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“Girl Scout’s honor,” Amy said.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Your doctor, if you’d like. Both Dr. Seaburg and Dr. Stein think that might be a good idea.”
“Dr. Stein?”
“Little fat fellow. Looks like Santa Claus with a shave. Talks funny.”
Cynthia giggled when the description called up the mental image of the doctor who had been with Dr. Seaburg.
“Why do Drs. Seaburg and Stein think it would be a good idea if you were my doctor?”
“I don’t know about you, but I always have trouble talking about some things—the female reproductive apparatus, for example, or sex, generally—with a man. With another woman, provided she’s not old enough to be my grandmother, it’s much easier.”
“What makes you think I would want to talk to you? About sex or anything else?”
“I don’t know if you would want to or not,” Amy said.
“You’re a shrink, right?”
“Right. A pretty good one, as a matter of fact.”
“You don’t look like a shrink.”
“Dr. Stein looks like what most people think of when they hear the word ‘shrink,’ ” Amy said. “Wise and kind, et cetera. Would you rather talk to him?”
“I don’t really want to talk to anybody.”
“You’re going to have to talk to somebody, and I think you know that,” Amy said. “Maybe I could help. Your call.”
“I really don’t want to talk to Dr. Seaburg, or the other one.”
“Can I take that as a ‘yes’? Do you want to give it a shot, see if I can help?”
“God, I don’t know. I’m so damned confused.”
“When you’re damned confused is usually a pretty good time to talk to a shrink,” Amy said.
“Let me think about it,” Cynthia said.
“Counteroffer,” Amy said. “Give me a temporary appointment as your physician until, say, half past eight in the morning.”
“Why?”>
“Under those circumstances, I can prescribe medicine and offer advice.”
“If you were my physician, what medicine would you prescribe?”
“None. No more sedatives. I don’t like the side effects—what they gave you really makes you feel like a medicine ball at the end of a long game—and I don’t think it’s indicated.”
“You just have been appointed my temporary physician,” Cynthia said. “What’s the advice?”
“Two things. First, when they come in here in the morning and ask you how you want your eggs, say ‘poached’ or ‘soft-boiled.’ What they do to fried and scrambled eggs around here is obscene.”
Cynthia giggled.
“And second?”
