That’s Our Time

This week, Eric Smith’s Dr. Ambrose helps a young family adjust to time’s changes.

~ Julian and Fran, March 9, 2025

March comes to you with Sunday Morning Transport stories by Stephanie Burgis, Eric Smith, Sarena Ulibarri, and Leah Cypess. As always, the first story of the month is free to read.

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That’s Our Time

by Eric Smith

I can hear the family fighting outside my office door.

With a sigh, I get situated in my soft blue-jeans-colored fabric accent-chair-for-one, spectacularly cozy and catty-corner from the sister couch where my patients sit. I run my hands over the armrests.

No matter how many times I sit in this chair, or even on that couch, something about a good piece of fabric furniture is soothing as my fingertips buzz against the pattern’s grain. It’s old, certainly compared to anything out there with smart fabrics. But I don’t need my furniture telling me how it’s doing, that something spilled on it.

Besides. I like a little history.

“We need this!” someone yells from the lobby, a woman, and there’s the sound of ceramic being knocked over. I startle back, my routine interrupted. It was probably a coffee mug from the kitchen that my poor receptionist, Suzanne, will likely sweep up the second the session starts. Thank God IKEA sells mugs in bulk; we’ve ordered the same ones so many times that I even remember the name, which sounds more like a hero in a Norse saga than a ninety-nine-cent cup that comes in packs of twenty-four.

Färgrik.

I tap a button on the intercom sitting on the side table next to my seat, my bullet journal and a marbled pen in a leather catch-all to the left. Suzanne is determined to get me to upgrade to a tablet and one of those pens that has AI in it so it transcribes automatically, but that’s just not for me. And while I’m aware of how bullet journaling “went out of fashion”—thank you, Suzanne—certain things haven’t for me. Probably never will.

“You can send them in, Ms. Colbert.”

“Right away, Dr. Ambrose.”

Before she lifts her finger off the intercom in the lobby, I hear a man’s guttural sob and a woman’s voice muttering “Jesus Christ, Jeff.”

I try not to be judgmental in here. To make assumptions. That’s not the job. And I understand the painful place a lot of these parents often come from all too well. But when things get bad to the point that a family has to come see me and my specialized practice, it is almost always the fault of one person in the family unit. And I try to use “fault” loosely. When dealing with what I do, or any therapist that works with families, there’s got to be some grace with that word.

This time, I know it’s the father.

But there’s always something a little more.

The door to my office opens gently. First, a woman. I peek down at my open notebook, at my scrawled-out prep notes. Julia Anderson. Despite the sharp words I overheard outside the door, the yelling and the frustrated muttering, she has the demeanor of a young high school English teacher. Hip and unbothered, soft highlights in her layered hair, jeans and a vintage band T-shirt. I question whether it’s meant to be sincere or ironic. Morris Day and the Time.

And then Jeff Anderson walks in behind her. She doesn’t hold the door open, and it bumps against his shoulder as he shuffles in, his expression dour, his skin dry. Like he’s cried himself free of moisture. He seems unable to figure out what to do with his hands, balled up and wringing his wrists, his eyes flitting around the room, a frightened animal. While Julia feels like she could walk onto the soundstage of a teen sitcom, he’s wearing corduroy slacks and an elbow-patched jacket, his entire anxious vibe like a community college professor without tenure who knows he’s about to be fired.

“Please,” I say, standing up and gesturing toward the couch in front of me.

Julia takes a seat, and when Jeff joins her, she scoots away a little.

Oh boy.

“Did you find the office okay?” I ask, making a note about their body language.

Jeff chokes back a sob.

“Jeffery, oh my God—” Julia starts, but then exhales sharply and shakes her head a little. Like she’s trying to recenter herself and put on a show. I know this type of patient. They come in, hoping to “win” therapy, which is just a sign something else is going on. Something hidden. She closes her eyes for a minute, her mouth a straight line, before looking at me. “Sorry.”

I reach under my side table, pluck out a box of tissues, and hold it toward Jeff. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and shakes his head, but I wiggle the box at him, nodding.

“Please, I insist.”

He takes the box and places it in his lap.

“So . . . what brings us in today?” I ask.

I ask, but I know.

Julia looks at Jeff, who seems to wilt a little. I wonder how long this has been going on. How long he has been holding on. The wedge of held-on time is a sharp one that never dulls. It just keeps cutting. And these two are wounded. In every session, in every situation like this, when it gets to this point, when science and medicine and religion fail, it can sometimes feel like one parent isn’t just at fault . . . but the enemy. The one with the sharp glares and barbed words, or the one with the pained expressions and wild tears.

Truth is, no one is wrong.

No one is the bad guy.

We’re all just trying to get through it.

I should know.

“Why don’t I start? Maybe talk about how I approach treatment?” I ask after a beat that goes on a little too long. Jeff exhales, like he’s been holding his breath, and probably has. Julia shrugs and nods.

“Well, I’ve been a family chronotherapist for the last ten years.” I lean forward a little. “I went to my undergrad at Drexel University in Philadelphia and then earned my PhD in metaphysical family medicine at Penn. I was lucky enough to work as a resident there for a few years before opening my own practice. I live here in Philadelphia, and I treat patients here, though I do work with a few people from out of town from, excuse the phrase, time to time.”

I smile at them.

I get nothing back.

Great.

“I find that the closer I am to where the problem is,” I continue, “with the family, the easier it is to untangle those threads of time. Treatment is different for everyone. But I hope through talking together, we can understand what has you blocked”—I try not to look at Jeff while I say this, and force myself to glance at the space between them—“and what will effectively get you unstuck—”

Julia sucks at her teeth, and I look over at her.

She shakes her head.

“Is there something—” I start.

“We’ve tried everything,” she says, looking me right in the eyes. “Every doctor at CHOP. We went to church. Church! I haven’t stepped inside a Catholic church since my parents forced me to do confirmation. And then his mother”—she points at Jeff—“his mother came over with a bunch of crystals and sage. Putting rocks all around our house and burning herbs so our home smelled like a damn pizza. I just want this fixed. I just want my boy . . . our boy . . .”

And just like that, she’s crying.

Jeff inches toward her, carefully holding out the tissue box, and she swats at him with one of the throw pillows.

“Don’t!”

Jeff inches back.

“How about,” I continue, scribbling in my journal and also making a note to maybe take the throw pillows out of here, “we start from the beginning. When did you first begin to notice time stopping for . . .”

“Casey,” Jeff says, and it strikes me that this is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is surprisingly gravelly, like he’s smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since he was eight years old, but I suspect it’s from yelling or crying or whatever might be going on in their home. “It was about three years ago.”

“He should be ten years old!” Julia snaps.

“So, he’s stuck at seven?” I ask, taking notes.