Page 36 of Give Me Strength

Court-ordered therapy was Emily’s grandparents’ idea, and they found a judge to sign off on it. Aspen Grove Psychiatry has contracts with the Justice Department for cases like this. With my background, I was the ideal psychiatrist to take her on. Also, I am the only doctor in the building who doesn’t have a regular client rooster because, up until three months ago, I was rarely in the country long enough to build and maintain one.

However, my job isn’t to side with Emily’s grandparents. They also aren’t privy to her medical records without her consent, which she made it clear she was not interested in giving. And when I let them know that I don’t work for them, I work with Emily, that certainly didn’t sit well with them. Too bad they don’t have the authority to pull the plug on Emily’s court-ordered therapy sessions — which they insisted on — not without giving the judge a damn good reason.

Frankly, Emily is not obligated to warm up with me. In fact, I’d prefer it if she didn’t. It means my subconscious won’t inadvertently draw parallels between her situation and Ashlynn’s. I know it’s nowhere near the same thing. Still, the circumstances that led both women up to the situations in which they find themselves are pretty damn similar.

The difference?

Ashlynn has a robust support system — including me — but Emily never did.

At the end of our session, I jot a few remaining thoughts. She slips out, but not before I detect a glimmer of hope in her eyes — the first one I’ve seen from her in weeks. It is moments like these, however brief and fleeting, that make this work I do worthwhile.

Quietly, I click the door closed and lock it before moving over to stand by the window. The view overlooks the bustling city, the noise muted by the thick glass. The vibrant life outside is a stark contrast to the serene calm of my office, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the city.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment to center myself. Balancing administrative duties with patient care can be challenging, but it’s a rhythm I’ve grown accustomed to. I own Aspen Grove Psychiatry, overseeing a team of talented psychiatrists, each with their own specialty. It’s a demanding role but one I find deeply fulfilling. The administrative tasks can sometimes be overwhelming, but patient care and the opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life keep me going.

Administrative tasks can be done from anywhere in the world. My Office Manager, Terri, keeps things running when I am not physically present. She’s been with me since the doors opened and is practically a fixture around here.

Speaking of fixtures, my office is as draconian as it gets. The room is tastefully decorated with neutral tones, a mix of modern and classic furniture, and a few carefully selected pieces of abstract art on the walls. It is intended to make the patients feel comfortable in the space, yet impersonal and detached. Now that I am here to stay, I should do something to the space.

A soft buzz from the intercom on my desk interrupts my thoughts. I return to my chair, settling in before pressing the button. “Yes, Terri?”

My Office Manager’s efficient voice comes through. “Dr. McKenzie, your 12:30 P.M. with Dr. Jenkins is confirmed, and Dr. Flemming requested a brief meeting regarding a new patient case.”

“Thank you, Terri,” I say, glancing at the clock — it’s 12:10 P.M. “Please inform Dr. Jenkins I’ll be with her in ten.”

I lean back in my chair, savoring a quiet moment before heading to Sheila’s office. Even though I’ve finished seeing patients for the day, I still have administrative tasks to complete. My notebook is still open in front of me, filled with notes from Emily’s session. I close it, placing it neatly to the side.

I pick up the framed photo of Rachel and myself, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. It was Rachel’s idea to keep one on my desk here, a gag gift meant to keep our charade believable. It belongs to the same photo series on the nightstand in Rachel’s old room. Or, at least I think it’s still there, I haven’t been able to bring myself to set foot in there since she died.

Gosh, I miss her. The void left by Rachel’s absence is a constant reminder of the personal sacrifices I’ve made for my career.

But that ends now. I want to put down roots somewhere. Here, for the time being.

And… I still haven’t found the right time to broach the subject of Ashlynn moving into Rachel’s old room. Or rather, the other primary bedroom.

Ashlynn has officially lived with me for six weeks now, and I’d like for her to think of the house as her home… because it is. Granted, the first thing she and I did together was update her old bedroom to reflect her current tastes, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that it wasn’t enough. That I should be doing more to show her that she’s not the burden she thinks she is.

She’s not a burden, period.

That she even thinks that doesn’t sit well with me. It irks me so much that I want to find the unfortunate soul who put that idea in her head and wring their stupid neck. It’s irrational, I know. Then again, in the last few weeks, I have realized that when it comes to Ashlynn, not all of my actions have been rational.

There’s so much more to her than meets the eye. For someone who pretty much lived alone for the last five years, she’s very perceptive, thoughtful, patient, and driven. She’s also very, very dedicated to ballet. Bonnie wasn’t kidding about that. I never have to wonder where she is or what she’s doing at any given time. She does the same things, goes to the same places, and meets with the same people.

She goes to Bluegrass High School five days a week because she has to. She goes to Brookfield Performing Arts Academy six days a week because she wants to, plus an hour in the studio every night before bed. She goes to the café near Brookfield three days a week for, in her words, any beverage but coffee, to do homework and people-watch. She’s gone to two dance competitions so far, not to compete but to support her classmates. Russ goes with her for those. And, on her days off, she spends at least three hours in the studio working on her technique — modified versions of it anyway — plus she free-styles to whatever strikes her mood. Surprisingly, she has been taking it easy on her feet. Every time she doesn’t, another week gets tacked on to her ‘sentence.’ Thus far, it’s been doubled. I’ll be the first to admit it’s a novel technique to force an overachiever to slow down. I also suspect it’s because they know she practices at home anyway.

Free time is a foreign concept to her.

It’s easy to forget that she’s only eighteen because she doesn’t act like one. I can’t say I know what eighteen-year-olds today are like, only that I was eighteen once, and my priorities then were different. For someone so young, her dedication and drive rival my own. Every waking minute of her day is accounted for, so she’s out like a light by the time her head hits her pillow at night. Also, either she’s making herself too exhausted to have nightmares, or the house really is helping since the frequency of her nightmares has been on the decline.

Then there’s her social life. Or lack-of.

At first, I wondered if she had any friends. Now I know that with her jam-packed daily schedule, she doesn’t have time for friends. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, and she’ll tell me when she’s ready to. Still, I no longer push the subject because I selfishly enjoy having her to myself at home in whatever capacity she gives me.

Like her, I don’t have many friends either. Lots of colleagues, yes. But it’s hard to cultivate those relationships when you are hardly ever around. That’s why Rachel and I worked despite the distance. She was my anchor, my partner in every sense of the word, minus the carnal aspect. We were married to each other but committed to our respective careers. Our deal was if we found someone with whom we wanted both, all we had to do was say the D word.

With Ashlynn, I find myself in a similar situation, yet different in so many ways. I am drawn to her more than I ever thought possible. It’s a revelation that both concerns and liberates me. I look forward to our daily morning coffee and tea sessions, where we talk about nothing and everything. Sometimes, it’s the only time we interact all day, so the fact that she chooses to start her mornings with me rather than in the studio means a lot.

Yet, a lingering unease persists. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s keeping me at arm’s length, ready to depart at the first opportunity. I have no evidence to support this, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I want her closer to me.

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