Page 15 of In Death, Love Survives
Sure it will be.
I scoff but nod to give the go-ahead.
“Can you please say it out loud?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
She clicks it on and puts the device in the center of the table. As she settles back in her chair, I can’t help but find her utterly distracting.
“I usually like to hear about my patients’ medical backgrounds from their perspectives first, but it looks like you’ve never participated in any type of treatment plan.”
“That’s correct.”
“Not even therapy?”
“Nope.”
“Mr. Walker. I understand that psychiatric care can have a stigma attached to it. What I would like to do during this time is simply get to know you. If speaking with me has no benefit to you in the next fifty-five minutes, then we will no longer see each other outside of routine checkups. Can you agree to that?”
Dr. Fletcher watches me through her long, black eyelashes. As they flutter, all I can focus on are these honey-brown eyes that I can’t look away from.
Waiting for me to answer, her lips part, drawing me into them. They’re plump and pouty, perfect for what I’d like to do with that mouth.
She tightens her lips into a thin line, waiting. I look away from her mouth up to her eyes and realize she saw me staring.
Part of me thinks she really wants to be helpful. That’s not something I was expecting. The other part of me knows that even if I wanted her help, I couldn’t trust a staff member here.
This isn’t a fantasy I’ve created—this is my reality, no matter how bleak it may be.
“Sure, whatever you say.”
Her mouth twitches right before she regroups.
“Please, whenever you’re ready.”
I grip my hands tightly together as I debate what angle I’m going to take here. My palms feel sweaty the longer I keep them together.
I wasn’t prepared to talk like this today. Certainly not with this intriguing woman who’s here to cast judgment. I know she must have preconceived notions about who I am.
“How about we start with your favorite memory?”
My eyes snap to hers, not realizing I was looking at my hands intertwined together.
“What would you say yours is?” I counter.
She looks thoughtfully out of a nearby window. It has bars on it, which can’t give her the comforting feelings of a favorite memory.
“My father, before he passed away. Every evening, whether I was at home or not, he would find a way to talk to me and tell me the same thing.”
“What was that?” I find myself asking.
“To look up.”
“What was he hoping you’d see?”
“The beauty that surrounds us.”
“Do you still do that?”
