“Perfect. You’re here,” he says. “We can get started.”
He leads me into the office. I’m not sure what I expected to see upon entering. A dark room lit only by the glow of a few candles, perhaps? Jars lined along the shelves of his bookcases containing souvenirs from his enemies and the disembodied souls of the students he’s collected?
But there is hardly anything noteworthy in his office at all. If I didn’t know he’s worked here for the past three years, I would assume he had only just arrived. Surprisingly, there is an abundance of light that filters in through the window overlooking a garden in the courtyard. Textbooks, and not shrunken heads or potion bottles, line the walls of his bookshelves.
His desk is potentially the saddest part of all. There is nothing but a generic desk calendar, a filing tray and enough space for his laptop. No personal tokens, no family photos. Not even a knick-knack or two to add something of his own personality into the mix.
You’re a psychology major. What does that say about a man?
Closed-off. Unemotional. Detached.
Off-limits.
“I’ve reviewed your file,” he says, claiming a seat and gesturing for me to take the chair across the desk from him. “While you have a noble cause in mind, there are some flaws in your proposal.”
Damn, I haven’t even sat down yet.“Ok. How do we fix them?”
Professor Hawthorne opens his laptop and clicks a few keys on his keyboard before adding, “Well, first you want to provide relief for mental health patients in poverty, correct?”
I take my seat, ignoring the cool tone in his voice that reminds me of the day we first met. That same condescending reaction, as if those in poverty should be more concerned about food rather than the state of their mental health. And while Maslow would argue that theory holds plenty of weight, a person who is not in their healthiest frame of mind cannot make rational decisions about their future.
I should know.
“Anyone who can’t access mental healthcare,” I explain. “Be that veterans, domestic violence victims or the homeless. But yes, my research was mainly geared toward those in lower-economic standings, since they are the least likely to have access to it.”
His eyes flick over the screen in front of him. They are not focused on me or the sudden breathlessness in my words. “And in your proposal, you are suggesting there is a correlation between poverty and mental health? When in fact, mental health is only a small portion of economic standing.”
I stiffen. The implication in his words is enough to irritate me, but I refuse to lose my temper or show any signs of being flustered. This is no minor argument to be taken lightly. I have seen first-hand what happens to communities who suffer from a lack of mental healthcare, and I will not have my ideas dismissed so easily.
“I am suggesting that the lack of mental health care and education about the warning signs is much more prevalent below the poverty line,” I say. “Even those living right on the margins, making enough to provide for their families, but not enough to receive government assistance, will not always have the extra hundred dollars or so to go to a therapist once a month, or even once a week.”
“But they would have health insurance.”
I take a deep breath before answering. He’s goading me now. There is no other reasoning for his shallow responses. Or is he that out of touch with the common man that he doesn’t see how difficult it is for most working families to bite the bullet and go to the doctor when it’s necessary?
“Not all health insurance companies cover therapy sessions.” My fingernails are digging into the armrests beneath them. I can’t help but wonder what miraculous theories Jackson Riley concocted to earn this man’s favor. “And even when they do, a person is much less likely to pay for therapy sessions that could run anywhere from once a month to once or twice a week, when they might only have to pay a copay once or twice a year for regular healthcare services.”
“So how does all of this pertain to poverty levels?”
My chest tightens. Did he not read my proposal? Did he not major in psychology? Or do any kind of work in the field? “Mental health contributes to addiction, to violence, to homelessness. It’s- It’s everything.”
I struggle for the right words, so flustered at the thought of what’s happening that I can barely speak. Am I really having to argue this? The only example I can think of hits too close to home. He doesn’t have to know that. If I burst into tears in his office trying to explain myself, he will think I am completely incapable of handling this apprenticeship.
He is watching me, intently. Coldly. The sensation is a shock to my system, like someone dumping ice water on me after an eternity in the desert. This is not the man I knew from before, the man who affectionately held me in his arms to protect me from bludgeoning myself on a rake and some stepping stones. This is not the man whose pale green eyes have been the centerpiece of my dreams for the past few days.
This man is distant. As far away from me as the sun.
I inhale one long stream of breath to steady myself. “Take, for example, a woman who loses her husband. Not only has she lost the love of her life and a father for her child, but she has lost a source of income and has likely accrued medical debts as a result.”
His brow furrows. Did something in my voice give me away? I push forward.
“The stress from having to console her daughter, having her household income cut in half and managing the bills, all while trying to pretend she isn’t breaking on the inside, is enough to send her spiraling into depression.” I hear a note in my voice crack, and I pause. I’m very close to losing myself, to forgetting where I am and who I am with, as well.
I refocus my thoughts. He seems to notice, shifting uneasily in his seat before crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze continues to level over mine, seeking the answers I’m trying to reveal without giving too much of myself away. I’ve already told this man far more than any level of our acquaintance should dictate. He knows what drives me, what sparks my passions. He knows pieces of my past I try to hide from others. What is it about him that both encourages me to share my secrets and hide from him all at the same time?
“Anyway,” I continue, trembling despite pacing myself. I must look ridiculous pleading a case so desperately without any real foundation in his eyes. “Without assistance, she is unable to fully drag herself out of the problem she’s been led into by circumstance. If she took any time off of work to handle funeral arrangements, that takes away from vacation days or sick pay. She can take off of work with systems like bereavement leave, but that won’t solve the problem of her bills getting paid.”
“And why should anyone care about this?”