Page 5 of Torched Spades
I force a tight smile.Yes, but at what cost?In going against everything I stand for, what unknown door have I opened? Worse yet, what temptation could be the next to walk through it?
“No good deed goes unpunished,” I murmur, my gaze straying to the abstract painting hanging on the wall behind her. Fortunately, most patients are too consumed with themselves to give it a second glance. Otherwise,theirmental health wouldn’t be the one in question.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
Turning away from the painting, I glance back at Natalie to find her eyebrows bunched in confusion. Not that I blame her. I’d be worried, too, if my psychiatrist spaced out mid-appointment.
Get it together, Becca. What’s done is done.
Straightening my shoulders, I veer the conversation back on track with what I hope is an air of confidence and polished empathy. “I did what was right.”
“You did more than that,” she insists. “I would’ve lost custody of Mollie if it weren’t for you. The things Kent tried to make that judge believe…” Her words break off as she chokes out another sob.
“Were unfounded and inaccurate,” I finish, passing her a Kleenex across the table. “I simply gave my unbiased, professional assessment of your psychological stability. I’m pleased things worked out in your favor.”
We both know there was nothing simple about any of it, but it’s not a mountain either of us wants to climb again. So, she gives me a watery smile and pretends not to hear the fatigue in my voice, while I pretend not to notice how her hand trembles as she dabs her eyes.
The whole situation escalated from a snowball into an avalanche. I hate what it’s done to both of us. She shouldn’t have been forced to prove she’s a fit mother, forcing me to defy every rule I hold sacred.
A wave of bitterness hits me, and like a magnet, my eyes are drawn back to the painting.No, not again.Determined, I force my gaze to the far left of the paintings, praying what I find will salvage what decorum I have left.
2:00 p.m.Thank God.
“Great progress, Natalie.” Before she can thank me again, I motion over her shoulder and point the clock. “Unfortunately, our time is up for today. I’ll see you next week.”
Rising from my session chair, I underline those words by rounding my desk, keeping my eyes lowered as I take a seat behind it. Thankfully, Natalie is one of my more intuitive patients and doesn’t need a brick thrown at her to take a hint. All I hear is the repetitiveclick-clacksound of her high heels hitting the tile, seconds before my office door closes behind her.
And breathe…
Propping my elbows on my desk, I close my eyes and press the heels of my palms firmly against them. “What the hell are you doing, Becca?”
Even if Ihadthe ability to unravel that question, with today’s packed schedule, I wouldn’t have time to pull the first thread.
I need a palate cleanser.
Dropping my hands on my desk, I blink the room back in focus. With a silent promise to type up Natalie’s session notes later, I push her file to the side and dive into the one belonging to my next patient.
Within seconds, I’m arching an eyebrow, and then two.Interesting.I’ve scanned the profile a few times since accepting the referral, but nothing too in-depth. However, the more I read, the further Natalie Thornton drifts from my thoughts.
“Thirty-five-year-old male from Virginia,” I murmur, rattling off basic information. “Moved to Providence four weeks ago on a courtesy probationary waiver with conditions including approved employment and psychiatric evaluation and treatment.” I quickly flip the pages, anxious to delve into the backstory. Three pages in, I hit pay dirt. “Former firefighter whose passion for preventing fires morphed into an obsession for starting them.” As I read on, my eyes widen, my heart kicking into overdrive.
For the first time in months, I’m both fascinated and disturbed. This new patient may prove to be the challenge that re-balances the scales.
There’s no personal interest…
Definitely no moral ambiguity.
It’s right and wrong in black and white.
“Is it?”a voice whispers. Gritting my teeth, I slowly tilt my chin to where the colorless paintings hang. Harsh black lines glare at me atop muted white backgrounds, each brushstroke mocking my need for an idealistic ethos. “Black and white aren’t always so clearly defined. You should know that.”
I’m a highly-trained psychiatrist. I deal in rational thought, not illogical illusions. I’m aware that inanimate objects can’t speak. The voice in my head is simply a manifestation of thematic dissociative amnesia… Repressed childhood trauma rearing its ugly head in response to Natalie and her emotional dangling carrot.
My head knows that. It still doesn’t stop the words from crawling under my skin like a splinter.
Shaking my head, I force my attention back on the folder, determined to shove everything about this last week in a box and lock it away. “Dangling carrot, forbidden apple, vegetable, fruit, black, white…whatever. What’s done is done.”
Instantly, my brain latches onto two words with an iron fist.
