Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“I’m Dr. Keith Alexander. I’m glad to see you this evening.” He sits across from me and crosses one leg over the other, hands folded in his lap.
Dr. Alexander gives me an open, welcoming smile, but I’m not seeing him—I’m seeing myself, doing the exact same thing with my own patients. Except I don’t get to do that anymore. Not after what happened. For the time being, my office goes on without me.
He clears his throat, snapping me back to the moment. “Can I offer you herbal tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.” I set my purse beside me and work my jacket off my shoulders. I find the clock behind him. 6:32 p.m. Only fifty-eight minutes to go. I press my lips into a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Oh, before I forget.” I unzip my bag and pull out the paper I’d folded in half. “I have this for you to sign.”
He leans forward and takes it. “What is it?”
“It’s for the Office of Professional Misconduct. You enter the date I’ve started therapy and sign. I’m required to start by next week, so I guess this just tells them I’ve complied with their punishment.”
Dr. Alexander takes a pen from the end table next to him. He pushes his glasses down his nose and reads the document over before scribbling today’s date and his name at the bottom.
“Here you go.” He hands it back to me and smiles. “And I’m sorry you think of coming here as punishment. I promise to do my best not to make it feel that way.”
“I… I didn’t mean…”
He waves me off. “It’s fine. I understand. I’d probably feel the same way if I was mandated to do something instead of coming voluntarily.”
“Thanks for saying that. But I really didn’t mean to use the word I did.”
“It’s fine. Let’s move on.”
“Okay.”
We stare at each other for a long time. It’s definitely not a comfortable silence.
“So… this is awkward, isn’t it?” I say. “A therapist getting therapy.”
“Not at all. I’m of the opinion that all therapists should go to therapy, at least occasionally. Just like we get a physical checkup once a year, we should get a mental one, too.” He taps his head. “How’s your day going?”
I force another nervous smile. “Fine. Yours?”
“Very good, thanks. Any weekend plans?”
I hold back a sigh. He’s making small talk. Trying to make me comfortable before he jumps into the real stuff.
“No,” I say. “It’s hard to…” Do anything after what happened. Plan a life without my husband. Get out of bed before noon. “… make plans these days,” I finish.
“I see.” In my peripheral vision, he shifts, then switches tacks. “Well, I’ll get right to it, then. How are you doing following the tragedy you endured seven months ago?”
My tragedy. Like my life is a Shakespeare tale instead of the train wreck it is.
Static fills my head. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the simple fact that I wake up alone every morning. Dr. Alexander’s leap into the deep end is too much, too fast. I need to make sure I can keep my head above water before I begin to swim.
I swallow. “Do you think we can talk about something other than my husband to start?”
There, a simple request. An easy-to-respect wish. If my patient said that to me, I’d nod and move on. And Dr. Alexander does exactly that.
“Okay, well, what did you do today? Can you run me through it?” The timbre of his voice is soft, kind. It grates at my nerves, and my gaze drifts toward the clock again. 6:35 p.m.
Fifty-five minutes to go.
“What’s a day in the life of Dr. Meredith McCall like?”
“Well, earlier I went for a walk,” I say, “a long walk. I pretty much do that every day lately.”
“And how was that? Go anywhere interesting?”
“The park,” I say. “And I got coffee.” I stop myself before I say the rest of it—where I saw Gabriel Wright for the second day in a row and followed him for another hour. Maybe longer. Long enough that I nearly didn’t make it here in time. “Then I did a little shopping,” I finish, wrapping up my day with a lie.
“Oh? Grocery shopping or…?” Dr. Alexander tilts his head to show interest.
“Just window-shopping, mostly.” Another forced smile. I catch my leg jiggling and press a hand over my knee to still it.
He holds a pen in one hand, a small bound notebook in his lap. I haven’t seen him jot down anything yet, unlike me when I see patients. I take lots of notes.
Is he not writing because he knows I’m lying?
Maybe it’s a bad idea to lie. Maybe, like me, he can almost surely tell when someone is lying. And lying is half of what got me into this mess in the first place, isn’t it? Pressure builds inside me until I find myself asking, “Is what I say here confidential? I mean, obviously I know about doctor-patient confidentiality rules. But do you have to report details of our session to the medical board, since my visits are mandated by them?”