Our first long fiction offering comes from Phyllis Mathis, one of the founders of Voca Femina. Phyllis is a writer, a psychotherapist, and a life coach, living and working in Littleton, CO. Her novel is entitled Cold Counsel.
Of this work, Phyllis says, “I’m writing this story on a whim, just to try my hand at writing fiction. I have to tell you it’s addictive, not to mention therapeutic. Susan Nelson is a therapist after my own heart – good natured, but with a considerable amount of personal work to do. She’d rather be saving the world than paying attention to her own craziness. I hope you enjoy her as much as I do.”
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Chapter 1
At 10:30 on a Monday night, in the dead middle of a Minnesota winter, Susan Beverly Nelson, Licensed Clinical Social Worker, stepped out of her office building and into the wind. It was far too late to be out in this weather. The therapy group she facilitated had been over since 9:00, but Susan had stayed to finish some long-overdue paperwork. Session notes, billing, filing, preparing for a staffing on Wednesday, these were convenient excuses to put off going home to a dark, cold, and very empty house.
The weather people had predicted this night, calling it a sudden cold snap, but with wind gusts at 30mph, this was far more serious than a mere cold snap. Wind chills took the temperature down to a minus seventy, making this a dangerous night to be out. Fortunately she had only a couple of miles to go to get home. If only the car would start.
“Please God, let it start, let it start, please God please, let the car start” she whispered, more an incantation than a prayer, as she prepared to make her way through the powdery ripples of windblown snow to the middle of the lot where she’d parked her dear old Camry. Susan felt bad for her trusty Toyota. It had waited in the parking lot, exposed to the elements as the temperature dropped, unprotected for a full twelve hours.
Don’t fail me this time.
She puckered her lips on the exhale in an effort to calm her breathing. Calm always starts with the breathing.
“Please, please, please let it start.”
The icy fingers of an inevitable fear began to wrap around the pit of her stomach. As she made her way to the middle of the empty lot, the swish of her nylon coat and the crunch of her boots in the dry, powdery snow were amplified in the sub-zero temperature. Some find this phenomenon fascinating, the way the smallest sounds carry further and clearer through the cold winter air. Susan did not. Her traumatized brain converted these innocuous sounds into shrieking alarms, and on cue, those icy fingers gave her adrenals a violent squeeze.
Susan B. Nelson was afraid of the dark. More than that she was afraid of the cold. Very afraid. Susan B. Nelson, degreed social worker with 12 years experience as a clinical therapist, was afraid – no, terrified – of the dark and the cold.
Some other night, safe and warm before the fire at home, she would be free to ponder again the irony of such a thing – that she, a seasoned therapist, healer, and counselor, had never overcome the most basic of childhood fears. Perhaps tomorrow night, mug of cocoa in hand, under a comfy down throw and her full-spectrum lamp, she would smile and shake her head. She’d let herself off the hook, and chalk it up to a lesson in humility. Tomorrow, maybe, would bring the luxury of reflection, but not tonight. Tonight she had to get through this without falling apart.
Deep breath, Susan, here we go. We can do this.
Her teeth began to chatter as the wind forced its way through her wool scarf, stinging her eyes, and shooting up through the bottom of her down coat. She’d assumed the position already: the Minnesota Hunchover, the Uptown Hunkerdown, the Duluth Duck- Inside-Your-Collar. She’d been practicing these moves since before she could remember. But tonight, nothing was going to help. It was just too cold.
Step one. Get to the car. Step two, put the key in the ignition. Step three, pray. Step four, turn the key and hope for a miracle. Focus on each step as it comes. Do not give in to fear.
Keys are difficult to manipulate with mitten-clad hands, but in a Minnesota winter, it’s better to be clumsy than to suffer from frostbite. In temperatures like these, gloves are simply inadequate. Only mittens will do, and only the finest. But when the bulk of these fine mittens caused Susan to drop the keys in the snow beside her trusty old Camry, her panic threatened to spike.
Why didn’t I bring the Lexus? I’m such an idiot! God, what was I thinking?
Breathe Susan, breathe.
She was panting and shivering now, trembling from the cold and quaking from an old fear, resident in her body. Now it was a race between the task and the panic. If only the car would start…
Squelching a whimper, she took a breath, picked up the keys and crammed the one marked Toyota into the metal lock. She cranked it hard and opened the door, the hinge complaining with a cold metal screech.
Another whimper, louder than before, escaped her guard as she slid behind the wheel and forced the frozen door to close. Feeling empowered, she found the ignition, whispered her “please God” prayer once again, and turned the key. The moment of truth.
“Rrrrrrrr, click.”
Again.
“Rrrrrrrr, click.”
Again, dammit!
“Rrrrrrrr, click.”
Then just “click.”
Her animal howl pierced even the wind as panic erupted from deep in her throat. Beating the steering wheel and weeping with terror, screaming and thrashing and twisting with rage, she spent herself like this, thoroughly gripped by the force of her fear. Hyperventilating, spent by exertion and the racing of her heart, Susan mercifully passed out.
Several minutes passed.
As her breathing and heart rate returned to normal, Susan’s bones began to register the seeping cold. Her fingertips were aching, and a voice from deep inside began to whisper to her submerged consciousness. Softly, just enough to be acknowledged and then quickly fade from memory, the voice delivered its message, “Susan. Wake up. It’s time to go.”
She opened her eyes.
In a moment of eerie calm, she looked around, completely detached and oddly curious. The windshield was thoroughly fogged in, the frost making crystal lace patterns on the glass. Tendrils of frost had formed on her scarf, where the moisture of her breath had condensed on the wool. Her body was stiff and sluggish in the cold.
Not good.
With a sudden burst, she bolted from the car and up to the door of the medical building. She flung herself at the glass, pounding and screaming, just in case there was someone inside.
She remembered the key card she’d left in her desk drawer. She seldom needed it, since most days she arrived just a couple of hours before noon, and by midmorning the front door had been open for some time. She didn’t have the key card with her.
Think, Susan, Think! The phone.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“My car won’t start.”
“Excuse me? Your car won’t start? Ma’am, this is not Triple A.”
“Look, mister, it’s 10:30. The parking lot is empty. I have no phone numbers and it’s a deep freeze out here! I can’t get into the building and I can’t walk home. If I spend much more time out here I’ll freeze to death! Now get me some goddamned help!”
Within minutes a squad car arrived, and the officer kindly gave her a jump and followed her home.
After an hour of soaking in her claw-foot tub, up to her chin in the hottest water she could stand, and after downing three ounces of her dad’s brandy, she finally stopped trembling, and began to sob. The sobbing continued, off and on throughout the night, under the covers with the electric blanket on high.
“Damn, that was close,” said the voice, when at last poor Susan had fallen asleep.
Fiction 