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Chapter 11
Sweeping a pile of plates and cups into her arms, Polly stomped over to the small kitchen and dumped them by the side of the sink. She twisted the tap until hot water gushed out, then squeezed the bottle of detergent like she wanted to strangle the life out of it.
Out in the therapy room, she could hear the buzz of voices and Solo’s laugh, warm and mellow.
The PTSD group had wound up formally ten minutes ago, but Solo was still answering questions from participants who’d hung around. No-one seemed in a hurry to go home.
She grabbed the washing-up sponge and scrubbed bits of chocolate cake off plates like she was performing an exorcism. After this, she’d make sure she went and scrubbed off all the names of medications that Solo had written up on the whiteboard.
Sertraline and Propranolol and Minipress and Zoloft.
Polly ground her molars together.
As soon as you made it about the medication, that was it, people stopped trying other things.
Just like Dad.
After every trip to his psychiatrist, Dad would come back with a new script. There’d be a week or so of peace, Dad telling Mum he thought these meds were actually working, and they’d all collectively sigh with relief. Then it would rain and flatten the wheat, or it wouldn’t rain enough to help the green stalks push through the dry dirt. Or the tractor would need a new part Dad couldn’t afford. And he’d disappear to his shed in the back paddock and lock the door.
Joe would have to go and break the lock and drag him out two days later, and then it would be back to hospital for another detox.
What had Dad ever learned from a script pad? Just tell her that.
Polly swiped a curl off her cheek with the back of a damp hand and noticed Grant was hovering in the doorway. He was actually smiling. She hadn’t seen him smile since he started attending the group.
“Can I give you a hand?” he asked.
“No, I’m good.” Her voice sounded brittle and harsh. “No, thank you, Grant,” she added more gently. “You go home. It’s our job to clear up and lock up. Legal responsibility and all, but you could give Dr Jakoby a nudge to help, if you want.”
“He’s talking,” Grant said.
“I know, I can hear him.” She waved the washing up brush at Grant in a way she hoped would be construed as light-hearted. “Not just women’s work, you know.”
Grant did a little uncomfortable foot shift. “I’ll go and grab the rest of the cups.”
Polly pulled herself into line. She was at risk of being unprofessional. “Okay, thank you. One load only, then you go home.”
Grant appeared seconds later with some cups and put them down next to the sink. “Great group tonight, thanks. That new doc’s a great guy.”
Polly hitched her chin in the air and narrowly avoided a disdainful sniff. “Make the most of him, he won’t be here for long.”
“Really?”
“Only until Ben comes back from holidays.”
“Shame.”
“Don’t tell Ben that.”
“Oh, I don’t mean it that way. It’s just good to get some medical input.”
Polly stapled a smile to her lips. “Sure.”
“He’s really approachable; it’s easy to forget he’s a psychiatrist.”
Polly smoothed honey into her voice. “That’s why we decided to ask him to co-lead the group.”
“It was a good choice,” Grant said.
