"It's Bride, Harold Bride, Miss" He said. My first client was a tall man with a lack of confidence. Mr Bride used a cane to angle himself from the waiting room armchair. He extended a cautious hand for a greeting.
"Sarah Burkhart." I replied, clasping his hand. "This way, Mr. Bride."
We walked down the short corridor to the small room towards the back of the building. I tried to match Mr Bride's limping pace out of courtesy.
The interview room had grown homely over the past few days, like a anchor in this vast ocean of a city. I hoped that the preparations I had made would seem welcoming to Mr. Bride. I needed to make the right impression, especially in a profession that was still finding its footing in the world.
The caretaker had managed to excavate two armchairs for our session. They were dated and covered in a faded floral carpet material. Thankfully, the few hours I had spent on Sunday had helped to wash out most of their musty smell.
"Please, take a seat," I said to Mr. Bride as he lingered in the doorway like a ghost to its headstone.
By the time I had gathered my note-taking items, Mr. Bride had perched himself on the edge of his seat, still in his overcoat. He clutched his hat in his lap, wringing it absently. I considered offering to take it, but he seemed far too nervous to be disturbed any further. He seemed like he'd fall apart at the mere sound of a pin drop.
I gave a reassuring smile and took my own seat, smoothing my skirt. Could he tell I was nervous? Inexperienced?
"Will the doctor be coming soon?" Mr. Bride asked suddenly, his eyes darting to the door.
It wasn't an unusual question to receive, especially for me.
"No, Mr. Bride. I'm the psychologist that the White Star Line has asked for you to see"
It struck me how young his face was; surprise sweeping over it momentarily. Young, yet he had survived such tragedy already.
He glanced away, unsure of the realisation.
"This is disappointing?" I inquired.
He startled. "No, no," he corrected himself. "I just, I thought I would be seeing a doctor and they'd be deciding if I'd be shipped off."
Again, nothing I hadn't heard before and I selfishly began to fear that this would be a rather tame case and not the career-defining study I had hoped for.
"Shipped off to Blackwell Island, I presume?"
He gave a guilty nod. Had he come prepared to resign himself to a life in a miserable asylum? No wonder he was so wary.
"Well Mr Bride, I do not intend to commit you to Blackwell, and it is not a place you should aspire to be. As far as I know, no one who goes there has a chance of recovering." I explained.
"Is there a chance for recovery?" he asked meeting my gaze.
"What do you need to recover from?" I asked cryptically. In these moments, I took pleasure in the freedom from conversational conventions my job afforded me. In these moments, all the sacrifices seemed worth it. My dorm mother had called this quality in me "wicked," my mentor in psychology had called it "inquisitive," and some had even said I was "brazen."
"I can't sleep at night, and this keeps happening," he said, blinking harshly. He rubbed his eyes to wipe the invisible irritant away.
"The blinking?" I asked.
"Yes, this blasted blinking" Bride said with a prickle of irritation.
"It's called psychogenic blepharospasm. Otherwise known as excessive blinking caused by stress. So don't go buying any snake oil from the chemist for it" I said with light humour.
He looked away, clutching the hat in his lap. This was another involuntary movement caused by stress; I didn't think it would be helpful to point out. I decided to change tactics.
"Truthfully, Mr Bride," I said, "and I don't like to steer clients too early on, but I was given some information on you before your arrival." I sensed Mr Bride might need some coaxing into therapy. I began flicking through the documents that Lord Mersey's errand boy had delivered.
"I understand that you were one of the 31 crew members pulled from the water after the Titanic sank" I stated this fact bluntly, testing for a reaction. Bride shifted uncomfortably and his eyes fixed on the window. He stared at the ghostly outlines of nearby buildings through the fog, probably wishing he could be anywhere but here.
The rhythm of silence fell between us. It stretched so long that I began to feel entirely alone, knowing that Bride had wandered far from here, into the depths of his memories. I joined him in staring out at the hazy landscape, its blank canvas enticing deep thought.
No matter. I was used to silence.
"Is that all they've told you?" Bride eventually asked, shattering the comfortable quiet. He was the kind of man you forgot was there.
"All of New York has been reading the newspapers these past few weeks; now newsstands are crowded before they even open." I explained. The public were like pigeons on breadcrumbs with their newspapers, snatching and tearing at the pages for any new details.
A sardonic smile danced across his mouth and he gave a soft scoff.
"But what I am interested in is your story, Mr. Bride," I said, leaning forward slightly, hoping to elicit engagement from him.
"Why?" he asked in a dejected tone. No doubt Bride had been hounded by more than one New York journalist. They were persistent little blighters at the best of times.
"No, for you Mr. Bride," I said, settling back into my chair. His eyes followed me closely. "So you can explore what happened."
"Why on earth would I want to relive that night? Remember everything I saw and heard?" He asked, offended by the idea. It was the most emotion he had shown thus far. So there was something to work with.
The sinking was clearly a painful memory. Of course it would be for any survivor, but I noticed in this otherwise meek man a sense of anger. Anger at himself? The Titanic? The White Star Line? The world?
Mr Bride remained silent, and childishly, I grew impatient. My mentor had told me that in therapy it was best to think twice as much as you spoke. So, I decided to lay all my cards on the table for Mr. Bride, hoping to spark some sort of progress. By now, the clock on my desk read fifteen minutes.
"It all happened so fast; it sank in within two hours, if not less. And then your body was simply trying to survive in conditions that so many others didn't.
I can also imagine your time in New York has been eventful. Being called to so many preliminary hearings and dashing around alleyways to avoid journalists. Well, it must be exhausting.
Then when you go back to whatever home is and want a reprieve from everything that's happened. But you can't find it. The night of the sinking is more real than ever when you lay down to sleep in your unfamiliar bed. It's somehow more vivid than when it actually happened. And you're glad when day breaks to save you from your mind, when you can see people living their lives while you move through yours like a shadow"
Bride slowly reared back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the starkness of my account. But this room was small and my eyes were watchful, so he had nowhere to run. Sometimes you confronted reality, and other times it confronted you.
"Sound familiar? How wrong was I?" I asked with the satisfaction of an underestimated pupil stunning their teacher.
Bride held my gaze for a moment. Doubt and suspicion sat plainly on his face.
He said, "I walk at night."
"Walk?" I echoed, confused.
"Yes, I walk when I can't sleep," Bride said. "Miss Burkhart, I've walked so much that I've had to get the heels of my boots repaired." He said. He looked more exhausted after admitting this, his body giving a sigh in protest of the burden it had been carrying.
Finally, a breakthrough.
"Will you let me see if we can get you sleeping more and less walking?" I said.
He took longer to think about it than I would have liked. However, I reminded myself he had no reason to trust me. I had been hired by the very men who put him on that ship. But it seemed my description of his life wasn't too far off as he nodded slowly. A spark of hope flared in his eyes that I might be able to help him.
"How are you going to do that?" he asked, his voice softer than it had been at any point during the conversation thus far.
"Talking, Mr Bride," I said, "only talking. And even if I weren't a psychologist, I would say that you look like a man who could use someone to talk to." I said, offering him a kinder tone.
He sighed, knowing he had to concede. Settling back into the chair, he resigned himself to the fact he might have to spend quite some time in it.
My mentor had also said this was the hardest part for any psychologist: convincing a client of your expertise.
Now, surely the rest should be easy.