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I don’t mean to make her cringe. I don’t mean not to, either. It’s just, well, our meetings are the least favorite part of my day, and considering my predicament, that is saying a lot.
She doesn’t care much for me either. Nor does she bother to hide it. Her face is fixed in a permanent scowl. Although, it is worth taking into consideration that she might be doing that mirroring thing they no doubt ingrained into her during her years of training. Patterns are hard to break, I know, and muscles have memory.
While considering her next question and how I plan to respond, I get the chance to really take her in. She’s the kind of woman who could have possibly been attractive once, but has clearly let life harden her through and through. I can’t really blame her, seeing where she’s ended up.
“Did she draw blood often?” Dr. Jones repeats a third time.
“A couple of times,” I say, offering a consolatory breadcrumb. She did show up. I have to give her that. She’s reliable—which is more than I can say for the others. If you want to know who your friends are, this is one way to go about it.
“How many?” she asks, and I am careful not to let my eyes wander too far. This is not hard, given the size of the room. Concrete walls, save for the one with the interior window, a flimsy, card-like table, stained with God knows what. Three chairs. Fluorescent lighting. It could have been any room. In any jail. In any city. There is nothing distinguishing about it. Not even the people seated in the chairs.
“Dr. Hastings,” she says. Her words hit me in the gut. It’s nice, I’ll admit, being addressed by my professional name. These days, I go by Inmate 812. “Is the diazepam I prescribed making you feel drowsy? Anxious?”
I shrug. I almost ask what the literature says about how is one supposed to feel when they’re caged like an animal. How would she classify the psychology of a person who is fighting for both their freedom and their life simultaneously? What does she expect? Should I stand on the table and dance a jig?
Dr. Jones, with her short brown bob, uninviting scowl, and pencil-thin eyebrows, digs her heels in. “How many times did Mrs. Dunaway draw blood, Dr. Hastings?”
I sigh. While I appreciate the mental stimulation—there’s so little of it these days—I hate discussing the intimacies of my life. How could a stranger understand? A psychiatrist, nonetheless.
According to my attorney, I must. I am in deep shit, he likes to remind me. Funny, coming from him. He’s not the one spending his days locked in a six by eight foot cell. Things aren’t looking good, he said, at our last visit. As though it somehow slipped my mind. For what he’s charging per hour, you’d think at least a touch of confidence would come as part of the deal. Apparently, it doesn’t. You’d better start remembering, he’d warned. Or, on second thought, maybe not. Your lack of recall could work in our favor. Either way, that’s what the shrink is for. We need a proper diagnosis. She’ll help.
So far, she isn’t helping in any way that I can discern. And I know a thing or two about diagnosis.
“Dr. Hastings.” She repeats my name for the third time. “It’s imperative that you answer the questions. You’re going to have to give me something to go on…and I presume you’d like to see your daughter again?”
I visibly stiffen before I remember I have to relax. This is what they do. Women. They take the th
ings you love, and they use them against you. They’re experts. They know how to hit precisely the right pain point. Dr. Jones is proving to be aces at it, which makes me want to tell her everything. Almost. “We only met fourteen times.”
“In total? Or in Room 553?”
“In Room 553,” I answer, knowing this is a fact she can check.
“Fourteen times in eight months,” she remarks, making it clear it’s a statement, not a question. I am not surprised by her candidness, the same way I was not surprised to see her when I was called from my cell. I am aware this is her job. I am also aware that she will not give up. She’ll keep after me, studying my reactions, coming at me in new and different ways. Maybe she shouldn’t care, since she’ll get paid regardless. But something about her tells me she isn’t that kind of woman. It goes against the core of who she is to cut corners. I know—or rather, I used to know—someone exactly like that. This is what brings me to the conclusion that there is nowhere to go. Nowhere except death row.
I shift in my seat. I can’t help myself. Having that kind of weight on your shoulders forces one to do things they shouldn’t. Believe me, I know this better than anyone.
“Since it started last November?”
“Correct.”
“And how many times did she bite you?”
With a slight shrug, I answer honestly. “Six or seven.”
“During intercourse?”
“I think so.”
Dr. Jones considers me carefully, fully aware of my hesitation. I had not, would not, perjure myself, and we both know it. It isn’t actually a lie. Sometimes it was during intercourse, the biting. Only once after. The day in question, it had been after.
I’d withdrawn from her, rolled over onto my stomach, and inched toward the other side of the bed to check my phone. I had a patient who wasn’t doing well, and I sensed I might be summoned at any moment.
Laurel curled at my side like a house cat settling in for a long nap. Eventually, she propped herself on one elbow and peered down at me through half-closed eyelashes. Feeling the weight of them, I turned my back to her. That way I couldn’t see her eyes burning holes through me. I could feel them.
Dr. Jones shifts her position. She decides to take a detour, to question me on the days leading up to that afternoon in Room 553.
I had been good, I tell her. This is true. I’d ignored Laurel’s texts for two days. Two long and arduous days. What I don’t say is that those days were the worst days, up until that point, that I’ve ever experienced. Minus my current situation. At the time, I hadn’t known it was possible to feel anything worse. Turns out, it is.
