Dr. Fenton's office...)
Jasmine had heard that Dimmsdale was a nice, quiet place to live. The fact that it was a mere bridge away helped. A part of her wanted to stay in Amity Park. Her family, her home, her whole life was there. She wanted so much to look after her brother. With what went on in his life, he needed all the help he could get. A couple of years back, he found a woman to stand by him and watch over him. The funny thing was that this woman was in front of him all along and it took him a long time - perhaps too long, the red-head mused - to realize it.
"...and then you get a 'how are you feeling?'. As if the answer isn't obvious!"
Jasmine shakes her head. "Yes. Very interesting." She couldn't be blamed too much for zoning out; when someone started raving like this, it happened involuntarily. Poor manners? Perhaps, but after a decade at this, she found it to be a sound alternative to 'Shut the hell up, you whining baby!'
Tim turns his head around. "Are you even listening to me?" Jasmine is snapped from her reminiscing.
She straightens up and pushes her glasses closer to her face. "Oh, yes, of course I am."
He narrows his eyes. "Then what have I been saying?"
"You feel constricted by your wife's insistence on doting on you, and it's driving a wedge between the two of you."
"Yes," the man replies, surprisedly. Damn her, she's good.
"Tell me, has this been a problem for you in the past?"
"'The past'? Huh. It feels like I was never around, like I was forgotten, while she's living the good life with the..." He uses air quotes for emphasis and adds a mocking tone to his speech. "...'man of her dreams'."
"...man of her dreams? There's another man?"
"Damn right, there was, and I know the guy. A real loser in school. No friends, no popularity, no nothing." He folds his arms. "As far as I'm concerned, she can have him."
"Don't you even want to try to work this out?"
"There's nothing to work out."
"Now, Mr. Turner." The young man winces a little. "Your wife obviously cares a great deal about you. Having met you, I can't fully understand why, but she does. She wants to get you help, but you have to be willing to accept it."
"Look here, Miss..."
"Dr. Fenton. Jasmine Fenton, Ph. D. It's right there on the door."
He shrugs. "Miss...Jasmine. What kind of name is that for a doctor?"
With her name and considerable beauty, Jasmine had to work to prove herself in her field, and wouldn't let anyone undermine her. She exhales, trying to keep calm. "What about you, Tim Turner? What, did you step out of a comic book?"
The brown-haired man gets up. "As much as I...enjoyed our time together, I have to go." He walks toward the door.
"You will be getting a bill for this!"
He's halfway out. "Don't expect me to pay it!" With a slam, the man is gone. Jasmine shakes her head. She's dealt with her share of difficult patients, but he was definitely top five material.