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need to see a patient myself, treat a patient, get to know him or her, see what they say, examine them, and do some tests. With just your say-so, I can hardly give a proper diagnosis. It would be unprofessional of me to do so. What I can do is this: meet up with you, because I think you could do with some support. As a friend, not as a psychiatrist.”
    Melissa looked up at him. A friend? She had met him only fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t know how to respond. Was he saying it because he knew he was helpless to do anything else to help her and felt bad? Or did he care?
    “What else?” she asked, feeling bad about ignoring his first remark.
    “The only thing I can suggest to you is to keep a diary of the things you see, the things you notice. Everything about your husband’s behavior that concerns you.”
    “Why?”
    Josh tapped his pen against the wooden desk. “It will help to record what’s happening in case things do get worse. It will give any professional he might end up seeing something to go on.”
    Melissa stood up, grabbing her handbag. She felt disappointed, and yet she couldn’t understand why—what had she expected this stranger to achieve?
    “You’re going?” he asked, standing and following her to the door.
    Melissa paused. “I probably shouldn’t have come,” she said.
    “Keep a diary,” he repeated. “What harm can it do?”
    “He’ll never seek help,” Melissa replied, her voice low and defeated.
    “You never know. If things get too bad, Melissa, it might not be his choice. Do you understand what I’m saying? Come back to see me,” he said, reaching out again, taking hold of her by the arm. “I’m worried about you. Living with this is obviously taking its toll. I can tell just from looking at you. I don’t need a qualification to see that. You need support, too. Like I said a moment ago, Melissa, it might get to the point where your partner has to get help, whether he wants it or not.”
    “What? You mean lock him up on a psychiatric ward?”
    Josh shrugged. “I don’t know. I can‘t possibly answer that, but when someone is ill, they need help of some sort.”
    “It isn’t that bad,” she lied, opening the door and turning to leave.
    “It could be many things,” Josh said, pulling her back, “an anxiety disorder of some sort, possibly. Without seeing him myself, I can’t give you any answers. I really am sorry I can‘t tell you more.”
    Melissa nodded and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Like I said, he’ll never accept help. I don’t even think he realizes there is a problem.”
    Chapter Eleven
    Keep a diary. Get some support. Those weren’t answers. Not answers that could help. She didn’t blame Josh, though. She knew that he could do little without seeing Mark himself. She knew that no serious professional would offer a diagnosis based on the comments of a distraught wife. Even if he were capable of doing so, what would that achieve? Mark seemed totally unaware of his behavior. The other day, when she had asked him who he had been talking to in the lounge, he seemed genuinely surprised and had strenuously denied it.
    She had been stupid seeking a savior, a way out of this mess through a door she couldn’t step through. That door was locked, unless she could convince Mark that he needed the help.
    That was when the idea hit her. Maybe it was a stupid idea, and more than likely it would not work, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Mark had purchased a video recorder last year to use for holidays and special occasions. In truth, the thing had been a waste of money; they had only used it twice. What if, Melissa thought, weighing the idea in her mind, she filmed Mark when he was in one of those…trances. It was bound to happen again, she surmised. Would he believe her, then? Would he see how he was acting and then agree to seek help?
    It was a long shot. There was a chance she might not see him act that way, again, but Melissa had the