Page 9 of Brainwashed
“Good afternoon, Lemuel,” Vera’s voice comes over the line in her standard tone. All business, no fondness.
“How are you doing?” I ask, because I know if I don’t, I’ll be chastised to no end.
“I’m well,” she replies. “I wanted to make sure you’re still coming for dinner on Saturday.”
My eyes close, and my head drops forward. I forgot about dinner this weekend…
“Mother, I’m actually very busy…”
“You work too much,” she scolds. As if she doesn’t also work too much.
We all do.Workis a personality trait in our family.
“Your father and I would like you to come to dinner on Saturday, as agreed,” she goes on, the dissatisfaction working its way through her words. “Your grandfather will be here as well.”
Of course he will.
Sucking it up, I murmur, “Sure. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”
“Just Gabrielle,” my mother adds, and I can hear that taunting smirk in her voice. “We’re all quite excited to spend more time with her. See you this weekend, Lemuel. Six p.m. sharp.”
And then she hangs up.
Releasing my death grip on the phone receiver, I place it down, pressing the intercom button to bark at Emily. “Hold my calls.”
She doesn’t respond, which is good. As much as she drives me insane, she can certainly read my tones by now. And that one was anot in the fucking mood.
I stare at my desk for a minute before standing up and walking to the full-length window behind me, displaying the view of Atlanta. My office has me high enough that I can see a bit of the skyline, buildings scattered all over this metropolis we call home. I can see my apartment from here.
I’ve lived in Atlanta since I graduated from medical school, only a year prior to me opening my own practice. I prefer the city life to the suburbs, like those I grew up in. Where my parents still live.
Where I’ll be going on Saturday, I suppose.
My eyes scan the hustle and bustle of the city beneath me while I consider the extreme duress I’ll be putting myself through this weekend. Showing up without Gabrielle will leave me open to a myriad of prying questions I really have no interest in discussing, especially with my family. Add this to the constant berating about my career path of choice, and this little dinner will most definitely become apile-on-Lemparty, something I would really rather not endure.
But then I don’t have much of a choice. I don’t get home to see my family all that often, which they consider rude, since I work and live only a half-hour away.You’d think I have no earthly desire to spend time with them…
Gazing out at the buildings, I consider what I might say to them, about Gabrielle. What I could tell them about why she’s not with me… If I was inclined to lie, I might. It would certainly be easier than dealing with the unenthused scolding I’ll be listening to all night when they find out we’re no longer an item.
But lying about it is pointless. After all, I’m used to disappointing them.What’s one more?
Checking my watch, I see that it’s about time for my next appointment, though Trevel had called to say he’d be five minutes late. I hate tardiness with a passion, but Trevel is never late, so I’ll give him a pass. Just this once.
I slink back to my desk and have a seat, taking out his file to freshen up on our last visit. I look over my charts and his progress. It’s decent, all things considered.
I first met Trevel Fenwick three years ago when I was volunteering at Riverwoods, an in-patient psychiatric facility nearby. I used to go there twice a week and see patients with extreme mental illness. My patients were typically under suicide watch, or those who had been committed in lieu of serving jail time. Trevel is one of a few from Riverwoods I still see now, on an outpatient sort of basis. But I will say that I miss being in the hospital setting from time to time.
It’s where my interests lie. With patients who have committed crimes in the name of things only they can understand. It fascinates me. It’s the main reason I went into clinical psychology.It’s been my dream to study what makes human beings commit heinous acts since I was a teenager…
My throat is suddenly very dry, and I try to swallow, but it doesn’t work. I reach for my metal water bottle on my desk, uncapping it and taking a long sip. The cool refreshment feels good, helping to push away the things that were sneaking up. Absentmindedly, my fingers slide to my throat and brush the uneven flesh.
“Dr. Love, Trevel is here!” Emily squeaks, my eyes snapping back into focus.
I take another quick sip of water, before muttering, “Send him in.”
Only a moment later, the tall, dark-haired man glides into my office, immediately having a seat in the chair across the room. Joining him, notepad in hand, I sit across from him in my chair. I watch him carefully as he sinks into his seat, getting himself comfortable.
“Trevel,” I address him, and his lips quirk into a pleasant smile. It’s interesting to see, considering how angry he used to be when I first met him. “How are you feeling?”
