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“I’ve been better.” I wouldn’t tell her about the nightmares, but I couldn’t keep everything a secret. “A friend of mine was shot last night. He died.”
The words tasted funny, sour, on my tongue.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Dr. Fisher put a hand over her heart. “What happened?”
“We think it was more corporate espionage.”
She peered at me over her glasses. “The same people?”
I sighed shakily and nodded.
“I’m so sorry. Are you having anxiety?”
“No. I’m…fine.”
Dr. Fisher arched an eyebrow. “You’d have to be a superhero to be fine with all this. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I moaned. “I have to get back home for a meeting. Can we just get this over with?”
She laughed. “Gee, Hannah, tell me how you really feel.”
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just that I know you’re going to poke and prod me, and I don’t feel like dealing with it—which is why I’ve cancelled my last three appointments.”
“Fair enough. I’m just glad you finally came in.” She smiled, warmth and concern lighting up her face. “But now it’s time to poke and prod. You ready?”
I sighed and tried to relax on the exam table, but the paper underneath me crinkled. Ugh.
“Sure.”
Dr. Fisher checked my chart. “Your weight gain’s good. That’s solid progress. Are you exercising yet?”
Before I’d been kidnapped, I was an avid runner, hot-yoga devotee, and I’d joined a barre gym. But I hadn’t even glanced at my sneakers since I’d been home. “Not really—I’ve been walking a little, pushing Wesley around the grounds. I’m just trying to make sure he’s getting enough fresh air.”
“You don’t need to exercise until you feel up to it, but don’t forget to make time for yourself, okay?”
“I’ll get back to it when I can.”
I was about to say when things get back to normal, but that seemed too optimistic.
“Fine.” Dr. Fisher smiled. “How is Wesley doing? He’s been home for a couple of weeks now, correct? What’s the prognosis?”
I swallowed. “The best news is there’s no brain damage, even though he had head trauma. Dr. Kim from El Camino says that he’ll make a full recovery, but he needs to go slow. Because he was in a coma and in bed for so long, his muscles are weak. I know he wants to quit using his wheelchair, and he’s really pushing himself. I think he’s having a hard time.”
“Does he seem depressed?” Dr. Fisher asked.
“No…” Was Wesley depressed, or just frustrated? “Maybe.”
“Let me know if you want a referral for a therapist. For either of you—you’ve both been through a lot, especially with what’s just happened.”
“Um, thanks, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Have you two had intercourse yet?”
Dr. Fisher sounded clinically casual, but I could hear her concern.
I picked at the johnny. “No. Wes isn’t cleared yet.”
“Is your sex drive normal?”
