On the other side of the Atlantic, Christian Yates raced to present his first lecture as a newly graduated psychologist.
“What was I thinking?” Christian cursed the day he had purchased the hard-soled Italian shoes, as they announced his tardiness long before his arrival. He imagined the four hundred Psych 101 undergrads sitting quietly and listening as the ridiculous click-clack of his shoes drew closer and closer. One peek through the tiny window in the door reinforced his fears.
The silence amplified his already pounding heartbeat as he watched the carnivores, drenched in the early morning sun, anticipating their prey. The nervous tic in his right eye was an inescapable reminder of how much he needed this Assistant Professorship.
This tic had cursed Christian since his father’s brutal death when he was just nine years old. Years of childhood therapy had taught him how to suppress it in all but the most stressful situations. Those same years of therapy were the sparks that ignited Christian’s passion for psychology. He desperately wanted to help others the way he had been helped, but, deep inside, he also prayed it might finally liberate him from a lifetime of suffering and shame.
Longing to be just another student, Christian rallied his courage as he slowly turned the squeaky brass doorknob. The unfortunate, haunting creak echoed throughout the acoustically enhanced lecture hall, drawing everyone’s attention to Christian’s late arrival.
The ensuing barrage of penetrating stares and indistinguishable whispers carried him down the crowded stairs to the lonely podium like an avalanche settling at the base of a mountain.
Christian knew all too well what some of the whispers were about.
Light tapping on the unresponsive microphone only drew more attention to the late start. This was a painfully poor prologue to what could be the most important lecture of his life.
Dr. Jamison, the department chair, stormed up to the podium and grabbed the microphone, hissing, “This isn’t rocket science.”
The dandruff on Dr. Jamison’s shoulders accentuated his over-rehearsed Freudian expression, which fooled nobody. While making several crude adjustments, he further contaminated Christian’s personal space, whispering, “Half the psychology department is watching. You’d better stick to the preapproved talking points, or else…” Christian couldn’t tell which was more offensive, Dr. Jamison’s breath or his threats. “You’re only here because you bring out the ‘savior complex’ in Dean Edwards.”
He wasn’t wrong. Dean Edwards was the reason Christian was at the university in the first place. Very few people knew Christian was from the South, and even fewer knew that Dean Edwards was once his pediatric psychiatrist down in North Carolina. Edwards had run the county mental health facility where Christian received years of therapy after his father’s death.
Christian’s case led to a series of groundbreaking publications on dissociative amnesia and repressed memories that elevated Dr. Edwards to the top of his field, eventually landing him the deanship of the university.
Dr. Jamison couldn’t resist adding just a little more insult to the injury. “If it were up to me, you’d never step foot in this university again. And for God’s sake, stand up straight!”
Christian was a textbook product of childhood trauma. Nervous tics aside, he was constantly trying to shrink his six-foot-four frame in the hopes of avoiding a repeat of whatever horrific thing it was that he locked away as a child, like a beaten dog cowering and tucking its tail when threatened. It was so ingrained that he only noticed when reminded by people like Dr. Jamison.
Amazing how times they change, Christian thought to himself. Just two years ago, Dr. Jamison couldn’t stop singing his praises. “Everyone, come meet Christian, the psychology department’s Golden Boy! His case study on Collin Trevor has given our program unprecedented exposure in the most prestigious journals and media around the world!” A wave of nausea washed over Christian as he chanced a brief memory of Collin.
