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“She’s a board-certified psychiatrist,” Desmond says to me. “She doesn’t call car services. ”
Harriet gives me an apologetic smile. “Des doesn’t watch TV. He probably wouldn’t recognize Oprah, either. ”
I am not surprised my doctor considers himself above TV. He has that too-cool-for-school look about him. I’ll bet he was a hell-raiser at some point, but middle-aged men with tattoos are not exactly my demographic. I imagine there’s a Harley-Davidson in his garage, along with an electric guitar. But really, you’d have to live under a rock not to know Oprah.
Harriet takes my chart from Desmond.
“I’ve ordered an MRI. The paramedics say she hit the ground pretty hard. ” He looks down at me, and again I see that he is judging me, finding me lacking, maybe. A white middle-aged woman in expensive clothes who face-plants for no good reason. “Be well, Ms. Hart. ” The smile he gives me is irritatingly kind, and then he leaves.
“Thank God,” I say with a sigh.
“You had a panic attack,” Harriet says when we are alone.
“Says Dr. Granola. ”
“You had a panic attack,” Harriet says, more gently this time. She puts down the chart and moves closer to the bed. Her angular face, too sharp to be quite beautiful, has a regal, detached coolness, but her eyes reveal a woman who, in spite of her austere face and buttoned-down demeanor, cares deeply about people.
“You’ve been depressed, I take it?” Harriet asks.
I want to lie, to smile, to laugh. Instead, I nod, humiliated by this weakness. In a way, I would rather have had a heart attack.
“I’m tired,” I say softly. “And I never sleep. ”
“I am going to prescribe Xanax for your anxiety,” Harriet says. “We’ll start with point-five milligrams three times a day. And I think a few therapy sessions could really help. If you’re ready to do some work, maybe we can help you feel in more control of your life. ”
“The Tully Hart life tour? Thanks, but no, thanks. Why think about what hurts? has always been my motto. ”
“I know about depression,” she says, and in her voice I hear a poignant sadness. I think suddenly that Harriet Bloom knows about sorrow and despair and loneliness. “Depression is nothing to be ashamed of, Tully, and it’s nothing to ignore. It can get worse. ”
“Worse than today? How is that possible?”
“Oh, it’s possible, believe me. ”
I am too exhausted to question her, and honestly, I don’t want to know what she has to say. The pain in my neck is increasing.
Harriet writes two prescriptions and tears off the pages, handing them to me. I look down at them. Xanax for panic attacks, and Ambien for sleeping.
All of my life I have avoided narcotics. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know why. When you grow up watching your mother get high and stumble around and puke, you see the unglamorous side of drugs.
I look up at Harriet. “My mom—”
“I know,” Harriet says. It is one of the truths that come with life in the fishbowl of fame. Everyone knows my sad story. Poor Tully, abandoned and unloved by her hippie/addict mom. “Your mom has an issue with substance abuse. You’re right to be careful, but just follow the prescription. ”
“It would be nice to sleep. ”
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. ”
“How long have you been pretending not to be in pain?”
The question hits me hard. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because, Tully, sometimes the well just fills up with our tears. And water starts to spill over. ”
“My best friend died last month. ”
“Ah,” Harriet says. Just that. Then she nods and says, “Come see me, Tully. Make an appointment. I can help. ”
