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“Is that your diagnosis, surgeon? I have a mental illness? That isn’t your specialty—unless you’re planning to lobotomize me, or is scrambling brains like eggs no longer a thing?”
“Alek!” Ian barked.
“It’s fine,” she told Ian. “I’d be more concerned if he wasn’t so sharp-tongued. That would be out of character. I’d rather not talk in circles, though. You’re absolutely correct, Alek. Psychiatry isn’t my specialty.” She pushed a business card across the table. “Dr. Dhawan specializes in mental health issues following traumatic brain injury. I’d like you to make an appointment with her.”
Alek looked at the dark purple business card. Making an appointment might placate Ian enough to lay off, but on the other hand, Alek didn’t see what good it would do. He’d suffered a loss, for which he was grieving. His brain chemistry didn’t need balancing. Before Alek could decide, Ian peeled the card from the table and tucked it into his wallet.
Dr. Modorovic donned her glasses and jotted something down on a prescription pad. “Here’s a prescription for trazodone.” She passed it to Ian, as if Alek wasn’t to be trusted with such matters. “Take it at bedtime daily until you can see Dr.Dhawan. It’s a sleeping pill that is non-habit-forming. Extreme sleep deficits have been known to cause psychological symptoms. I’ll order an MRI too. It can show us more subtle signs of brain damage.”
“Is there a surgical treatment if you find anything?” Alek asked.
“Not likely, but it’s still worth knowing. As I mentioned before, damage to different areas of the brain can result in different symptoms. It can help us determine if the mood changes are structural in nature, or something else.”
“I’ll consider what you’ve said.” Alek stood. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Modorovic. I appreciate the care you’ve taken?—”
“Are you firing me?” Her eyes widened.
Alek shrugged. “I have no use for a doctor I cannot trust.”
“You are not firing Dr. Modorovic,” Ian grumbled. “Sit back down.”
As far as Alek was concerned, he’d stand for the rest of his life.
In Bulgarian Dr. Modorovic said, “You can trust me, Alek. I want to help you. You simply cannot carry on like this.”
“Last I checked, I’m an adult of sound mind. You can’t force me to do anything.”
“Perhaps. For now.” Her countenance turned conniving. “All it takes is one phone call from me and I can have you committed for seventy-two hours on a psych hold.”
She was as wicked as he was.
“Resorting to empty threats is beneath you.”
“Call my bluff. See what happens.” She smoothed her face back into professional interest. “See the psychiatrist, rest both of your hands, and take the trazodone.”
“Or else?”
“Or else,” she answered in English. “I’ll see you next week to follow up.”
Ian stood. “Thank you so much, Dr. Modorovic.” He ducked his chin and extended his hand, shaking hers.
Alek paused at the doorway, pointing his thumb down the hall. “I can wait outside if you want to have another private chat.”
Before Alek could make it to the elevator, Ian’s heavy footfalls sounded behind him.
“I’m sorry.” Ian grabbed Alek’s arm, pulling him to a stop.
Alek looked down at Ian’s hand until he let go. A bell chimed and the elevator doors parted for them. An elderly couple stepped aside to make room.
“Thank you,” Ian murmured, holding the door as Alek crossed over the threshold.
Alek seethed in silence while they descended to the first floor, weaved through the crowded lobby, and out onto the street where Ian’s truck was parked at the curb.
Ian put his keys in the ignition, then stopped. “Aren’t you going to let me have it?”
Alek crossed his arms and looked out the window. A pair of gulls were squabbling over an abandoned, or perhaps pilfered, bag of chips.
Despair had already replaced his earlier anger. What if Dr. Modorovic was right? If he lost the use of both of his hands, if he lost his mental agency, he was going to find a bridge and jump off of it. Figuratively speaking, he added as he shot Ian a withering glare.
