![]() She’s wearing glossy emerald-green pants, a tight black bodice, and a scooped neck. She pulls off her coat mid-stride displaying leopard-print details on the cuffs and hood. “Just a moment,” she says and swooshes into the office with the blue painting. When the front door opens, I swivel around and see a woman rushing down the hallway, coat swaying. There’s a blue, unframed painting of some cat animal on the wall. Next to the waiting area is an empty office with an open door. While I wait, I look around the empty waiting room: pamphlets, posters, and nice but scuffed furniture. “Yes, with Claudine,” I say, but her face is blank, “For hypnotherapy?” I add. I see the door at the end of a hallway and step into a bright office.Īfter adjusting to the light, I see wall-to-wall windows that give Montreal’s trademark view of the mountain with the cross on top. I follow the arrows pointing the way through the bowels of the building, where things are darker, and the fluorescent lights don’t quite reach the corners. Luckily there are signs for the therapist’s office on the walls. The lobby is outfitted with an odd mix of tiles, which feels appropriate because lately, that’s what my brain feels like: a jumble of ill-fitted things I can’t make heads or tails of. My life before kids is becoming increasingly foggy. When I get to the doorway, I realize I’ve been here before, maybe for an art show or to buy something weird like a used lens cap, but I can’t remember. ![]() I’m heading towards the eleven-story cement blocks that used to house sweat shops and now feature artist studios, vegan restaurants, and, somewhere, an alternative medical center where I will have my first hypnotherapy session. I walk towards the old garment district, where the sidewalks are busy with tech professionals and Hasidic mothers with strollers. I used to live around here, and now, after four years in the suburbs, I feel like a tourist. I stop to drain the last of my latte, licking the dissolved froth heart stuck to the rim. The sun is intense, but the temperature of the air is hovering around zero. It’s late March, and a cold snap has just ended. I’m walking up the sunny side of a residential street in Montreal.
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